( Ian blows out a slow breath, tracking his eyes back to the retreating bar asshole and then to Penny again. He cards fingers through his hair; some of the curls tangle and stick together instead of falling back down again. )

Yeah, I'm good. I'm--

( Suddenly extremely aware of the horrible first impression this dude probably has of him, and he winces apologetically. )

I swear to god I don't go around just, like, fighting random people. I really— I mean, that's not my... default Saturday hobby. I just—

( Vague, helpless little gesture. He's a nervous talker — which manifests in an odd way in Ian, because he doesn't talk fast. His version of nervous talking is a raspy sort of continuous stoner-sounding drawl that rolls from one sentence to the next without much of a pause. )

This girl, my friend, she's going into this one. I'm pretty sure if I didn't say something her ghost would haunt me until my eighties and, like, rearrange my silverware or hide my keys or make creepy ghost noises while I'm having sex or something.