Much like the man himself, Ford's hair has seen better days. By the time Stan's finished rinsing off all the dried blood, his head is a sopping wet mess. It's sad, really, that that's an improvement compared to what it was before. He might be cold and soaking wet, but at least his hair isn't caked down with sweat and blood and the antiseptic he'd doused the wound with in a token effort to stave off a nasty infection.

It stings like a son of a bitch, but Ford doesn't let his discomfort show outwardly. His brother is reluctant enough to do this as it is; the last thing he needs is yet another reason for his hands to go shaky on him.

Once the wound is as clean as Stan is going to get it, Ford allows himself a brief moment to close his eyes and force out a shaky breath through his nose. The hard part isn't even over yet, and already he's exhausted.

"No, just--just make it quick."

The sooner this can be done and over with, the better. For both their sakes. Ford's honestly not sure how much longer he can keep himself awake; already his eyes feel heavy, and even though he knows he's probably soaking Stan's shirt, he just can't help but lean his forehead against his brother's middle for support. The task of keeping himself upright is steadily becoming too challenging for him, and it shows.