Stan tries to listen, he really does, but his head keeps falling, slipping down, jerking back up again and he opens his eyes and he makes a little noise, air hissing out through his teeth, shifting away from where the seat scraped against his back when he slumped down farther than he should've.
"Ripoff," he mutters, trying to piece together what parts of that he did hear and figure out what Ford's asking him. "Yeah. But the town, they buy his story, right? And, uh, this Mandolin guy."
Stan rubs his hands over his arms, hunching his shoulders. He can't figure out which city it is outside. He's forgotten he was even trying. It's just blobs of light in the window now.
"So this uh, this old guy. He's a loser, but he's a loser who's got someone in his corner. Hope he makes it big before his friend decides to make tracks. That part always sucks. Hey, you got a coat? Mine, uh. It's kinda' on its last leg, ain't it?"
His laugh ain't all of one, it's kind of quiet and drifting off just like the rest of Stan's brain keeps trying to do, but it's a laugh, anyway, because it's funny. Kind of an understatement, or something.
"I bet you've got better ones. I bet you're the kinda' guy who's always got nice coats." He pulls his arms a little warmer around himself and closes his eyes, makes this noise, and he don't know if it's a satisfied noise or a disgusted one. He wants it to be the first one, but thinks maybe, probably, it was a little bit more of the second.
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"Ripoff," he mutters, trying to piece together what parts of that he did hear and figure out what Ford's asking him. "Yeah. But the town, they buy his story, right? And, uh, this Mandolin guy."
Stan rubs his hands over his arms, hunching his shoulders. He can't figure out which city it is outside. He's forgotten he was even trying. It's just blobs of light in the window now.
"So this uh, this old guy. He's a loser, but he's a loser who's got someone in his corner. Hope he makes it big before his friend decides to make tracks. That part always sucks. Hey, you got a coat? Mine, uh. It's kinda' on its last leg, ain't it?"
His laugh ain't all of one, it's kind of quiet and drifting off just like the rest of Stan's brain keeps trying to do, but it's a laugh, anyway, because it's funny. Kind of an understatement, or something.
"I bet you've got better ones. I bet you're the kinda' guy who's always got nice coats." He pulls his arms a little warmer around himself and closes his eyes, makes this noise, and he don't know if it's a satisfied noise or a disgusted one. He wants it to be the first one, but thinks maybe, probably, it was a little bit more of the second.