“Just what exactly are these things?” Mal lifts a green olive to his nose, sniffing it before wrinkling his nose.

“It’s an olive, Mal.” He figures he knows her well enough to tell she’s annoyed beneath the patient veneer. Which of course, is why he further baits her.

“An oleeve?” He sounds it out, rolling the fruit between his finger and thumb, watching the little red center squish around.

“No, Mal,” she frowns at him, and he can see the twitch of her mouth as she tries to suppress a frown, and sounds it out for him. “Ol-ive.”

“Ol-ive,” he repeats slowly. “An’ what are they again?”

“An ancient delicacy dating back from Earth-that-was. They’re rare,” she watches as he drops the olive in between the cushions of her couch. Her voice is just a bit harder as she continues. “And rather expensive.”

“Earth-that-was, ya don’t say? They must taste mighty fine to still be ‘round, lookin’ like fish eyes the way they do.”

“Mal!”

“What?” He blinked innocently, “They do.”

He reaches for another one, popping it in his mouth. The next moment he spits it out, “Gao yang zhong de gu yang! Are you sure that’s food?”

She’s eyeing the half chewed food in his hand like it might jump up and attack her. “Positive.”

“Ya sure they’re fresh then?” He picked another one, sniffing it. “Supposed to be green like this?” He scratched at the skin with one nail, “Might be mold.”

“Out,” she says calmly.

“But I was just--”

“Out.”

“You were the one--”

“I meant now.” Little less polite.

“Aww, don’t go gettin’ bent outta shape cause I didn’t like your oleeves.”

“Qing wa cao de liu mang! Get out!”

Affronted, he stood up. “Hey, now. Those allegations were never proven.”

“Out!”

“But… the oleeves!” Deciding maybe he’d pushed her far enough, he took a sliding step toward the door. “You know what, I think maybe I’m needed for more captain-y things somewhere. So how’s about I go?”

“How’s about you do that?” She narrowed her eyes.

He nods, and slipped through the doorway, calling over his shoulder, “Just remember what I said about the mold!”

He can’t surpress his laughter when his words are followed by a handful of olives pelting his back. Zoe was coming toward him, a confused expression on her face.

“Sir? Are those olives?”

“Yep.”

“Can I ask what they’re doing on our catwalk?”

“Probably best you didn’t.”

“Okay then,” she nods affably, and then tilted her head, “If memory serves, olives are the main export outta Shadow.”

“You ain’t wrong, Zoe,” he grinned, heading for the stairs. “You ain’t wrong.”