"Pencils," he tells her. He's not at his best and he knows it, the world going a bit blurred and liquid at the edges, but she just gives him a tiny little smile and asks, "What?"
"Pencils," he explains. "Or—well, pencil, really. I don't think you'd really need more than one. You could probably off me with one pencil and I'd probably just cry and bleed all over you and maybe if I was very lucky some of it would get in your eye and sting a bit, because if you wanted to kill me with a pencil that's probably about the best I could do."
She laughs and says, "Why on earth would I kill you with a pencil?"
"Seems like the sort of thing your boss has around," he says, and drops his chin into his hand, which is conveniently propped up by his elbow, which is resting on the bar.
"Hm." She sips her gin and tonic. "I have to admit, I've never had to kill anyone with a writing implement. But I imagine I could improvise something."
"You could," he says. "You could, and I—I wouldn't be able to stop you." He probably wouldn't even want to stop her, to be perfectly honest. His—he's getting all mixed up, with the ways he could be close to her, of which a spot of being murdered is probably really by far the most likely, and oh, damn, she's smiling, he probably said that out loud, didn't he.
"Yes," she says, "you did," and then she angles her body towards him fractionally and says, "I would certainly have to get close to you if I wanted to murder you, but overall, wouldn't it be simpler for you to just buy me a drink?"
He blinks at her.
"Good Lord," he says. "You mean that'd work?"