[ Ford really, really would like to leave it, but that dad typo and the opening comment of the conversation are both bothering him. Not because he's made the connection, mind, but because being reminded of his own father, and of he and Stan's encounter with said father's ghost, have got him thinking.
Ten minutes later, there's a followup message. ]
By the way.
Sometimes, distance is the best way to handle a difficult person.
You're not obligated to give someone another chance to disappoint you.
[ He doesn't expect anything else to come from this. He'd help the misfire come to that on purpose, the idea of someone uninvolved in the original conversation knowing who this was about, the participants -- maybe it could be guessed with enough boredom and sleuthing, but Robby wasn't going to help it along. That was that, and he could go back to the subject with the person he'd meant the message for, forget this small hiccup (if sheepishly).
But then the other text comes through, late. It's a notification that Robby's unsure of what it could be at first, but he reads it after a minute. And then there's a minute after, a minute after that one.
Because it's difficult, isn't it? When you want to hope for a better outcome, and when you can never decide if, ultimately, the problem is you. Some people are fools who still want a dad after years of never having one.
Robby doesn't respond, but the message is marked read -- and it leaves a mark too, with him. ]
Lucky for both of us I have an iron liver, I suppose.
[It's not that he hasn't been drinking. It's that it takes a lot to get him drunk, more than he can afford to barter for in one go. Apparently that's for the best.]
At least when I'm high I'm just stupid and harmless. Except for not fitting in a normal bedroom too well.
I believe he's correct in his assessment. Peter Parker vanished from the city around this time last year.
You should make a point of getting to know him if he ever comes back. He was a researcher like us, and he compiled a very thorough document about the town.
It's also funny because while obviously Ford is talking about Peter, really he could be talking about either of the two high-strung musicians here, and Fiddleford does not fully realize the irony. It's sort of like they just threw a crossfire of implications over each others' heads.]
I noticed that. I've been trying to keep up with him, keep us both busy. I got him to actually pick up the guitar for the first time in what must have been a while, considering how dusty it was.
A stumbled across a memory earlier, and I believe it was one of yours. It involved a woman named Raven.
[ His somewhat awkward tone hopefully conveys that Ford knows exactly who they are to each other - though perhaps the circumstances would do that anyway. Even if she hadn't called Qrow 'brother' in the memory, and even if they didn't both have black hair, red eyes, similar features, and a mall goth aesthetic, her name is Raven. There's only so many people she could be related to. ]
[This being an audio call spares them both from Ford seeing Qrow cringe at the answer, but the silence that hangs after he says her name probably speaks volumes in its place. After a moment, he sighs, and with all the enthusiasm of a man on his way to the gallows, he finally asks:]
[ And he'll even remember to send a courtesy message letting Fiddleford know when he leaves the house! Granted, given that the lamp friends make traveling so easy the time between his message and his knock on Fiddleford's door barely tops five minutes. But it's at least something. ]
[The warning is appreciated for exactly that reason. Fiddleford has to brace himself for Ford's presence. Ford Pines showing up without ample warning is easily at the top of his list of recurring stress dreams.
He has by this point grudgingly set up his own lamp friends on the theory that if he's going to run a business it ought to be easy to get to, so the knock on his door coming so quickly is at least not a surprise. He takes a deep breath in, deep breath out, and opens it. It occurs to him pretty much as he sees Ford's face that they have not actually interacted in person since before, uh. Since a while. Hm!]
Come on in. There's no hole in the floor anymore and I've actually got places to sit.
[It is honestly looking much nicer inside than it used to. The floor's been redone (no hole!) and the walls have been painted a dusty shade of orange that clashes with the herby green cabinets and drawers of the small kitchen. In the open living space there's a small coffee table and several mismatched chairs, one of which has a book under the clearly broken front leg.]
[ Ford would be taking this moment to try to decide whether to sugarcoat it or not, except that he never remembers to sugarcoat anything. Really, he's just trying to decide where to start. ]
You tried to shoot her. And then you disowned one another, I think.
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