( he offers a shrug nonchalantly, more than a little careless with his posture as if newt isn't a ticking bomb with a lit wick, trailing closer and closer to devastation in every arching second. rhys is all about presence, all about masking fear and worry behind lazy smiles and clever words. presented with a challenging individual holding a bloody knife, he looks as if they might next discuss a quick round of table tennis, or perhaps a new shade of concealer for these deep set bags under newt's darkened eyes.

a hand falls out of his pocket, his first finger pointing up to the roof of the car. showing off the ink detailed on his finger, a promise pressed into every line of pain. )

You didn't always think it was bullshit. ( safely back in his pocket, his gives an air of being nonthreatening while he moves, sauntering over to the side of the car. it'd be foolish to give newt his back — but it's a near thing, purposely done. he doesn't see mr. shortcakes as a threat, or at least that's the impression he gives. ) Besides, therapy is one of your words. If we Fae feel particularly emotional, we go die in war.

So — let us discuss. How best would you like to die? ( over his shoulder, rhys grins. ) My hands around your throat, intimate? A blade in your gut, slow? Drowning's no good, I'll get bored in the middle. Maybe you think you should suffer a bit, before I kill you. Given all that you've done, maybe you feel like repenting with your pain. Your death could absolve your sins.