Dorian Fisk seemed to accept that, which meant there was nothing to do but wait. Ford bit his lip and glanced from Fisk to the window and back, but was distracted when Dorian ran his hand through his hair. He stared, watching the way it fell back into place bit by bit as Fisk's hand moved past it, and the way each individual piece momentarily caught the light. It would have looked even better in the sunlight, but if they were in the sunlight they wouldn't have been in this predicament to begin with.
Ford realized he was staring and forced himself to look away, at some nondescript point in the break room. He hoped Dorian hadn't noticed. Hoped his brother hadn't noticed, either. He wasn't sure which one would have been worse, honestly. Leonid Fisk catching on to Ford's inner turmoil would be mortifying, but at least he probably wouldn't do anything about it. If Dorian caught on, he might... well, Ford wasn't sure what. He might do something about it. There was too much in their previous conversations for him to not have been thinking some of the same sorts of things. Too many implications, suggestions. Ford wondered suddenly what Fisk's hair would feel like between his fingers. He wondered if he'd ever have the chance to run his hand through it, the way Dorian just had. Maybe if he'd answered that last letter a little differently, but probably not now.
He bit his lip harder, trying to push those thoughts away. Dorian asked about a knife, and Ford looked over at him with some surprise. He didn't see how that was going to help them, especially since they'd just agreed to wait it out. "There's probably one around here somewhere," he pointed out. It was a break room, after all, and cutlery tended to collect in the drawers below the counter in the back of the room as people forgot things here and there. Surely one of the drawers had a knife in it?
He moved to go check, thankful for the excuse to put some space between him and both Fisks — it would be harder to read the tension in his body language, he thought, if he was halfway across the room. "What are you going to do with it?"
Set by Lady!
Ford realized he was staring and forced himself to look away, at some nondescript point in the break room. He hoped Dorian hadn't noticed. Hoped his brother hadn't noticed, either. He wasn't sure which one would have been worse, honestly. Leonid Fisk catching on to Ford's inner turmoil would be mortifying, but at least he probably wouldn't do anything about it. If Dorian caught on, he might... well, Ford wasn't sure what. He might do something about it. There was too much in their previous conversations for him to not have been thinking some of the same sorts of things. Too many implications, suggestions. Ford wondered suddenly what Fisk's hair would feel like between his fingers. He wondered if he'd ever have the chance to run his hand through it, the way Dorian just had. Maybe if he'd answered that last letter a little differently, but probably not now.
He bit his lip harder, trying to push those thoughts away. Dorian asked about a knife, and Ford looked over at him with some surprise. He didn't see how that was going to help them, especially since they'd just agreed to wait it out. "There's probably one around here somewhere," he pointed out. It was a break room, after all, and cutlery tended to collect in the drawers below the counter in the back of the room as people forgot things here and there. Surely one of the drawers had a knife in it?
He moved to go check, thankful for the excuse to put some space between him and both Fisks — it would be harder to read the tension in his body language, he thought, if he was halfway across the room. "What are you going to do with it?"
Set by Lady!