For a minute, Ford worries he misspoke. He watches Stan square his shoulders, bristle like he's a firecracker about to go off, and wonders if he ought to take a step back. But then his brother turns around, looks over the room he's made a mess of like he's only just now realized what he had done. Then he swears, looks shamefaced, and Ford lets out the breath he didn't know that he was holding.

Before Ford can get his brain to cooperator with him and come up with something to say, Stan is whirling back around towards him, radiating forced cheer like nothing happened, like Ford didn't just see him ram his fist into a glass cabinet in order to achieve some sort of violent catharsis.

That fist comes to bump his shoulder a moment later, but it doesn't prompt him to match his brother's smile with one of his own. If anything it makes his worried frown deepen as he looks from Stan's hand, to his face, then back again.

Then there he goes, trying to catch his brother's wrist so he can take a look at the hand in question - look at it and frown, and frown hard because it's not okay when Stan's the one bleeding.

"For chrissakes, Stanley. You tear up your hand and think it's the cabinet I'm worried about? Give me some credit here, I'm not that terrible."