A quiet, raspy chuckle works its way up from Ford's chest, the sound just one promotion away from actually sounding like genuine laughter. This is more weary than a real laugh, not quite as strong or amused, but it's warm all the same.
"Well, isn't that a nice way to say I look like hell."
He runs his hand back over his head through his still-damp hair to confirm that, yes, it is still a godawful mess just like it was when he first stepped out of the shower. He almost wishes he hadn't avoided looking in the mirror - he kind of wants to know how bad he looks right now. He pictures red-rimmed, sunken-in eyes, a mop of hair that looks like it hasn't seen a brush in a month, and an overall look of haggardness that permeates his very being.
It's a pretty spot on assessment, really. The only thing missing is the 5 o' clock shadow that a lot of women would go crazy for if it weren't attached to a guy who looks like he just escaped from a mental ward.
"...I really have looked better, I'll admit."
His hand moves from his hair to the back of his neck, which he rubs sheepishly as a sudden bout of self-consciousness overcomes him. God, he must look like the world's nerdiest mess. A human disaster. He gives Stan credit for not making a bigger deal of it before now; he's sure he must have wanted to say something. What, exactly, Ford's not sure, but he's guessing something along the lines of "When's the last time you ate", or "Do you remember what sleep is", or "What the fucking fuck Stanford."
"You, ah. You mind making sure I get up in a few? I don't want to make a habit of waking up and not knowing what day it is."
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"Well, isn't that a nice way to say I look like hell."
He runs his hand back over his head through his still-damp hair to confirm that, yes, it is still a godawful mess just like it was when he first stepped out of the shower. He almost wishes he hadn't avoided looking in the mirror - he kind of wants to know how bad he looks right now. He pictures red-rimmed, sunken-in eyes, a mop of hair that looks like it hasn't seen a brush in a month, and an overall look of haggardness that permeates his very being.
It's a pretty spot on assessment, really. The only thing missing is the 5 o' clock shadow that a lot of women would go crazy for if it weren't attached to a guy who looks like he just escaped from a mental ward.
"...I really have looked better, I'll admit."
His hand moves from his hair to the back of his neck, which he rubs sheepishly as a sudden bout of self-consciousness overcomes him. God, he must look like the world's nerdiest mess. A human disaster. He gives Stan credit for not making a bigger deal of it before now; he's sure he must have wanted to say something. What, exactly, Ford's not sure, but he's guessing something along the lines of "When's the last time you ate", or "Do you remember what sleep is", or "What the fucking fuck Stanford."
"You, ah. You mind making sure I get up in a few? I don't want to make a habit of waking up and not knowing what day it is."