Were he not on his last legs, Ford would have tired to say something reassuring, offer his brother a grateful word or some sort of confidence-building comment to ease his worried mind. As it stands, Ford really isn't sure how he manages to even stay conscious while Stan half-supports/half-drags him off to bed, so getting his addled-brain to try to formulate a kind word is a bit beyond him at the moment.
By the time he gets settled down, Ford is already slipping in and out of consciousness. He tries to fight it off, to stay awake and aware long enough to say something to Stan, but it's a battle he's losing right from the onset. He manages to hold on long enough to hear his brother say something about meat and drunks and something else he doesn't quite catch, before the world goes dark and he stops hearing anything for a while.
----
Twelve hours later (and three minutes, if Stan cared to count), Ford finds himself drifting back into the waking world at the slowest possible pace as if even his own brain doesn't want to have to power up and deal with his bullshit just yet. Unfortunately, neither of them really get a choice in the matter, and whether he likes it or not Ford has to wake up and face the mess he's gotten himself into.
He awakens to the sound of every single nerve-ending in his head screaming in a perfect, three-part harmony of fuck you, and immediately wishes he was - well, not dead exactly, but in some other state that would rob him of sentience until the god-awful throbbing in his skull fads to something bearable.
He hisses, groans, then curls his arm over the side of his head as he screws his eyes shut tight. Fucking hell, how does it hurt more now than it did the night before? Oh. That's right. He was sort of hysterical and a little drunk and under the effects of one hell of a stress-induced adrenaline rush.
God, he could use a drink right about now. The alcoholic kind and the regular kind, because acute dehydration is a bitch. He really should have tried to drink something before passing out, give his body something to replenish all the blood it lost with. Ah well - hindseight, 20/20, and all that.
Ford realizes (groggy though he is, and despite his brian's reluctance to do any actual thought-processing) that he should probably get up and stick his head under the faucet until his throat stops being so dry that it feels raw. Unfortunately, that requires actually moving which is a prospect he is just not up for just yet. He's not awake enough to try navigating through his own home with shaky limbs and a sour stomach, not by a long shot.
He just needs a minute or twelve, to get his bearings. Then he'll be good to go.
no subject
By the time he gets settled down, Ford is already slipping in and out of consciousness. He tries to fight it off, to stay awake and aware long enough to say something to Stan, but it's a battle he's losing right from the onset. He manages to hold on long enough to hear his brother say something about meat and drunks and something else he doesn't quite catch, before the world goes dark and he stops hearing anything for a while.
----
Twelve hours later (and three minutes, if Stan cared to count), Ford finds himself drifting back into the waking world at the slowest possible pace as if even his own brain doesn't want to have to power up and deal with his bullshit just yet. Unfortunately, neither of them really get a choice in the matter, and whether he likes it or not Ford has to wake up and face the mess he's gotten himself into.
He awakens to the sound of every single nerve-ending in his head screaming in a perfect, three-part harmony of fuck you, and immediately wishes he was - well, not dead exactly, but in some other state that would rob him of sentience until the god-awful throbbing in his skull fads to something bearable.
He hisses, groans, then curls his arm over the side of his head as he screws his eyes shut tight. Fucking hell, how does it hurt more now than it did the night before? Oh. That's right. He was sort of hysterical and a little drunk and under the effects of one hell of a stress-induced adrenaline rush.
God, he could use a drink right about now. The alcoholic kind and the regular kind, because acute dehydration is a bitch. He really should have tried to drink something before passing out, give his body something to replenish all the blood it lost with. Ah well - hindseight, 20/20, and all that.
Ford realizes (groggy though he is, and despite his brian's reluctance to do any actual thought-processing) that he should probably get up and stick his head under the faucet until his throat stops being so dry that it feels raw. Unfortunately, that requires actually moving which is a prospect he is just not up for just yet. He's not awake enough to try navigating through his own home with shaky limbs and a sour stomach, not by a long shot.
He just needs a minute or twelve, to get his bearings. Then he'll be good to go.