Ford hadn't really been aware of what was happening at all, until he found himself on the floor with Mr. Fisk more or less on top of him. The ceiling seemed to have given out (the ceiling being on the verge of giving out would have been relevant information for Fisk to have told him, Ford thought with very distant irritation), and Fisk had pushed him out of the way of a good deal of falling debris. He could see it piled up just where he'd been standing, and it looked large enough that it might have given him quite the bump on the head, to say the least. He should have been grateful for Fisk's intervention, but it did mean that Fisk was — a lot closer than Ford was comfortable with. Ford had propped himself up on his elbows as soon as he'd gotten his bearings, just on instinct. He wanted to see what had happened, after all, and he didn't have a good view of it from flat on the floor. Raising his head did take the space between Mr. Fisk's face and his own from a foot and a half down to maybe six to eight inches, however, and as Ford refocused from the debris to Fisk he was painfully aware of each of them.

A longer space of time passed than Ford would have liked. He'd gotten caught up staring at Fisk's lips and hadn't yet managed to think of something to say. He eventually forced his eyes up to the other man's — he thought, but did not ask: why haven't you gotten up yet? A part of him already knew the answer, of course.

"Um," was what he eventually said.