Ford inhaled sharply when Macnair swore, sure that he'd done something wrong. He was ready to accept all the blame and hand the task back over to Macnair, or to do whatever else he needed — take him to a hospital, go find someone with steadier hands from inside Black's, even take him back to the Greengrass house if that would help anything. That didn't seem to be in the cards, though, because Macnair was apologizing and seemed to be steeling himself for another round. Ford swallowed, trying to get his own nerves back up to the task, and then Macnair said I trust you. Ford looked up at him, shocked, and then his lower lip trembled dangerously.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought as he hastily shifted his eyes to some indistinct point down the alley. No, no, no.
Ford took a deep breath in through his nose, then looked back at Macnair's arm. Not his face, not his eyes — just the bloody wound. He reached out to take Macnair's arm in his hand again and scooted a little closer, so that he'd be able to hold on if he tried to pull away again. "Hold still," he muttered, so quietly he barely heard the words himself, then tipped the dittany bottle until it started to drip out again. At the first indication from Macnair that he was in pain again, Ford moved closer. He put his body essentially between Macnair's torso and his arm, his shoulder and his whole side pressed up against Macnair's chest with his head turned towards the wound. It was more instinct than conscious thought, perhaps born out of a desire to try and comfort Macnair or Ford's own unwillingness to have to witness him in pain or some mixture of both. When he realized where he was, Ford stopped breathing, but he kept pouring the dittany in the hopes that he'd be able to get through this ordeal sooner.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought as he hastily shifted his eyes to some indistinct point down the alley. No, no, no.
Ford took a deep breath in through his nose, then looked back at Macnair's arm. Not his face, not his eyes — just the bloody wound. He reached out to take Macnair's arm in his hand again and scooted a little closer, so that he'd be able to hold on if he tried to pull away again. "Hold still," he muttered, so quietly he barely heard the words himself, then tipped the dittany bottle until it started to drip out again. At the first indication from Macnair that he was in pain again, Ford moved closer. He put his body essentially between Macnair's torso and his arm, his shoulder and his whole side pressed up against Macnair's chest with his head turned towards the wound. It was more instinct than conscious thought, perhaps born out of a desire to try and comfort Macnair or Ford's own unwillingness to have to witness him in pain or some mixture of both. When he realized where he was, Ford stopped breathing, but he kept pouring the dittany in the hopes that he'd be able to get through this ordeal sooner.
Set by Lady!