[ ... Well, it's something, at least, to have her acknowledge the space that had formed between them. But with the life Faraday had led, he's unused to being on the receiving end of an apology. For a few seconds, he stares and rocks a little onto his back foot. His expression is not unlike what one might wear after being handed some foreign tool and told to get to work, without having the first clue as to its function or purpose.

At length, he realizes he's been far too quiet – or at least that the conversation has lapsed into silence just a few beats longer than would be considered comfortable – and he clears his throat. ]

I...

[ He should probably accept the apology. Just to move things forward. ]

... I see.

[ ... that was not, in fact, the proper response, and he knows it. But despite all the tentative steps forward he's been taking, he presses on anyway. ]

So this whole time, with me thinkin' I'd made some kinda mistake, that I might've said some churlish thing, it's— it's nothin' to do with me?

[ That should be a relief, except it isn't. It was easier to think the blame was on him, considering how he typically acted and behaved. It's somehow worse, knowing that this past (hellish) week was due to no fault of his own.

He shoves up the brim of his hat to rub at his forehead, and he laughs a little bitterly. ]

Well. That's a comfort.

[ Said in a way that implies the exact opposite. ]