Macnair was taking his jacket off, too, and Ford's eyes followed the man's hands as they moved through the buttons. His mouth was dry and there was a buzzing feeling creeping through the back of his neck — anticipation, trepidation, excitement, or maybe some strange mix of the three. He was waiting for Macnair to walk towards him again — it seemed inevitable. What Macnair said, however, caught him off guard. Ford's eyebrows raised, his expression one of obvious surprise. A ghost? Macnair had an actual spirit- related problem he wanted assistance with? Ford had assumed that was just a cover — hence why he hadn't ever asked what Macnair needed help with. Now he was caught off-guard, wondering if he'd misread this entire situation.
But if there was an actual ghost that Macnair needed help with, why not say that in the letter? And why — why take his jacket off? Why brush his fingers against Ford's hand a moment ago?
This couldn't be real. This had to be a cover story Macnair had made up on the spot, probably to cover himself in the event that Ford tried to back out. Understandable, given how he'd just reacted to Macnair's touch, but…
Ford wasn't going to back out, was he? He'd come this far. He was alone with Macnair in an empty house. No one was expecting him back home any time soon. There was no reason to back out except his own hesitation, and… Ford didn't know. He hadn't expected to have the option, honestly. He'd expected that Macnair would know exactly what he wanted and would take it without stopping to ask permission first, but now the other man was offering him an out, and… Ford didn't know what to do. He wet his lower lip and let his eyes trail over Macnair's face and chest again.
This was the sort of thing that could ruin Ford, and destroy his family's chances at surviving in society. But if Macnair wanted to ruin him, he could do it either way; he had more than enough material already, and if it came down to it he had all the power. No one was going to choose to believe Ford over the heir to one of the most powerful families in wizarding England. So what was the risk, really? If he was damned either way…
Ford bit his bottom lip and took one slow step towards Macnair. This put him too close for casual conversation; too close to keep up the pretext that Macnair had called him here to deal with something work related. Ford didn't know what to do with his hands, because he certainly didn't have the nerve to start touching Macnair. He fiddled with one sleeve, straightening out the fold where he'd rolled it. His attention wasn't on his sleeve, though; his eyes found Macnair's, his expression hesitant but clearly willing.
But if there was an actual ghost that Macnair needed help with, why not say that in the letter? And why — why take his jacket off? Why brush his fingers against Ford's hand a moment ago?
This couldn't be real. This had to be a cover story Macnair had made up on the spot, probably to cover himself in the event that Ford tried to back out. Understandable, given how he'd just reacted to Macnair's touch, but…
Ford wasn't going to back out, was he? He'd come this far. He was alone with Macnair in an empty house. No one was expecting him back home any time soon. There was no reason to back out except his own hesitation, and… Ford didn't know. He hadn't expected to have the option, honestly. He'd expected that Macnair would know exactly what he wanted and would take it without stopping to ask permission first, but now the other man was offering him an out, and… Ford didn't know what to do. He wet his lower lip and let his eyes trail over Macnair's face and chest again.
This was the sort of thing that could ruin Ford, and destroy his family's chances at surviving in society. But if Macnair wanted to ruin him, he could do it either way; he had more than enough material already, and if it came down to it he had all the power. No one was going to choose to believe Ford over the heir to one of the most powerful families in wizarding England. So what was the risk, really? If he was damned either way…
Ford bit his bottom lip and took one slow step towards Macnair. This put him too close for casual conversation; too close to keep up the pretext that Macnair had called him here to deal with something work related. Ford didn't know what to do with his hands, because he certainly didn't have the nerve to start touching Macnair. He fiddled with one sleeve, straightening out the fold where he'd rolled it. His attention wasn't on his sleeve, though; his eyes found Macnair's, his expression hesitant but clearly willing.
Set by Lady!