He holds his breath, waits, but the moment he's preparing for never comes. Instead things take a different turn, they go all pear shaped and Ford's left sitting there breathing hard and wondering where the hell things are going to go now that Bill's gone off-script.

He feels the shoulder brushing against his own, feels the weight sinking into the mattress beside him. He opens his eyes, but doesn't look over. He doesn't dare. He simply sits there stock still while his heart hammers against his ribs and his breathing goes from fast and desperate to deep and shaky. He wishes he could say this was a sign that he was calming down, but in truth he's not any less horrified than he was when he was hyperventilating. All he's doing is dressing himself up as someone who's having a slightly less severe panic attack than the one he's actually having.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

His voice is quiet and just as shaky as his breathing.

"This is - this is low, even for you."

He could handle another death. He could deal with dying at his "brother's" hands, but this? This is just sick. Bringing about pain and fear is one thing, offering false hope and comfort is another entirely.