It'd be almost comical the nerve Fiddleford manages to strike without really even knowing what's going on or who he's talking to, if it weren't also ... just kind of sad. When the man says Qrow could've just left him by the train he looks for a moment as though he's been slapped in the face before his shoulders start to shake and it's unclear what's about to happen next, maybe even to him.
"Heh, maybe I should have. I mean, I've already wasted my whole damn life doing this, right? What's leaving one person to die when the whole planet's doomed?"
He buries his face in a hand, still shaking. He sounds like a man on a precipice of some kind, dangerously clinging to the edge by his fingernails.
You ever see a guy clearly clinging to the edge and oh so delicately stomp on his fingers?
"Oh, so it's all about how important your job is until someone calls you out on clearly not wantin' to do it, and then none of it matters."
Generally he would not be this mean with a near-stranger, but generally he has not spent several months in a blood-soaked knockoff-Lovecraft hellhole that has been slowly eating away at what little sanity he had to start out with. One of the things his corruption does first is make him far less charitable, more likely to pick fights, and he may not consciously remember at the moment that he's a squid but the effects don't simply go away because he forgot.
You know how they talk about the straw that broke the camel's back? Fiddleford probably doesn't even think about the comment he so casually tossed at Qrow, but there is a very distinct moment where the air is still and then something in it just fucking snaps.
The shaking stops. Qrow goes still. And just casually walks over and socks Fiddleford right in the jaw.
(Oh, and he wears rings.)
"Do you ever fucking shut up, or are you so obsessed with the sound of your own voice that you never think for a single second that maybe you don't know what the fuck you're talking about?!"
It is, perhaps, for the best that the girls are long since gone looking for supplies at this point. Maria looks on from her own corner, sighs to herself, and keeps looking through the old journals on the bookshelves. They're free to keep on having this scene by themselves.
Doesn't think about it? Oh, no. He thinks about it. That's the thing about him. He doesn't say mean things on accident. That's Ford. When Fiddleford is mean it's because he knows precisely what he's doing. Ford is oblivious; Fiddleford is petty.
So it's not entirely a surprise when suddenly there is a fist hurtling toward what little jaw he has. It is enough of a surprise that he can't exactly scramble out of the way, though. He stumbles backward, glasses knocked askew, and has to put a hand out to brace himself against the nearest hard surface. That's gonna bloom into a real interesting bruise.
Now the smart thing would be to apologize for purposefully pinching a nerve. He does not do that. Instead he spits out a little bit of blood with the practiced aim of someone who's been chewing tobacco all his life and says, still looking down at the floor:
"I don't know, I'd say I've got a pretty good picture of you already. Not exactly coy about things."
It sure has painted a picture. And in the real world he is going to realize that perhaps that view was warped by own complete inability to be helpful, but in the moment? He's sure this guy is just a hypocritical asshole and that's his least favorite kind.
Just as before, with Oz, it doesn't make him feel better. He feels like shit, moreso because this is just some fucking guy who doesn't know anything. Who's only just learned of any existential threat to the planet at all.
(Summer would be disappointed in him. Summer, who was lost for nothing. Just one more faceless warrior for the mountain of sacrifices to a war that can never be won. Fuck. Fuck.)
"You don't know shit. You don't have the first clue. I mean, how could you, that was the point. 'We can't cause a panic', he always said." He lets out a bitter bark of a laugh. "That's what we were there for, to keep all this shit on the downlow, deal with Salem's people and her plans and monsters quietly, make sure average people like you never knew someone like her even existed so you could keep living your lives in peace."
Ironically, now, Qrow is the one who is starting to pace, agitated.
"Hell, you couldn't even imagine the half of what those kids have been through in the past couple months they've known."
Edited (makes this more of a personal attack for when fidds returns to reality) 2022-09-25 08:29 (UTC)
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no subject
"Heh, maybe I should have. I mean, I've already wasted my whole damn life doing this, right? What's leaving one person to die when the whole planet's doomed?"
He buries his face in a hand, still shaking. He sounds like a man on a precipice of some kind, dangerously clinging to the edge by his fingernails.
"Do whatever the fuck you want."
no subject
"Oh, so it's all about how important your job is until someone calls you out on clearly not wantin' to do it, and then none of it matters."
Generally he would not be this mean with a near-stranger, but generally he has not spent several months in a blood-soaked knockoff-Lovecraft hellhole that has been slowly eating away at what little sanity he had to start out with. One of the things his corruption does first is make him far less charitable, more likely to pick fights, and he may not consciously remember at the moment that he's a squid but the effects don't simply go away because he forgot.
no subject
The shaking stops. Qrow goes still. And just casually walks over and socks Fiddleford right in the jaw.
(Oh, and he wears rings.)
"Do you ever fucking shut up, or are you so obsessed with the sound of your own voice that you never think for a single second that maybe you don't know what the fuck you're talking about?!"
It is, perhaps, for the best that the girls are long since gone looking for supplies at this point. Maria looks on from her own corner, sighs to herself, and keeps looking through the old journals on the bookshelves. They're free to keep on having this scene by themselves.
no subject
So it's not entirely a surprise when suddenly there is a fist hurtling toward what little jaw he has. It is enough of a surprise that he can't exactly scramble out of the way, though. He stumbles backward, glasses knocked askew, and has to put a hand out to brace himself against the nearest hard surface. That's gonna bloom into a real interesting bruise.
Now the smart thing would be to apologize for purposefully pinching a nerve. He does not do that. Instead he spits out a little bit of blood with the practiced aim of someone who's been chewing tobacco all his life and says, still looking down at the floor:
"I don't know, I'd say I've got a pretty good picture of you already. Not exactly coy about things."
It sure has painted a picture. And in the real world he is going to realize that perhaps that view was warped by own complete inability to be helpful, but in the moment? He's sure this guy is just a hypocritical asshole and that's his least favorite kind.
no subject
(Summer would be disappointed in him. Summer, who was lost for nothing. Just one more faceless warrior for the mountain of sacrifices to a war that can never be won. Fuck. Fuck.)
"You don't know shit. You don't have the first clue. I mean, how could you, that was the point. 'We can't cause a panic', he always said." He lets out a bitter bark of a laugh. "That's what we were there for, to keep all this shit on the downlow, deal with Salem's people and her plans and monsters quietly, make sure average people like you never knew someone like her even existed so you could keep living your lives in peace."
Ironically, now, Qrow is the one who is starting to pace, agitated.
"Hell, you couldn't even imagine the half of what those kids have been through in the past couple months they've known."