Ned thinks, without saying so, that he is exactly the kind of person who sits by and listens, who doesn't say anything and doesn't help. He'd never been under the impression that silence did help, but helping to fix things had never been high on his agenda. Not in that way, not in those kinds of situations. The priority is, simply put, to save as much of his skin as possible.

Holding his nose, he watches Ginsberg pacing back and forth, half expecting him to turn at any second and redirect all that rage at him: for questioning his judgement, for interfering, for who knows what. Ned's not always been the best at distinguishing generalized anger and anger that might be redeployed in his direction at any second.

Ned's not angry, though he is glad that Ginsberg let him have his space; he isn't sure he could have stopped himself from flinching, otherwise, and that might give the wrong impression. When Ginsberg apologizes, though, it starts an instant process of self-doubt in Ned. Ginsberg is probably right about this. It might have gotten them thrown out of the museum, but what he did was probably right, and what Ned did was merely cowardly.

"You did what you thought was right," Ned concedes, softly. He lifts a badly shaking hand (the one that's not bloody) to touch the already-swelling area around Ginsberg's eye, very softly. "We should get you some ice."