"Gnomes?" Stan raises his eyebrows at Ford, then remembers: Oh, yeah. Weird shit.
"I'm never gonna' be able to tell if you're pullin' my leg again, am I?" Stan's smiling as he says it, staring at the glasses in his hand for a couple seconds before slipping them into a pocket. "Thanks for these. I haven't had a good pair of glasses since, uh... Columbia, yeah, Bogotá, the guys were nice enough to remind me why I stopped wearin' 'em in the first place." He huffs a little, kind of laughing to himself for a second, then heads toward Ford's bedroom and looks for enough empty surface in it to put Ford's box of food down on.
"But I know these'll come in handy sooner or later. I can use 'em to read your Writings of the Weird, for one thing. Not that I, uh, was gonna' read those journals of yours before you gave me the okay, I mean, I know you're not sold on the idea that me tryin' to take all that in would do us any good. And I did say I'd give you a night to sleep on it anyway, so, uh. I know this is your show, it's your call where we take it next." He's sleeping under Ford's roof, eating Ford's food, walking around in Ford's life - so long as Ford lets Stan stick around Ford's got to feel like Stan agrees that Ford's got the final say in pretty much everything. Stan knows how it is. That's why he don't couch surf so much as he used to, cheap hotels are just easier. But this is Ford. Even if Ford were sleepin' in a potato sack under the stars, Stan would do what it took to stick around.
"And we don't gotta' decide anything now, anyway, we just got done celebratin'. You called it celebrating, anyway. Some day I'll show you what I call a real party." Stan imagines it for a second, Ford all dressed up under the lights, shakin' his little butt off to somethin' loud, and he grins. That's one hell of an image, right there.
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"I'm never gonna' be able to tell if you're pullin' my leg again, am I?" Stan's smiling as he says it, staring at the glasses in his hand for a couple seconds before slipping them into a pocket. "Thanks for these. I haven't had a good pair of glasses since, uh... Columbia, yeah, Bogotá, the guys were nice enough to remind me why I stopped wearin' 'em in the first place." He huffs a little, kind of laughing to himself for a second, then heads toward Ford's bedroom and looks for enough empty surface in it to put Ford's box of food down on.
"But I know these'll come in handy sooner or later. I can use 'em to read your Writings of the Weird, for one thing. Not that I, uh, was gonna' read those journals of yours before you gave me the okay, I mean, I know you're not sold on the idea that me tryin' to take all that in would do us any good. And I did say I'd give you a night to sleep on it anyway, so, uh. I know this is your show, it's your call where we take it next." He's sleeping under Ford's roof, eating Ford's food, walking around in Ford's life - so long as Ford lets Stan stick around Ford's got to feel like Stan agrees that Ford's got the final say in pretty much everything. Stan knows how it is. That's why he don't couch surf so much as he used to, cheap hotels are just easier. But this is Ford. Even if Ford were sleepin' in a potato sack under the stars, Stan would do what it took to stick around.
"And we don't gotta' decide anything now, anyway, we just got done celebratin'. You called it celebrating, anyway. Some day I'll show you what I call a real party." Stan imagines it for a second, Ford all dressed up under the lights, shakin' his little butt off to somethin' loud, and he grins. That's one hell of an image, right there.