He follows Ned into the kitchen, sitting down in the offered chair, fiddling with the hat in his hands for a few seconds before finally setting it down. It helps to have something to hold onto, but it looks wishy-washy and disingenuous to be toying with his hat as he speaks. He's always known what physical signs, what tiny expressions, what bizarre quirks make a person look trustworthy or untrustworthy. He's generally good at looking trustworthy, although sometimes his smile is a little too charming, a little too sharp.

The smell of the pie in the oven is enough to make him both hungry and a bit more relaxed -- he's never quite moved beyond the intense cravings for sugar he had as a child, and pie is one of his favorite foods, regardless of what kind if is -- and it's easier for him to discuss this when Ned isn't directly looking at him. There's nothing accusing in Ned's demeanor, not at all, but that doesn't mean that Ned isn't simply good at veiling his feelings.

"What happened was a..." That's not how he should begin, and he has to start over, shaking his head. It doesn't make sense to refer to it in vague, blameless terms like that. It was something he did. They both know that.

"I apologize for my actions last week. Losing control like that was unacceptable."

There's no doubt that his words are stilted, that even that took herculean effort -- as much as he knows that admitting to one's mistakes is sometimes necessary, he's still learning how to admit his mistakes to himself, and loss of self-control is the biggest mistake of all.