He's never before thought violence was beautiful – it's messy, obviously painful, and so much of it is senseless.
But he has always appreciated grace. He's always been able to find the beauty in dance, in sensuous movement, in the power of the body. It never occurred to him that there was a certain innate grace that came from fighting – that the line of muscled arm to gun barrel was as lovely as the line of the body in a pirouette.
Not that Zoë would ever, ever be caught in a pirouette.
She is far too tough for that.
But watching her fight, even though she doesn't throw as many punches as Jayne or fire quite as many bullets as Mal – it's one of the most breathtaking sights he's ever been privilege to. (He suspects she's a better shot than Mal, anyway.)
When she aims, she is deadly. When she kicks, those long, lovely legs of hers rising high enough to make his eyebrows follow, she is like some sort of gorgeous, killer Amazon.
When things settle down and they retrieve whatever stolen loot they are retaking, she saunters over and gives him a kiss. "Hope that wasn't too boring for you."
"Oh, it's over? Did we win?"
She laughs a little. "Honey, you were staring the whole time."
"Oh, hmm." He grins and pulls her closer. "It wasn't really the fight that I was watching."
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