If it looked like he was focusing on trying to get Macnair's buttons off, that wasn't entirely accurate; Ford was really focusing on not taking in anything else other than the sight and feeling of the buttons. As much as he was fumbling with the simple task already, it would have been far worse if he'd been glancing at Macnair's face while he was trying to do it. Given that, he didn't realize that Macnair had moved his hand until it was already on his face, and he immediately tensed.

You can't do that to me! Ford thought desperately. His eyes were fixed on his hands where they'd frozen on Macnair's buttons, because he couldn't — couldn't — look at Macnair's face as he pulled his hand away. Merlin take it all, did Macnair even think about things like that before he did them? He had to know what a gesture like that would do to Ford, particularly after Ford's unwilling confession a few moments ago. So he had to know; the question then was whether Macnair was doing this on purpose to get a reaction out of Ford, or whether he was doing it on instinct before he'd had a chance to think about it and realize what the impact would be. There was no way for Ford to know which it was, and he wasn't sure which option would have been worse.

Did he need help? No, he didn't need help. He needed Macnair to stop bleeding so that Ford could get the hell out of here. He needed to go drown himself in a lake so that he'd never have to figure out how to overcome this crushing embarrassment. He needed to get his hands on a time-turner and prevent himself from coming to the club tonight at all.

"I'm fine," he said tersely (a lie, obviously). "Just fix your arm."

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