Well good, they can both sit here bein' guilty together. Guilt at not being here, and guilt at wanting, almost as much as he wanted to just see Ford again, to make him feel like shit. Real shit, he wanted to see his brother get down on his knees and fucking beg his forgiveness, and he never did get farther than that whenever he went there in his head because sometimes you just don't wanna be reminded every time you try to work yourself up into a good righteous snit that you can't even do a revenge fantasy right because those end with actual, you know, revenge, not all that other stuff he always tried not to think about too loud, even in his own head.

And he's still bitter, a little, it hasn't all gone away except now he knows, or at least has a good idea, just what his brother was doing while Stan was sitting to himself thinkin' all that shit.

But even with all that going through his head, Stan can't hear his brother saying that without a little smile coming to his face too, it just happens, he doesn't even think about it. The smile goes a little crooked as he looks down again, watching the toothpick-flag go in to the still-standing corner of their little project.

"It's not much of a fort," he mutters, reaching out to push at that fallen corner of it with the tip of a finger. Then he cuts his eyes at Ford, up and away, and if his voice is too casual, well, who's going to call him on it? He's just talking about a bunch of food, after all. "But maybe, uh. Maybe we could start to fix it up again, huh? You and me?"