Stanley's hand is still and his arm is, too. His fingers uncurl slowly but that's the only movement there is there and he stares at Ford's hand on his wrist, his cheerful look replaced by something much quieter, a little surprised.

"It's just a couple cuts," he says, all awkward, once he looks up. "Once it stops bleedin' all I need is some tweezers and somethin' to wrap it, then I'll be good to go. Your stuff, uh- Maybe not so much. Besides, you need-"

You need to sleep, he doesn't say, because the thought scares him, sets that locked-up feeling inside him to thumping hard at the bars of its cage, so Stanley doesn't say it.

"You oughta' sit down, get at least a little rest that way. 'Sides, all that glass, you'll hurt yourself."

There is another thought he doesn't say. That thought is, again, and the thought is so big just now in his head that he can't think to say anything else, it crowds everything else out. More than you already did. From the way he stares at Ford, jaw going tight, maybe he might as well have said it.

"I'll, I'll get that broom first," he manages, breaking his eyes away from Ford's face. Away from his head, his neck, hell, just Ford in general, 'cause is there really any part of Ford he couldn't imply that thought right now just by looking at? "You just take care of yourself, okay? I'll deal with all this."