When Ford disappears into his room, he gets more than just his coat. More than just socks and boots too, not that Stanley needs to know that. In fact, he's pretty damn sure his brother would completely lose his shit if he knew what else he was bringing with him, which is precisely why he doesn't tell him.

The weight of the cold steel feels heavy and oddly comforting in his hand. It's not ideal, but a Colt will do more to protect them from whatever they might encounter in those woods than the crossbow - which, strangely enough, he can't seem to find.

He tries to give his brother the benefit of the doubt and assume he had nothing to do with that, but even so he still finds himself concealing the gun behind the thick padding of his coat. He's not about to risk both their lives on the very likely possibility that Stan would take the gun from him if he knew he had it.

When he emerges from his room, he has a roll of boxing tape in hand. It's a poor substitute for gauze, he knows, but they've got to work with what they have.

"Not exactly." He says flatly, before tossing the roll of tape towards Stan. "Here, wash up before we head out. I don't want to have to worry about the both of us getting sepsis."

It's not a very good joke, he knows. He's sort of bad at using humor to be comforting, in case Stan somehow hasn't noticed by now.