John's response to Noah waving a knife was to look up and stare, like a deer in the headlights. No disbelief, just frozen in place in a coiled, tense way that would have, had he had a voice, been accompanied by a growl.
When she moved back to the alcohol he relaxed a bit, but kept his eyes on her as he bent down to pick up the kettle - really, literally, without looking away, and went to refill it.
"Wouldn't be the first time."
Cut? Well. No. Crushed - whatever. His heart was pounding, his hands were shaking and - "Pass the bottle."
He was making tea. Suddenly, though, tea just wasn't going to cut it.