Ford shook his head and took a sip of his wine with an exaggerated wide-eyed expression, an if you only knew sort of expression. "Probably not," he said when he'd finished drinking. He almost continued it's not the sort of thing... but how would he possibly finish that sentence? It's not the sort of thing where you need a friend to trap a dementor in a wardrobe. It's not the sort of thing where you're having a panic attack in the woods in Ireland and need someone to talk you down. Thinking about things like this made him wish that Cash could help, for some reason, although he still didn't think it particularly likely. Even if he did, where would he start? He couldn't admit to Cash that one of the nothings he was stressing over was as paltry as Clementine's Christmas shopping allowance.

"Unless you've planned a wedding before and have advice for me," he joked thinly. "Or —" Ford had said the or before he had decided what to follow it with; the rhythm of his first phrase seemed to want a continuation, but he didn't know what else he could actually tell Cash about. Not the money problems, because they were in Black's and it wasn't entirely his secret to divulge even if they weren't. That really only left one thing: Macnair and his pregnant wife. Ford hadn't been planning on bringing it up, but he supposed doing so wasn't the end of the world. He'd told Cash back in August that he was seeing someone, so at least he had some bit of context here, and it wasn't as though Ford needed to give him details about who he was seeing or what was going on. "— if you want to hear me sulk about relationships ending."

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