Ah. Ford understood all of that perfectly — those words may as well have come from his own mouth, on the heels of his last fight with Lestrange. It seemed his guess about what had driven Gallivan out to the abandoned patio was correct after all: they were both avoiding Cash. This was bad for Cash, bad from every angle, but Ford couldn't help but feel just the slightest bit of relief as the pieces clicked into place, because maybe being out here with someone else who had thought they were friends and was now reconsidering was better than being out here alone. It was still a rather miserable turn of events, but at least there was a shred of solidarity in it. It meant, at the bare minimum, that this wasn't solely Ford's fault. Maybe Cash was self-destructing and they had been friends, right up until the end, or maybe he'd been keeping more distance with everyone and he'd never cared about any of his so-called friends, but at least the shallow, short-lived nature of their relationship hadn't been something painfully obvious to everyone but Ford. That was something.
At least he mentioned it before it hit the papers, Ford thought, thinking of himself a little over a year ago hung over and staring dumbly at an engagement notice he'd had no idea was coming. But that wasn't exactly relevant — comparing Cash's interactions with his boss to Ford's feelings about his affair partner who decided to get married to someone he didn't love wasn't particularly germane.
"It's not you." Ford moved his hands to his pockets and shifted his weight. He was stepping into a role he had no real rights to and was aware of the awkwardness inherent to that, but — this was sort of his thing, wasn't it, comforting people and offering advice? Nevermind that he didn't actually know anything about their friendship; he hadn't known anything about Cash's trauma before that night with the dementor, and he'd stepped in regardless. Sometimes — frequently, if he was being honest — Ford fell into things not by virtue of being the most qualified person around to handle them, but by being the only one there when it needed to be addressed. And he could project enough to make it through, probably — his own anger at Cash seemed stale by comparison to whatever had happened with Gallivan, if he was still wringing his hands about it, but there were likely enough similarities there to carry him through. He knew, anyway, what he might have wanted to hear.
"Cash can't — he doesn't — he's not good at talking about things. Some things, anyway." Anything that involved a feeling. Now that Ford was thinking about it from this side of things — now that seeing his own situation mirrored in Gallivan's description had forced him to consider it from an outside point of view — the fact that Cash hadn't brought it up any earlier was probably an indication of the strength of the friendship, not the opposite. If he didn't care what Ford or Gallivan had to say about the matter, there wouldn't have been any reason to avoid bringing it up for so long. Ford had gotten a bit of a lead on Gallivan, it seemed — unless practically in the papers was mere hyperbole — but he certainly hadn't heard about it until it was all decided already. Until it was too late for anything that Ford said on the subject to make any difference. Ford wondered if Cash had been consciously setting up these conversations so that he didn't have to make any difficult decisions, so that he could fall back on it's all out of my hands, or whether he'd been in the habit of avoiding difficult conversations for so long that he didn't even have to think about it any more.
He glanced back towards the house, with the noises of the party muted by layers of quiet rooms between them but still faintly audible. "Do you think you'll be friends again, after all the dust settles around this?" It must have been lonely, being the center of attention at the reception.
At least he mentioned it before it hit the papers, Ford thought, thinking of himself a little over a year ago hung over and staring dumbly at an engagement notice he'd had no idea was coming. But that wasn't exactly relevant — comparing Cash's interactions with his boss to Ford's feelings about his affair partner who decided to get married to someone he didn't love wasn't particularly germane.
"It's not you." Ford moved his hands to his pockets and shifted his weight. He was stepping into a role he had no real rights to and was aware of the awkwardness inherent to that, but — this was sort of his thing, wasn't it, comforting people and offering advice? Nevermind that he didn't actually know anything about their friendship; he hadn't known anything about Cash's trauma before that night with the dementor, and he'd stepped in regardless. Sometimes — frequently, if he was being honest — Ford fell into things not by virtue of being the most qualified person around to handle them, but by being the only one there when it needed to be addressed. And he could project enough to make it through, probably — his own anger at Cash seemed stale by comparison to whatever had happened with Gallivan, if he was still wringing his hands about it, but there were likely enough similarities there to carry him through. He knew, anyway, what he might have wanted to hear.
"Cash can't — he doesn't — he's not good at talking about things. Some things, anyway." Anything that involved a feeling. Now that Ford was thinking about it from this side of things — now that seeing his own situation mirrored in Gallivan's description had forced him to consider it from an outside point of view — the fact that Cash hadn't brought it up any earlier was probably an indication of the strength of the friendship, not the opposite. If he didn't care what Ford or Gallivan had to say about the matter, there wouldn't have been any reason to avoid bringing it up for so long. Ford had gotten a bit of a lead on Gallivan, it seemed — unless practically in the papers was mere hyperbole — but he certainly hadn't heard about it until it was all decided already. Until it was too late for anything that Ford said on the subject to make any difference. Ford wondered if Cash had been consciously setting up these conversations so that he didn't have to make any difficult decisions, so that he could fall back on it's all out of my hands, or whether he'd been in the habit of avoiding difficult conversations for so long that he didn't even have to think about it any more.
He glanced back towards the house, with the noises of the party muted by layers of quiet rooms between them but still faintly audible. "Do you think you'll be friends again, after all the dust settles around this?" It must have been lonely, being the center of attention at the reception.
Set by Lady!