When Ned doesn't respond, his immediate response is a sinking feeling, a completely hopeless one, like now he's gone and said all the things he shouldn't have and Ned will get up and leave because how could he possibly deal with someone so pathetic, someone so incapable of simply going on with their lives like a normal human being? If he were normal, he wouldn't worry about things like this. He doesn't think his coworkers do, although of course they all have problems of their own. They don't lock themselves in closets and cry about it, or, if they do, they do so in private.

The hug, then, takes him almost completely by surprise, and he startles a little before letting himself sink into it, letting Ned hold him tightly, burying his face in Ned's shoulder. He's not crying, he's not going to let himself, but those tears are still there, lurking somewhere, and he knows they could burst out at any minute. If he does cry, he thinks, he'll do it once Ned is gone. Because Ned's going to leave eventually, isn't he? Most people do.

"I shouldn't have said any of that," he says, because this is usually the kind of thing he ends up having to apologize for. True, Ned's response is far different than other responses have been -- those responses have been mostly dismissive, with a helping of discomfort and irritation -- but that doesn't mean Ned has endless patience. "And I'm saying that to you, and I know you don't have a mother either, and it's selfish of me to bring any of it up, because I'm making you waste your time in a closet because I freaked out during a meeting about ketchup. I mean, out of everything to have a breakdown about. Maybe I'll pitch an ad like that. Ketchup: It's great, except when you get a mentally unstable ad guy working on it, and then it makes you cry! But it sure tastes delicious.."

He laughs, even though he's not amused, because laughing is a lot better of an option than the alternative.