Ford 'Rico Suave' Milligan
Well, that was unexpected.
Ford smiled as he was invited to sit. It wasn't like he hadn't already been doing that for the last twenty minutes or so (he had), but suddenly he was somewhat compelled to take a seat. As he lowered himself to the floor; looking, for all the world, like he was curling into himself, he caught her laughing. It was a pleasant noise; and not one you heard much of in the doom-and-gloom atmosphere of the angst-ridden denizens of Fortress Impossible. Had he been a poet, he would have described it as being 'as pleasant as a soft breeze on a hot summer day'.
But he was not a poet. He was Ford Fucking Milligan. And he thought it was kind of cute.
Then she started to ramble. Ford was about to introduce himself when she picked up the small talk and sprinted away with it, rambling about the decor of the house, then being nervous about him--that brought a smile to his face--and then, finally terminating at food.
"Well, to respond to those things in order." Ford, still smiling, raised one finger. "First, I'm Ford Milligan. The pleasure is all mine." Then a second finger. "Two, I completely agree; you should see the theme in my room--black and white and eyesores all over." He grimaced, then raised a third finger. "And three, that's fine. Do the same thing myself." He watched her face grow redder and redder, and chuckled lightly. Still holding his bowl of cereal and sitting on the floor, looking very comfortable, he added, "Feel free to join me when you've got food."