"He came down from Palo Alto, actually. Presumably he went back home, after we dismantled the...ah. Project."

He drums his fingers against the side of the can, too nervous to eat, to jittery to keep his hands still. This is all so weird, and not in the way Stanford usually enjoys. There's so much more they could be talking about, so much of each others lives they've missed and could be sharing, but instead here they are talking about inconsequential nonsense just to fill the silence.

It feels...wrong, somehow. Almost disappointing, like they're not giving this momentous occasion the bombastic participation it deserves. This is a reunion, after all. They should probably be celebrating or something, even if the mood doesn't seem right for it. Part of Ford is tempted to pop open a bottle of wine, though that's more to settle the gnawing, queasy feeling in his gut than out of any desire to celebrate his sudden reappearance in his life.

He shakes his head before that thought can develop roots, and distracts himself by prodding at the contents of the can experimentally. The last thing he needs right now is another drink.

"...At least I hope he did."