Even with his eyes shut tight against the sharp, pricking heat building behind his lids, Ford can feel his brother's stare. He can feel the weight of his gaze, the quiet heat of it. It feels like being accused. No, more than that - it feels like being judged, sentenced. We the jury find the defendant guilty of being an absolute bastard of a brother.

Ford breathes out gently through his nose as he waits for the hammer to fall, for the court to be dismissed. He waits for Stanley to throw his apology back in his face like the worthless sentiment it is because there's no making amends for what he's done - for letting things come to this. For turning a blind eye while the world happened to his brother.

But, wouldn't you know it, the hammer never falls. That apology never comes back to hit him where he lives. Stanley just...turns his hand, uncurls his fingers. He doesn't hand over the pill, but he gives up on trying to keep it to himself.

Shocked, and maybe just a little hysterical with relief, Ford curls his own fingers tight around Stan's hand, trapping the pill between their palms. He could have just knocked the damn thing to the ground, snatched it up and put it in his pocket so maybe someone at the hospital could figure out what the hell it is, but no. No, this feels better. This feels more right.

"Y-yeah. Yeah, right. Right, right, ha-"

His smile is a shaky, unstable thing, and the amusement in his tone is nervous and forced. This emotional roller coaster just keeps throwing him for loops, and he's finally starting to feel the whiplash.

He fumbles for the milk, forgetting for a moment where he set it, before practically shoving it at Stan in a jittery fit of over-enthused nerves, as if Stan might just change his mind after a second's delay.

"Here, uh. You can drink it or just use it as a rinse. It, it doesn't really matter. Whatever makes you feel better."