You sit in the red spinning chair behind Mr. Pines's desk, your feet perched at the corner. You wish you could listen to music, but you need to be able to hear in case anyone came your way. If your boss were to catch you away from your station, well… You aren't entirely sure what would happen, but you know it wouldn't end well for anyone involved. Your arms are wrapped tightly across your own waist and your eyes are closed. You wish you could pause time long enough to get your shit together without having to disrupt your (or anyone else's) day, but you can't. You make a note to have Dipper look into it. For now, these stolen moments curled up in your boss's office will have to do.
You're not even entirely sure what has you overwhelmed right now. But you feel like you're going to fall apart at any minute if you don't have some time to collect yourself. Fuck this is pathetic, you think, disgusted. After a moment you hear footsteps and jolt upright, looking around for a place to hide since it's too late to leave now. You could hide under the desk, but then as soon as Stan sat down he'd know you were there. You're still sitting upright, frozen like a deer in headlights as the door opens to reveal Stan and his brother. Shit, shit shit shit… Need an excuse, need one fast.
"U-uh s-s-sorry… I um. I was trying to-" you start, your voice little more than a raspy whisper. You can feel tears now, not spilling over just yet, but pushing that edge.
"Why aren't you downstairs? We got tourists to steal from!" Stan asks angrily, marching up to his desk and practically pulling you out of the chair by the collar of your shirt.
You start to stutter out an answer as your tears start to fall, but you're stopped by a deeper but softer voice scolding Stan. "She's clearly very upset, Stan. Give her a break."
"Don't tell me how to do my job, Poindexter," Stan grumbles even while releasing your shirt with a muttered apology.
"Are you alright, kid?" Stan's brother asks, taking a step to the side so you can see him around Stan. You wipe furiously at your eyes, ashamed that you're crying in front of anyone, much less your boss. You sniffle and nod shakily, still trying to compose yourself.
"I-I'm sorry… I'll just… I'll just go now… I'll stay late to make up for it… I'm sorry…" you mumble, looking at the ground as you start to shuffle out of the room. Before you make it to the door, you feel a large, warm hand grip your arm and yank you to a halt.
"Don't be sorry. Are you okay really? You shouldn't go back like this. Take a longer break. I'm sure one of the kids would be happy to watch the register for a little while," Stan's brother says firmly, putting his other hand up to silence Stan's protests, "Is there anything you need?"
Your stomach sinks. You can't ask Dipper or Mabel to work for you. Wendy can get away with it, but only because Dipper's got the world's biggest crush on her. Besides, you'd feel awful. Still, the man's right. Not only would you be almost guaranteed to break down on the spot if someone were to so much as look at you, but you feel like you might scare away the customers in this state. What you need right now is to be held. And maybe a nap. But mostly just to have someone there to hold you. You tend to be squeamish about who you let touch you, but right now you're not sure how much you care.
Still, Stan's brother, while apparently a very sweet and sensitive man, is a stranger, and you can't just ask him to hold you. "Anything you need, anything at all that'll help you?" he asks again, cocking his head and furrowing his brow a bit in concern.
"I-… Fuck I'm so sorry…" you mutter, hiding your face with your hands, your face and ears tinged bright red, "I – would it be possible to lay down…? Just for a few minutes… And could I borrow one of the stuffed creatures from the shop? I'll even buy it. I just… Don't have the cash on me…"
Stan is giving his brother a sharp glare and his arms are crossed over his chest, his foot tapping impatiently. His brother is giving you a funny look as well and you start to shake your head and back out, but he stops you. "If you need something to hold, that's not going to do it. Trust me. If you go out to the hall for a few minutes while I talk to Stan, though…" he says, releasing your arm. You manage to stifle the whine at the loss of warmth and hurry out of the room, your chest tight and head swimming.
Though… What, you think when your head is clear enough to do so. You've been sitting just outside the door running your hands through your hair. You don't know how long it's been. You shake your head and continue trying to figure out what has you on the edge. School, as always, is stressful. You'd been left alone for quite some time (it was a slow day, and Dipper and Mabel had been upstairs playing games or something). That always triggers some kind of breakdown for you. One of the people you had looked up to had killed himself a few days earlier, but you had thought you had already grieved sufficiently. It could also be chalked up to a lack of sleep. You hadn't slept properly in quite some time. Either you didn't sleep for days at a time or you slept all day and there was no in between. You're yanked from your thoughts when you feel a heavy hand on your shoulder. You look up and see his lips moving, but can't process the sound coming out.
He gently pulls you up to your feet and moves the hand on your shoulder to the middle of your back, guiding you down the hall, down a flight of stairs, and finally to a room with a full bed, a couple of bookshelves, and a desk which holds a borderline ancient laptop computer. He sits you on the edge of the bed and crosses his arms over his chest while he frowns at you. Did I do something wrong, you ask yourself, your mind still hazy, I don't think I did anything that would make him angry…
Finally you start to register that he's talking. "Are you okay? Do you want me to stay here, or would you prefer that I leave you in peace?" he asks. His voice, once soft, is now laced with an edge of frustration. "Can you even hear me?"
"I- yeah. I hear you. I'm sorry. I'm- I don't know what's going on. My head's fuzzy. I wasn't processing sound. If- if you don't have anything more important –and if you do, then please, please go- I would appreciate the company. Being alone makes things worse," you mumble, hiding your face again. You feel your eyes starting to prickle with tears again, this time most likely tears of embarrassment, but feel… Numb. Broken, but numb. "I'm sorry… About this, about everything…"
"It's okay. Please, there's no need to apologize. Go ahead and lie down. I'm not going anywhere until you're feeling better or you want me to," he says, giving you a sympathetic smile. You manage to make your lips twitch up in response. You whisper a thank you and lay on your side, curling up into as tight a ball as you think you're capable of holding for an extended period of time. You keep an eye open to watch him. You'd run into each other a few times in the Shack, but had never been formally introduced. You can't remember what his name is.
