"Least you'd be on a leash hanging off a beam, give them plenty of clearance. And you did ask for a laugh." They should both be used to gallows humour by now. You have to be when someone's taking their time stretching out their dying across several years. Two guys one sharpened butter knife means they either have to be recycling said butter knife, assuming one of them goes before the other, or they have to find something else in the town hall other than paper and pens.

Maybe they have to stab each other through the neck with a pen, if it comes down to it.

"You are most certainly not doing me tonight. Or any night," Doc huffs, pressing a hand on his thigh and tilting his head away from Negan to regard him from a short distance away. You couldn't afford him, Negan. Even if this happens to be his last night and he's scrounging around for every bit of pity he can get.

"We both gon' use the knife?"