It wasn't a knife that did this to him, or a scalpel. That would have made things too neat, too easy, and most importantly of all; not funny. Now a fountain pen, that was hilarious to Bill. The irony of marking an author with a pen left him in stitches metaphorically, and Ford, literally.

But that's a story Ford doesn't like to get into. It's one he doesn't like to remember, to think about, to acknowledge the very existence of. And that's been working for him, so far. Just not thinking about it. Pushing it so far into the back of his mind that he doesn't even notice how his eyes avoid mirrors, or glancing down and catching a glimpse of exposed flesh.

Out of sight, out of mind. If he doesn't think about it, it may as well not have happened, right? Right.

Only, the problem with ignoring it - the problem with pretending so hard that there's nothing wrong - is that he can't trick other people's minds into just not seeing what he wishes wasn't there. This hasn't been a problem for him before, not since he's been holed up alone in his house for weeks, but now...

Well, now someone's around to see, and of course that someone just had to be Stan.

Ford goes stock still, cursing himself for forgetting, cursing Stan for seeing, cursing Bill for giving him something to hide. It's too late to try covering up, too late to try to save face. All he can do is stare like a deer in the headlights, realizing he's been caught in the act - though his act is less that of someone committing a crime, and more being the victim of one.

Something tells him Stanley would have preferred it if it were the former.

"Stanley..." He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and folds one arm over his chest to cover the worst of the scarring despite knowing it's far too late for that.

"I know what you're thinking, but this - it's not what it looks like, I swear. This wasn't me."

Well, it was his hand, yes, but he wasn't the one in control of it.