Ford grimaces at the younger man's choice of words. "It might be for the best if you didn't say 'deal' around your brother. Or me for that matter. It's associated with some... unfortunate experiences."
Stanford frowns up at him, but thankfully he doesn't press the issue. "...Right. Let's get this over with."
Ford sits down next to Stanford on the edge of the tub before making quick work of cutting up both the jacket and the shirt underneath it. Teasing the cheap, melted fabric away from the injury proves to be a bit more of an ordeal, but they manage to get through it without causing too much additional damage. Ford tisks as he examines the wound critically. "I expected a large second-degree burn, but this might even be considered third-degree. You ought to be treated in a hospital."
"You aren't seriously telling me you can't patch me up after you cut my jacket to ribbons, are you?" Stanford says as he looks over his shoulder to glare at Ford.
Ford waves a dismissive hand. "Of course I can treat it," he says, absently kicking the aforementioned, ruined clothing out of his way before standing. "It's just that a hospital would have better equipment and a burn ward could provide a higher level of care. On the other hand, there's a blizzard going on outside and Gravity Falls doesn't have its own hospital, anyway - let alone one with a decent burn ward." He turns the taps on and holds a hand under the spray of the shower. "That's about right," he announces after a few seconds spent fussing over the temperature.
"Yeesh, that's cold," Stanford gripes. Ford looks over in time to watch the other man flick water from his fingertips. "What's the big idea? Trying to freeze me to death, now?"
Ford rolls his eyes. "It isn't that cold, and it will only be for the first..." he allows himself a small hum as he contemplates, "twenty minutes or so? After that, you can adjust it as you see fit. Just remember to keep your shoulder out of the direct spray but under the flow of the water. And after you change the temperature, make sure to keep the water away from the burn. After all, the goal is to draw the residual heat out of the injury, not add to it."
He makes it to the doorway before Stanford calls after him, "Hey! Where are you going?"
The scientist looks back over his shoulder and raises both eyebrows at his brother's counterpart. "To get a bottle of disinfectant," he glances upward in thought before adding, "and another for painkiller, I suppose. Your bag is by the front door, right? I may as well gather that too."
"Oh. Uh, yeah, I -"
"Alright, then. I figure now's as good a time as any to go retrieve them." He smirks. "Unless, of course, you're afraid you're going to slip in the tub like a little, old lady and want me to stay?"
"Why, you!" Stanford sputters and grabs a bar of soap off the edge of the bathtub.
Already safely in the hallway, Ford gives an amused snort as the soap flies through the bathroom's still open door. "Give a shout if you need anything, Stanford," he says while walking toward the stairs, "otherwise, I'll be back after I've found what I'm looking for."
"That's right! Run, you ancient nerd!" the younger man yells back, "I'd feed you a knuckle sandwich, if I wasn't afraid it would break your old-man dentures!"
Ford smothers the laughter trying to escape his throat.
Pestering his brother's counterparts is something he enjoys doing, but it's generally a better idea not to push too far too quickly and he's likely gone as far as he should for the moment. After all, traveling the multiverse has taught him that no matter how closely any of the varied versions of his brother (or anyone else, for that matter) he runs into appear to the one of his home dimension, they are just that: varied. Not all of them have the same temperament as his brother, and forgetting that for even a second can be... detrimental.
Still, this dimension is looking more and more like his own; so he has a fairly good idea on where he'll be able to find that makeshift antiseptic he'd promised.
Ford more or less ransacks the entire ground floor of the house. In the end, after emptying out several caches (hidden in seemingly every other nook and cranny available; some of which Ford had once used for the same purpose, and others he is certain he never did) the forty-two-year-old finds himself staring down a collection of no less than twenty-seven different bottles clustered together on a desk in Stanley's study.
The scientist scratches his head, somewhat chagrin and slightly concerned. "Did I really have this much of a problem? Going through withdrawal had been an eye-opener, of course, but this..." He doesn't recall ever having so much at hand at any one point, but he'd never actually stopped to take stock before, either. It's possible Stanley doesn't have so much as a drop more squirreled away than Ford had in his own home at the time he'd been pushed through the portal. More disturbing still is the realization that he hasn't even checked the second floor and attic yet. Ford groans, closes his eyes, and pushes his glasses up a bit as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I know I was a mess, but I really hope this is a difference between dimensions," he says to the empty room.
The man pulls his hand away with a sigh. "Nothing for it now," he mutters and considers the gathered bottles with a critical eye. "One for antiseptic," he says as he selects one of the alcoholic beverages out of the assortment in front of him, "and one for painkiller." He snatches a half-emptied, second bottle off the desk as well. He considers the remaining bottles assembled before him for a moment. He should probably do something about them, but there will be time for that later. For now, he should be getting back to Stanford.
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