#visions;

Regardless of his body language, he schooled his face into a mask of calm. She was so close anyway, her body merely inches from his, the flat side of the dagger pressed to his neck. If he so much as breathed wrong, he was sure the blade would go into his throat; he didn’t trust her to have a steady hand. 

He let the cool against his neck flow through his body, calming his mentality. In her expression alone, he knew she was wildfire--unexpected, and certainly something to behold. Someone had to corral the flames. He took a moment to compose himself; though it would be entertaining, he had to ensure he soothed the fire, rather than antagonize it. Never breaking eye contact, he finally spoke: 

“You know you’re holding the blade wrong; that’s not how I taught you. The way you’re gripping it now, you’ll end up just as bloody as me.” 

Her posture stiffened slightly, and she took her time--perhaps out of embarrassment--sliding her hands into a better position along the handle. He could have laughed; it’s not like the sheepish compliance could be hidden from him, not in such close quarters. Emotion would have been too much of a risk though, as he didn’t want to taunt her further, and he was sure that his neck was already paying the price with a small nick from her shift in movements. If he hadn’t had already guessed that blood would spill (whether intentional or not) by her ever-jittery nature, her sudden intake of breath was a dead giveaway. Still, she didn’t speak. How long were they going to stand there? She didn’t actually think he had him cornered, did she? He gradually moved his arms up, lightly resting his hands over hers.

“If you know you’re going to be sorry, don’t do anything you have to be sorry for.” 

She glared at him. If looks could kill...

“Is that a threat?”

Venom, pure venom coating every word she spat at him.

He relaxed, leaning comfortably against the wall behind him.