Fuck!

Kimbley's arm throbbed to life as Greed slammed one knee down onto it, effectively pinning it against any and all attempts to free it (and maybe breaking it, he wasn't sure). He was swept with a minor wave of relief when those claws left his throat, and again (only with a slight pain) when they slipped off of his injured arm. (Great. Now they were bleeding more.)

But all his pain, all his irritation, all his smug arrogance vanished in the face of Greed's newfound grip and that single, innocuous question. His smirk fell and against his will, Kimbley knew (just knew) that his face had turned to an expression of half-panic, half-anger. And just a little bit of point-blank terror.

"Don't even try it," he snarled, immediately attempting to wrench his arm free and when that failed, clenching his hand into a fist. "I swear it, if you so much as touch them, I'll wrench out your eyes in your sleep."

He didn't doubt that Greed would do it. The homunculus shouldn't doubt that Kimbley wouldn't follow through with his own threat, either.