For a moment, one sweet, fleeting moment, Ford thinks Stanley is going to listen to him. His brother picks up the cauter, and almost instantly Ford's shoulders drop with relief. It looks like it took a lot more energy than he had to spend to keep them squared, to make himself look firm and authoritative. (He picked up that habit from their dad, though God help the poor bastard stupid enough to point that out to him.)

Unfortunately, Ford's relief is short-lived because Stan just has to go and make things difficult again by insisting he be the one to use the cauter. Ford forces out a ragged sigh, his eyes closing for a moment as he drags a hand down his face. Absently, he realizes he hasn't shaved in a few days, judging by the amount of stubble he feels beneath his fingers. It's not a thought that's important right now, not in the slightest, but it's one that occurs to him nonetheless.

He wonders if that should worry him, not being able to keep his thoughts in order. It's probably not a good sign, him not being able to keep his focus like this.

"Stanley..." He wants to argue. He wants to, but he bites his tongue before he can do much more than say his brother's name in protest.

Stubborn as he is, even Ford knows he's in no condition to be doing this on his own.

"You have to plug it in, let it heat up. It's just like welding a seam."

Only, you know, with your brother's flesh instead of metal.