His fingers twitch to the lapel of his jacket before she's two strides closer, though he doesn't quite reach for the knife - just sets his fingers there, absent, careful. It could look more like a rebuff, him putting a physical barrier between himself and her as she eat up the distance between them and as he sinks low, low into the cushion of the chair.

The lines on his face doesn't shift; it's all creeping bullshit, something picking at the edge of what's actually there but that doesn't mean it's got anything to do with reality. Charlie's jaw's all set, sharp and dangerous - she might be over him, but he's a big man. Stubborn when he wants to be or needs to be or when it's the only thing he has left (right now it's that or a knife and one of them probably blows his cover).

"I wouldn't touch that wanker with marigolds on," he growls back up at her, the line of his hand shifting away from his lapel and abruptly catching at her shoulder, her neck - the line of his thumb hard against her throat for a half beat. He doesn't push her back, but his elbow locks like he might.