[In another time, in a younger year, Ford might have had something to say to all that. He might have cut in, tried to defend himself, give his side of the story. He might have gotten angry, too, angry that he was being taken to task for the actions of the Ford that was here before him.]
[But that's the thing about the passage of time. It has a way of putting things into perspective, of putting distance between old hurts and the forefront of the mind. Ford has had thirty years to come to terms with all of this, to sort out all the anger and frustration and stubborn insistence that his good intentions excused all the horrible things they wrought. Now all he has left is remorse, a guilt that sits so heavy in his heart that even Fiddleford's forgiveness couldn't lift it.]
[So, no. Ford doesn't defend himself. He doesn't interrupt, or correct, or ask Fiddleford to stop. He just stands there and lets the vitriol wash over him like acid rain, lets the man have his much-needed catharsis even if it makes him feel more than a little heart-raw.]
[By the end of it, Ford finds himself wondering if he looks as subdued and defeated as he feels. A small, prideful part of him hopes not - after all that talk of being able to handle anything Fiddleford dished out, the last thing he wants is to look like a kicked dog. But then again, maybe he deserves that too. Maybe it would help Fiddleford feel a little better to see him brought low.]
[Clearing his throat, Ford reaches up to rub absently at the back of his neck. He's not sure what to say to all that. He's not sure there is anything to say, at least nothing that will make any of this better, so instead of opening with words he settles for a long, low whistle.]
...Well. That sure was brewing for a while.
[To put things mildly.]
[Clearing his throat again -why it feels so tight all of the sudden he has no idea- Ford continues, his words slow and halting as he tries to piece his thoughts together.]
I know it doesn't make a difference, I know it won't fix anything, but - [Goddamn it, why is this so hard to articulate.]
There's no making up for it, for what happened. For all the things I did, for all the things I didn't do. But still, you deserve an apology. Maybe I'm not the person who should be giving it to you, but I think it's time one of us finally did.
[He stands a little straighter, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. Unable to stay still, his thumb rubs anxiously against the side of his forefinger.]
I'm sorry, Fiddleford. For everything. I really am.
[He waits a moment, letting his words hang heavy in the air, before cracking a small, uncertain smile.]
...You know, that's been playing in the back of my mind for the last thirty years. Feels good to finally say it out loud.
the Wreckoning
[But that's the thing about the passage of time. It has a way of putting things into perspective, of putting distance between old hurts and the forefront of the mind. Ford has had thirty years to come to terms with all of this, to sort out all the anger and frustration and stubborn insistence that his good intentions excused all the horrible things they wrought. Now all he has left is remorse, a guilt that sits so heavy in his heart that even Fiddleford's forgiveness couldn't lift it.]
[So, no. Ford doesn't defend himself. He doesn't interrupt, or correct, or ask Fiddleford to stop. He just stands there and lets the vitriol wash over him like acid rain, lets the man have his much-needed catharsis even if it makes him feel more than a little heart-raw.]
[By the end of it, Ford finds himself wondering if he looks as subdued and defeated as he feels. A small, prideful part of him hopes not - after all that talk of being able to handle anything Fiddleford dished out, the last thing he wants is to look like a kicked dog. But then again, maybe he deserves that too. Maybe it would help Fiddleford feel a little better to see him brought low.]
[Clearing his throat, Ford reaches up to rub absently at the back of his neck. He's not sure what to say to all that. He's not sure there is anything to say, at least nothing that will make any of this better, so instead of opening with words he settles for a long, low whistle.]
...Well. That sure was brewing for a while.
[To put things mildly.]
[Clearing his throat again -why it feels so tight all of the sudden he has no idea- Ford continues, his words slow and halting as he tries to piece his thoughts together.]
I know it doesn't make a difference, I know it won't fix anything, but - [Goddamn it, why is this so hard to articulate.]
There's no making up for it, for what happened. For all the things I did, for all the things I didn't do. But still, you deserve an apology. Maybe I'm not the person who should be giving it to you, but I think it's time one of us finally did.
[He stands a little straighter, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. Unable to stay still, his thumb rubs anxiously against the side of his forefinger.]
I'm sorry, Fiddleford. For everything. I really am.
[He waits a moment, letting his words hang heavy in the air, before cracking a small, uncertain smile.]
...You know, that's been playing in the back of my mind for the last thirty years. Feels good to finally say it out loud.