How was he? Not fucking great, he could say that much. Beyond that, he wouldn't have even known what to say, because he hadn't stopped long enough to take stock. This had been a hell of a week. With everything that had happened in the past seven days Ford felt as though it ought to have taken more time. Seven days ago he'd had Macnair's pants carefully folded on the top of the desk in his room, next to a letter signed Yours, V. Macnair. That could have been a year ago, as far as he was concerned; it certainly felt like it. Probably the fact that he hadn't slept well (or much) since Saturday didn't help matters either, because it made the days feel so long, and he was anxious enough that ten minutes could feel like an hour.
"Yeah, I'm — not doing well," he admitted, running one hand through his hair. Cash was obviously worried about him and Ford really wished he wouldn't — the last thing he needed was to have something else on his conscious, if he was stressing one of his friends out for no good reason — but it wasn't as though lying about it would have done him any good. It would have just made Cash worry more, probably, and it wasn't as though he would have believed that Ford was fine just because he'd said that.
Part of him wanted to just come right out with the confession: I lost your dementor. That statement required a lot more context, though. He hadn't told Cash what he'd done with the wardrobe in the first place, and Cash had never asked. And there was no reason for Ford to assume he would understand enough about how dementors came to be to understand why Ford was checking on it in the first place, or why he was so anxious now that he suddenly couldn't. This conversation really needed to start back on April 8th, then, which... was daunting, in Ford's current state. He didn't know if he had the mental energy to get through this, but he sort of had to. It was Cash's life hanging in the balance (probably — if Ford's hunches and hypotheses proved correct, which maybe they wouldn't), so he deserved to know where things stood. But where to start?
"Yeah, I'm — not doing well," he admitted, running one hand through his hair. Cash was obviously worried about him and Ford really wished he wouldn't — the last thing he needed was to have something else on his conscious, if he was stressing one of his friends out for no good reason — but it wasn't as though lying about it would have done him any good. It would have just made Cash worry more, probably, and it wasn't as though he would have believed that Ford was fine just because he'd said that.
Part of him wanted to just come right out with the confession: I lost your dementor. That statement required a lot more context, though. He hadn't told Cash what he'd done with the wardrobe in the first place, and Cash had never asked. And there was no reason for Ford to assume he would understand enough about how dementors came to be to understand why Ford was checking on it in the first place, or why he was so anxious now that he suddenly couldn't. This conversation really needed to start back on April 8th, then, which... was daunting, in Ford's current state. He didn't know if he had the mental energy to get through this, but he sort of had to. It was Cash's life hanging in the balance (probably — if Ford's hunches and hypotheses proved correct, which maybe they wouldn't), so he deserved to know where things stood. But where to start?
Set by Lady!