Chapter B. In Which the Crew Chatters.

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*The characters and their world belong to Mr. Whedon and company; the mistakes and the follies are solely mine.

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“So,” Wash said, catching up with Zoe, “we’re leaving Westfield to hit Milagros and Santo.”

“Yes.”

“Then circle back?”

“Yes.”

“Granted, Santo can be a bit rough, but it ain’t like we’re goin’ to be hanging around. Just dropping off cargo and picking up cargo. And there’s nothing on Milagros but dirt and towns of dirt farmers. And Michaels got paperwork, real paperwork.”

“That’s what he said.”

“So it won’t even matter if the Alliance stops us.”

“You goin’ someplace with this?” she asked, still casually curt, stopping to lean against the wall. Knowing the answer.

“You thinkin’ this job sounds a bit boring?”

“A bit, yes.”

“That got you worried?”

“A bit, yes.” Her tone was unchanged. Wash frowned in agreement:

“We never have this good of luck. The nice, sane people always hire someone else.”

“Maybe our luck’s changing.”

“Do you really see that happening?” he asked, the hopefulness in his voice edged out by whining. Which did not suit Zoe. She doubted he was complaining out of boredom, Milagros’s atmo being what it was, and besides, she couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked for action. Give him a few canyons to whip Serenity through, and he was a happy boy. No pursuit necessary. So it was nerves, then, she figured. Same gut reaction that had her sliding a knife in her boot, even when she wasn’t planning on leaving the ship. Worries she could handle, she knew. But Wash shouldn’t have to be jumping at phantoms. Wasn’t his job.

“Well,” she paused. Stretched a bit languorously. “I know when Mal leaves to makes the first drop on Milagros, I’ll be acting captain.”

“True.” He watched his wife. Light dawned. “True. And I tend to get luckier, when you’re acting captain.”

“So not such a bad plan,” she suggested, and ran her hand up his arm, stepping close.