Stan's laugh isn't a gentle thing - that smoker's rasp he had when they were kids has grown into a full-blown growl, and now any vocalization he makes sounds as though it's being made through a throat full of gravel. It's not exactly pleasing to the ear, at least not by conventional standards, but Ford Pines has never been a man of convention.

To him, hearing Stan laugh feels an awful lot like catching an old favorite on the radio only to realize that he can't remember all the words- which shouldn't discomfit him as much as it does, considering that's just what happens when you go without hearing something for over a decade.

Still, it's strange to Ford to think he would ever need a refresher to familiarize himself with a sound he feels he should know by heart, time and absence be damned.

"As a general rule of thumb, you should never mix prescriptions without knowing how they interact, so--"

He reaches out, aiming to casually swipe at one of Stan's hands and snatch the bottle away from him.

"Until I can verify I'm not inventing a spectacular new brand of poison, no. There will be no finagling, chemical or otherwise."

Despite shooting Stan down, he still offers him a small, amused smile.

"Besides, at this point I've racked up so much sleep debt it's a wonder I don't pass out every time I shut my eyes to blink."