For a moment when Macnair leaned in, Ford was actually afraid. He wasn't afraid of Macnair, necessarily — after being intimate with him it would have been difficult to ever see him as physically threatening, regardless of the circumstances. Rather, he was afraid that this was all going to spiral out of control. It had already started to spiral out of control, because Ford didn't know why he'd said that. He hadn't wanted to say it, and hadn't thought about saying it, which made the fact that he had rather alarming. Was there something wrong with him? If there was, he had no idea what had caused it, or how long it would last. What else might he admit to, if pressed? The best case scenario if he stayed here was that he might wholly and utterly embarrass himself in front of Macnair (if it was possible to do that any more than he already had, anyway); at worst, he might ruin his life, or ruin his family. Since he didn't know what was going on, he couldn't risk it. He couldn't stay, but Macnair was holding onto his arm and he also couldn't grapple with him right in the middle of the gentleman's club to try and get away.

Before he had a chance to think better of it, Ford slipped his left hand into his jacket and fumbled for his wand. He was right handed, but Macnair had a hold of that arm and there was no way he'd manage to reach it with his normal hand, but he shouldn't actually need his wand hand. He didn't even actually know if this would work, because he'd never seen anyone apparate or disapparate in the club before and there may have been wards preventing it, but he was hoping there weren't and people just steered clear of it normally because it was impolite. Impolite he could manage, compared to how ruined he might be if he stayed. Even splinched currently sounded more pleasant than staying. He squeezed his eyes shut, because he couldn't focus on apparating when Macnair's face was so close to his, and tried to get himself to High Street.

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