Bloody fucking hell, was about as articulate as Ford's thoughts were capable of being when Macnair draped his head over Ford's shoulder. He couldn't necessarily blame Macnair for it when he was clearly in so much pain and almost certainly not thinking straight, but Ford was seized with a sense that this was an injustice all the same. For a moment he wished that someone else knew about this entire relationship, specifically so that he could tell them about this moment and watch their mouth drop open and feel vindicated when they said bloody hell, that's awful. As it was, no one knew, so he was just going to have to bury it somewhere in his chest with all the other things he never got to talk about and hope that it laid dormant there instead of building up until he eventually exploded.

"It's done," he said in a rush, forcing himself to breath again. He was still pressed up against Macnair and Macnair's head was still on his shoulder and he had absolutely no idea how he was going to get out of this situation, but at least this part was over. He fumbled for the cap of the dittany and scanned Macnair's wound again, making sure he hadn't missed anything. The sight of the wound and the blood made his stomach flip, but it looked like it was all knitting itself back together.

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