Although being curled up is a much more comfortable position to sort yourself out in, you still feel uneasy. You know it's because you need to be curled up with someone (or something as is typically the case), but you don't want to bother… Ford. That's it. His name is Ford. You don't want to bother Ford, and you certainly don't want to scare him off. Instead, you reach up and take the pillow from where it rests above your head and hug it to your chest. You don't think this is Stan's room, but you also know that Ford lives in the basement. "Whose- ah… Whose room is this…?" you ask quietly.
Ford's head jerks up as though he's surprised you'd spoken. "Soos's when he wants it. I don't think he's ever stayed here, though. The computer and books are overflow from the basement." You nod slowly, but frown. You don't really want to get comfortable with Soos's pillow. Used or not. He cocks his head and studies you carefully for a few moments.
"Would- er," you pause to clear your throat, "Would you mind laying with me?" He stares blankly at you for a few moments, then nods slowly, standing with a quiet groan and crossing the room in two long steps. You stand out of the way so that he can get comfortable before lying down, still in a ball, on his chest. He wraps his arms awkwardly around you, his fingers splayed out over both your stomach and your back. He's big, you think in wonder. You know he looks big, but you're not exactly a small person and he's got your torso all but covered with just his arms and… Abnormally large hands. They feel wider than they should, you realize, and try to count out the points of contact. Your brow furrows in concentration while you try to make out distinct points, but you can't quite so you shrug and dismiss it.
"Is something wrong?" Ford asks hesitantly. You start to shake your head, but stop yourself. To say no would be a lie.
"Less wrong than before," you mumble, your cheek pressed firmly to his chest, "You just have big hands." His grip on you initially tightens, then starts to pull away quickly making you frown. "'s not a bad thing. It felt good… Please don't stop…" You manage to snake the arm you're lying on under his waist, using the tips of your fingers to squeeze his side. He obliges, slowly wrapping himself around you once more, his chin coming down to rest on your hair.
"Do you want to talk, or just lay here?" he asks quietly, the fingers on your back slowly kneading at the knots in your muscles. You hadn't realized how tight you were. You were always tight, but were especially so right now. You give him a half-hearted shrug. You don't want to talk, but maybe talking would help you work through whatever it was that was happening. "Go ahead. You're safe. Only if you want to."
His deep, gruff voice is comforting, and you nod slowly while you try to collect your thoughts enough to at least give him a rough idea of what's going on. You don't know why you're doing it. You're not even particularly comfortable talking to councilors who are paid to deal with your bullshit. "I- I'm sorry… Sorry you have to put up with… With this. With me," you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut tight against the tears you can once again feel forming. You feel so… So incredibly pathetic. Curled up against an old man you barely know, on the verge of tears, for no apparent reason. Out of all the fairly valid reasons you have to be sad and scared and upset, you don't feel like any of them are actually the problem. He squeezes you a little tighter.
"I've already told you," he says calmly, adjusting the way his head rests on yours, "There's nothing to be sorry for. It happens. I just want to help you feel better." You let out a shuddering sigh, but nod slowly again.
Why? Why does he care, you ask yourself, nestling into his chest. "Thank you…" you mumble, "I guess… I don't really know what's going on. I'm stressed about a lot of things, but… I don't think any of them are why I'm breaking." He encourages you to continue, and you do. Once you start talking, you find that you can't stop. You tell him everything that's been on your mind lately. You break down at some point, and he comforts you, gently rubbing your back, stroking your hair, rocking slowly back and forth. You sob into his chest, apologizing every chance you get. He continues to reassure you that there's nothing to apologize for.
"I'm not going to tell you it gets better. Sometimes it doesn't. And even when it does, that's not always a helpful thing to hear. But you'll get stronger. And it'll get easier. Still, doing it alone isn't the way to go," he says calmly, giving you another tight squeeze, "I'm sorry that you feel alone. But I promise you, you aren't. Everyone at the Shack… We're here for you. Even if my brother seems cold and hard to deal with… He's just having a rough time right now. I promise, even he's here for you if you need him. And if you ever, ever need someone to talk to… I'm here. I swear to you, you aren't bothering me. I want to help you. I've been through it all. I remember how awful it was. I don't want anyone to have to go through that alone. I didn't have to. If I had… Well, you're already a stronger person than I was then. I'll leave it at that. Now. Are you feeling a little better now that you've talked and let go?"
You take a minute to process what he's said, then nod and wipe the tears away. "Thank you, Ford…" You start to apologize, but think better of it. You're sure his patience must have a limit, and you'd rather not hit it.
"You've only got half an hour or so left of your shift. Do you want to go back, or would you rather take the rest of the day off?" he asks, slowly loosening his grip on you and propping himself up on his elbows.
You shrug. You want to stay there and lay in his arms as long as you can, but you also know that he must be a busy man and that you should probably let him go. "I should probably go back," you mumble, reluctance heavy in your voice.
"Okay. Do you think you're going to be okay to drive home? If you don't feel safe, you can stay here for the night. Don't exceed your limits."
"I- I think I'll be okay… I'll let you know if that changes, though. Thank you, Ford. I owe you." He scoffs and insists that you don't owe him anything. Still, you make a mental note to bring him lunch sometime. You thank him again, look at your reflection in your phone screen to make sure you look presentable, then shuffle off back to the gift shop to relieve Mabel.