The answer Noble gave was somehow more damning than yes, because of the uncertainty it betrayed. As if Noble suspected Ford might have half a dozen stashes of stale love letters secreted around his room, all from different illicit affairs; as if Noble didn't know what to think and couldn't even extend Ford the benefit of the doubt. Maybe that was what was happening here. Ford's thoughts scrambled for something he could say that would rebuild lost credibility. All the while there was something bitter deep inside him that recognized the injustice of the fact that Noble had been going through his things and somehow it was Ford who needed to regain trust.
"They were all in the same pile," he said, though he wasn't sure whether Noble would believe him. Then: "I only had them out in the first place because I was looking for an opportunity to burn them." He was sure Noble wouldn't believe that, but he'd wanted to say it anyway. His tone as he did was dark but laced with something almost like humor. The letters were over a year old, and they'd avoided detection up until their final moments. It was such a maddening coincidence that he'd gotten the letters out this week and Noble had been through his things that he almost had to laugh to keep from crying. (Maybe it wasn't a coincidence, of course — maybe Noble did this all the time. Something that did not bear thinking about at the moment; nursing the anger in the back of his brain until it swelled into something bigger would only have made it harder to get through this conversation. Though... what did getting through this conversation even mean, exactly? What did the resolution entail, and what did life look like on the other side of it? He didn't know, which was making it all the harder to determine how to navigate it).
Ford took a breath and blinked at the fireplace, letting his gaze refocus on the ember. It felt like he had the mythical Gordian knot in his head, and he was turning it over and over looking for any loose end he could find so that he even knew where to start. After a long pause he began tentatively, "If you read them you saw they were dated. It was a long time ago. And I was... in a rough place."
While both of these were true, neither were exactly related to Noble's primary point of concern — that he'd been writing them to a man. Ford had planned to spend the night with a man right now, before this conversation had derailed his evening. Maybe he was trying to imply to Noble that this didn't happen anymore, though — Ford wasn't really sure what he was trying to imply, yet. This didn't seem like the type of conversation where he could just set out in a direction and hope for the best; he needed to gauge Noble's reaction to everything as he went, feeling it out as surely as though he were taking small steps onto thin ice on a frozen lake. If Noble seemed to want to believe that this had been some sort of one-time thing, spurred on by — stress, or pressure, or something — and that Ford had since gotten over it... that was an easier way out of this conversation than many that Ford could imagine. He didn't want to actively lie to Noble, but... he could certainly seem himself neglecting to correct a convenient misconception.
In any case, he didn't think Noble would have wanted to hear the truth. And Ford lied to the girls all the time, about so many things. He didn't lie to Noble, not before tonight, but — maybe it would be for the best. Even if Noble did press for details, Ford couldn't imagine actually admitting to some of it — that he'd gone back to seeing Macnair after he'd been married to a woman, for instance. Ford knew he couldn't escape this conversation without Noble's perception of him being changed, but that didn't mean he was eager to see it absolutely destroyed.
And maybe that was part of why he'd said the bit about the letters being a long time ago, and while he was upset. He couldn't take back the knowledge about the nature of his relationship from Noble's mind, now that he knew, but maybe he could add some context to make the fact of the letters themselves, with all the copied poetry and self-pity, at least slightly less pathetic.
"They were all in the same pile," he said, though he wasn't sure whether Noble would believe him. Then: "I only had them out in the first place because I was looking for an opportunity to burn them." He was sure Noble wouldn't believe that, but he'd wanted to say it anyway. His tone as he did was dark but laced with something almost like humor. The letters were over a year old, and they'd avoided detection up until their final moments. It was such a maddening coincidence that he'd gotten the letters out this week and Noble had been through his things that he almost had to laugh to keep from crying. (Maybe it wasn't a coincidence, of course — maybe Noble did this all the time. Something that did not bear thinking about at the moment; nursing the anger in the back of his brain until it swelled into something bigger would only have made it harder to get through this conversation. Though... what did getting through this conversation even mean, exactly? What did the resolution entail, and what did life look like on the other side of it? He didn't know, which was making it all the harder to determine how to navigate it).
Ford took a breath and blinked at the fireplace, letting his gaze refocus on the ember. It felt like he had the mythical Gordian knot in his head, and he was turning it over and over looking for any loose end he could find so that he even knew where to start. After a long pause he began tentatively, "If you read them you saw they were dated. It was a long time ago. And I was... in a rough place."
While both of these were true, neither were exactly related to Noble's primary point of concern — that he'd been writing them to a man. Ford had planned to spend the night with a man right now, before this conversation had derailed his evening. Maybe he was trying to imply to Noble that this didn't happen anymore, though — Ford wasn't really sure what he was trying to imply, yet. This didn't seem like the type of conversation where he could just set out in a direction and hope for the best; he needed to gauge Noble's reaction to everything as he went, feeling it out as surely as though he were taking small steps onto thin ice on a frozen lake. If Noble seemed to want to believe that this had been some sort of one-time thing, spurred on by — stress, or pressure, or something — and that Ford had since gotten over it... that was an easier way out of this conversation than many that Ford could imagine. He didn't want to actively lie to Noble, but... he could certainly seem himself neglecting to correct a convenient misconception.
In any case, he didn't think Noble would have wanted to hear the truth. And Ford lied to the girls all the time, about so many things. He didn't lie to Noble, not before tonight, but — maybe it would be for the best. Even if Noble did press for details, Ford couldn't imagine actually admitting to some of it — that he'd gone back to seeing Macnair after he'd been married to a woman, for instance. Ford knew he couldn't escape this conversation without Noble's perception of him being changed, but that didn't mean he was eager to see it absolutely destroyed.
And maybe that was part of why he'd said the bit about the letters being a long time ago, and while he was upset. He couldn't take back the knowledge about the nature of his relationship from Noble's mind, now that he knew, but maybe he could add some context to make the fact of the letters themselves, with all the copied poetry and self-pity, at least slightly less pathetic.
Set by Lady!