Shit, that don't sound as satisfying as he always thought it would. Not when he can still see some a' those scars, peeking up over the collar of Ford's shirt like his own failure constantly screaming up at him, not about to let him forget itself. Not when he's just sat here listening to his brother like this, all hunched over and breathing like it's the only thing he can stand to do with himself.

"Well..." Stan starts and then trails off, awkward, because he can't deny it, can he? Can't, won't, whichever. Saying his brother hasn't done wrong by someone who loves him is, well- Stan wouldn't go that far. He searches for something to say, and finds it.

"I guess we were both wrong about things we shouldn't a' been sure of." He ruffles Ford's hair, only very, very carefully, more than a little awkwardly, trying to find parts of scalp that haven't recently been sliced open and melted back together. The back of Ford's head, by the way, is still a goddamn mess. "Welcome to life as a fuckup, Sixer. I'd say you get used to it after a while, but, uh-"

Stanley laughs a little and the sound is gentle, so much as his voice can manage, and his tone is warm. "We can be fuckups together, huh? That sound like somethin' you can handle?"