That was code, Ford figured. A nice way to say he looked awful, and he knew it was probably true. Usually when he came home he wasn't leaving in such a rush. Usually no one was awake to see him come in anyway, so it wouldn't have mattered if he did look a mess. So he was sure it was true, and he had no more desire to argue it than he did to explain it.

"... Yeah, I know," he agreed. He had started to fidget again without thinking about it, his fingers finding and worrying at a loose thread on the seam on his left leg. "If you could... not mention this to Mama or the girls, that'd be great."

He realized then that he was staring at his leg and tugging at a loose thread, and maybe calling more attention than he would have liked to these damn pants. His cheeks colored and he dropped his hand as hastily as though he'd been caught trying to steal something, then immediately worried that that had been too sudden and suspicious and had called more attention to the pants than just fidgeting with them in the first place. Not that there was anything to be done about it now. Ford had the thought to take a drink so that if Noble gave him any significant looks about it he could pretend not to see, except that if he started taking a drink and Noble asked him something verbally he might end up choking on his drink and actually dying, which wouldn't be ideal. His glass was already halfway to his mouth by the time he had this thought, and rather than lower it he found himself biting the edge of it, eyes on his lap and cheeks bright red and just praying Noble wouldn't call him on how fucking bizarre he was acting right now.

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