"So." Arms folded, close years of war history pressing up a subtle, broken sense of superiority, she studies him like he's a tasteless comic book. "How long you been flying?"
He swivels his chair around to cock his stupid moustache at her. "Zoe, dear," he says, making her curl her fingernails into the leather of her jacket, "I was born flying and, so help me, I will die flying."
Her forehead stays hardened with lowered lines. "You any good, though?"
He smiles. "Baby, I'm a leaf on the wind."
"A leaf on the wind, huh?"
Analyse crazy, Mal had said, analyse it and you'll have tactical advantage. There had been a lot of it to analyse during mud-and-blood baths under black empty skies. And now a different category of battle, versus someone who'd never seen what she and Mal had (only) seen and lived to not speak of. Analyse crazy: this was some flight school lo suh, most like, or else something his mother had said in the thick comforting middle of a safe childhood.
And she'll have to put up with him for years, if Mal has his way and they aren't blown clean out of the sky by the Alliance. Dodging bullets isn't everyday, and he doesn't look brave.
"And you got no problem workin' with browncoats?" She asks, question loaded with a bothered trigger finger.
"Nope," he says, answer light. "Not when the browncoats are flying a ship like this. I'm staying here for the beautiful girls."
Zoe leaves.