[ he jumps slightly when the screwdriver lands on the bed beside him, subtle enough to be discarded as distraction, a quick glance in its direction.

ward's right. fitz started this off on the wrong foot, knows he's likely to draw attention or worse if he tries to engage the locals without ward's influence again, whatever it might be. realizes, belatedly, that he's already accepted ward's help by accepting the tools. he drops the lock pick on the bed by the screwdriver, irritated, then looks back up to ward.

sorry. it doesn't matter that there's a glimpse of sincerity in it, that familiar pull that makes him want to believe it. it doesn't mean anything. nothing ward ever said or did meant anything, and that's not changing now. ]

No, I don't want your help. You're a— you think you can just say sorry, when you— [ he fails to settle on the right word, and the comm's abandoned on the bed as he stands, steps forward into ward's space. ] You can't. It doesn't mean anything, not after what you've done.

[ the anger wavers, gives way to something unsteady and scared. ] You did this. You chose him, and you don't— you don't get forgiveness.