The poking finger was barely an annoyance in the grand scheme of things, but the shoving is still tepid relative to the worst Jayce anticipates. Equal parts surprised by the mundane offense and primally aggravated by it, he staggers backward and into Viktor, then swiftly regains his balance and surges forward.

“Back off,” he snaps, shoulder angled in a strike toward Edgard’s chest to push him further away from his partner. Relatively mundane or not, his blood is thrumming, nerves on edge with the threat (the fear) of violence. Fight condemns the lack of a weapon in his hands; everything else sickens at the thought of using it on someone who’s supposed to be an ally—someone who walks the same halls and shares the same meals, however infrequently.

For better or worse, he doesn’t take his eyes off of Edgard—doesn’t think that brief moment of contact with Viktor did any harm—