"Your apologies?" Ford asked dryly, with a glance at the gaping hole in the ceiling and then down at the pile of debris. It had obviously been for his benefit that Fisk had shoved him, despite the awkwardness that had followed, and even though he knew it was just a conversational tick he had never been one for accepting unwarranted apologies. "Hardly. You're my hero."

That had been intended as a joke, but in the half-second of dead air that followed it Ford wished he'd said something else. This wasn't the time or place for jokes, nor was it the ideal time to just say whatever came to mind without thinking it through. That was what had gotten them talking about Quidditch, last time.

"...Anyway," he said abruptly, when he'd decided he'd rather press on than hear anything Fisk might have said in response to that. "I'll give the letters a try at home. Best of luck with... this," he concluded, with a vague wave at the post office.