The idea that he looks good makes Ford take a look down at his disheveled self and let out a quiet, incredulous huff of a laugh. The sound feels strange, coming from him. He hasn't had a lot to laugh about these days. In fact, he's not quite sure when the last time he laughed even was.

Before he can dwell too long on this realization, he feels a familiar, fleeting pressure against his arm and looks up in surprise. Before he even realizes what's going on, or what he's doing, he finds himself reaching out to lightly thump Stan's shoulder with his knuckles. Tit for tat.

The gesture just sort of...happens, like an automatic response. It's just something he's hardwired to do.

"I look like hell." He corrects, though he doesn't sound too bothered by that. On the long list of problems he has, that one is pretty low on the priority scale.

"...But I don't have a mullet, so I guess I have that going for me."