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Summary
Stanford just stared at the man he used to know. It was almost painful to look at him. He’d been preparing the script in his mind for days, the words that would make up the perfect apology. He’d wanted it all to be perfect, for him. For Fidds.
... So why was nothing coming out?
He held out the bouquet, looking so damn nervous it bordered on a health risk as he shoved it forward.
“Yours. They're-.. the flowers. They're yours. I'm so sorry- ” Stanford stammered, almost immediately stumbling over his words and internally wishing he could fall into a hole and never come out again.
Fiddleford was more than shocked to see Stanford holding an actual bouquet of real, natural, honest to God flowers for him. He took a hesitant step forward, closing the small space between them. He looked up at Stanford’s face, somewhat owlish in his expression, before he gently plucked the flowers out of Stanford’s hands. A strange silence passed between them. Fidds turned them over in his hands, studying them closely, before looking back up at Ford.
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Or, local man awkwardly reconnects with his former (lab) partner. Local man proceeds to crumble. His former partner picks up the pieces.