"You outrank me." Till he's back in the pilot rig, he doesn't really HAVE a rank. And he's been fine with that, fell back into the familiarity of it with a comforting ease and it shouldn't bother him. He has to roll over and feel around under the bed to find his next flask, shirt hiking up on his ribs from how he's hanging, the edges of his scars a sharp reminder of how this all goes so wrong so quick.

"Then what are you, Mal? An instructor? A friend? I know exactly dick about you other than you're good at your job, like fruity drinks, and are a pretty sorry dancer without coaching."