He doesn't make a sound. Or at least, he tries not to. Aside from the occasional sharp hitch of his breath, or a hiss of air sucked between his tightly-gritted teeth, Ford keeps quiet. Sure, he has to clutch Stan's jacket so tightly that his knuckles turn white and his hand starts to shake, but he doesn't cry out. That's the important thing. He keeps himself together because goddamn it, that's the only thing he can do to prove he still has some kind of control over this situation.

So what if his eyes are watering as he shuts them tight against the pain, so what if he's sweating bullets. So what if the acrid smell of burned hair and singed flesh makes his stomach sour and twist in on itself because dear god, he's being cooked alive--

It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because it ends an eternity shortly after it begins, and he comes out of it alive and intact and everything is going to be fine. Just--just fine. He's fine. Everything's going to be okay now. He's going to be okay.

Stan's here, and he's not going anywhere, and he's - he's lifting his head up and making sure he's okay and he's going to make things okay and fuck fuck fuck Ford wishes his eyes would stop watering already, this is pathetic.

He hasn't cried in ten years. Not since - not since they both know when. It's been so long that Ford almost doesn't realize it's happening till he tries to speak but the words get caught behind the knot forming in his throat. He swallows hard, blinks harder, and reaches with a shaky hand to scrub roughly at his eyes, angry with himself for this embarassing display.

"...Sorry." For putting Stan in this situation, for getting him involved in the horrible mess that he made of his life, for the goddamned wetness leaking from his eyes that won't fucking stop. "I'm sorry, Stan, I'm--"

He's sorry for a lot of things, really.