"So." The way he's holding Ford's hand means he can't really feel Ford's fingers, he's just kind of grabbing at the whole hand at once, but he tries to count Ford's fingers anyway, running his thumb over the ones he can reach without shifting his hand around too much. He remembers being young, small and scared - it feels like he's always scared these days but it happened when he was a kid, too, that sharp, tight, too-much feeling like all his emotions were too big, too much, trying to tear right out of him. It ain't coming on like that now but he remembers it, and he remembers Ford's hand tight around his.

"You know," he adds, interrupting himself before that first sentence even really got started. "It's been a long time since I uh, you know, held anyone's hand. Not 'cause it'd look stupid, it just uh, it, it doesn't feel, uh..."

Stan realizes he's looking down at his hand holding tight around those six fingers and then he blinks a few times, he frowns and presses the heel of his free hand against his temple. "Where was I goin' with that other stuff? That's right, you and your shitty sales pitch. I could teach you a thing or two. Heh, bet I could teach dad a thing or two, shit. Even if you mean it, you never start out tellin' the guy everything he wants to hear, not straight off. That ain't... it ain't how life works. You don't just get shit, you don't just get what you want. You gotta', you gotta' make 'em work through some BS first, everyone wants to feel like a discernin' customer. But you know, since we're here-"

He stares down at their hands, he tries to chew at his lip, he grimaces as a couple cuts pull and he fails, totally and completely, to sound casual.

"-You might as well, you know, since you already blew that train outta' the station, you might as well tell me what you want. I mean, you said I had to let you help. You, uh. What is it you want me to do?"