He tilted his head to the side again, his lips moving silently as though he were going over what she had just said. "Ah. There's a problem with your line o' reasonin', love," he said after a moment. "You see, the thing is, love... I know where the knife is. An' you don't. An' I'm not tellin'..." Why, he wondered, hadn't he brought up the topic of the knife sooner? She was far too attached to the thing, and that was where half the fun was. "An' the thing is, love... the thing is, I'm not goin' tae tell. You can slice my skin tae ribbons, love, an' I still won't tell. An' if you kill me, love... If you kill me, I take the ship with me. An' you know what that means, love? That means your pretty little knife will be incinerated, along with you an' all the rest o' the crew, in an explosion far worse than any supernova you've ever seen."

His tone had started out even, but as he continued speaking, his voice grew harder, his tone sharper, and he finished his little speech with a hint of warning in his tone. "So you play nice, love, or you'll never see that trinket again." He was, by now, almost daring her to attack again, because if he was going to be perfectly honest with himself, sparring with her - verbally or physically - was an entertaining way to pass the time.