There is something about Teatime. He is clearly absolutely mad, in a terrifyingly calm sort of way. And his eyes… Susan represses a shudder. The glass eye should frighten her more, but somehow it is the real eye with its tiny pinpoint pupil that really worries her. Still… there is something about him that makes Susan just a little sorry that he's an insane assassin who has her at sword-point and not, for example, mostly sane and offering to buy her a drink at Biers. If you could ignore the eyes, she thinks, he's really sort of… beautiful.
Of course, there are the eyes, and they are impossible to ignore. And then there's the madness that positively rolls off him in waves, not to mention the sword. It's pretty hard to forget about the sword (her own sword!), sharp enough to make the air bleed and poised to cut straight through her with a flick of his wrist. Susan isn't quite sure what can kill her and what can't, for the most part, but she is very sure about the sword. The sword can kill anything. So she lets him drive her back, fighting the unexpected fear that is blossoming in her chest and trying to choke off her breath. His expression is calm, vaguely interested, a child watching a bug in a jar. He had clearly been the sort of child who hadn't put any air holes in on purpose, Susan reflects. It is not a comparison that bodes well for her.
She hates feeling this trapped, this defenseless, but she has to buy time until she can think of a way to get out of this. So she stops when he stops, replies when he talks. He never really looks away, even when he's talking to other people. Her heart is pounding now, and it should be all fear, and yet… he isn't doing a good job of keeping his eyes on her face. It's sort of flattering, even if he is a madman.
She cannot possibly be enjoying this. Not even a little. She would have to be as mad as Teatime to enjoy this. So when he leans in, she knows her heart is only racing faster because a homicidal maniac is less than a foot away from her and she's pumped so full of adrenaline and fear that she's practically vibrating. That's all. She covers it with bravado and hopes he'll look away soon.
It's not any better when he finally does. Somehow, he seems even more dangerous now. He's too still even in motion, as if a sudden movement might jar something loose. She has a dreadful feeling that it would be whatever keeps him from killing everyone in the room.
She shouldn't be surprised when he throws her to the wolves without a second thought, but she is. For a moment they're arguing like children, and it feels so normal that it's almost surreal. He's losing control of the situation, though, and she can sense his control over his impulses is slipping too. It hurts when he calls her a freak, although it shouldn't. But the anger gives her impetus, and she finally knows what to do.
She pushes. She tells him exactly what he is, and she can see him slipping. For the first time, he raises his voice and her heart begins to race again—this is dangerous, playing with fire, daring fate. She knows she's right, though, the same way she knew from the moment she met Twyla that the girl had not a single winsome or naive bone in her body, however charmingly she twirled her hair or lisped. She can see through children, and she can see through him. She spares half a thought to wonder what broke him so thoroughly that he's still a child on the inside.
His concentration breaks, and she takes her moment, but he's more alert than she thinks. Now she's really trapped, because his grip on her wrist is like iron. He's behind her in a second, wrenching her arm along with him, and her mind is screaming that the last place you want a mad assassin is behind you. She's trembling now, and her breath is coming short, and it must be terror because anything else would be completely insane.
Suddenly, he has her by the hair and her heart is pounding so hard she's sure it will break right through her ribs, and may the gods help her, because it's not fear. Not the kind of fear she's used to, at least, because her whole being is concentrated on the hand fisted in her hair and the menacing whisper in her ear, and she doesn't want to get away. She obeys the pull of that hand, tilting her head back and exposing her throat…
So it's a good thing that Banjo intervenes.