“What in hell’s name are you doin’?”

Wash looked up to see his wife regarding him doubtfully. “I’m…straightening the console?”

Zoë raised an eyebrow. “Looks like you’re makin’ them dinosaurs do unnatural things.”

“Since when is sex unnatural?” Wash wanted to know, acting offended but looking unholy gleeful. “Look, dinosaurs have urges the same as anyone.”

“The same as anyone plastic?”

Wash shrugged, waved his hand at the little figures scattered around the cockpit. “Where do you think all these other dinosaurs came from?”

Zoë stared at him.

“They don’t judge you, Zoë,” Wash said, solemnly directing the gaze of the dinosaurs at her.

“That’s because I don’t have sex in the cockpit, where anyone could walk in,” she pointed out.

Wash shot her a meaningful look.

“Except that one time,” Zoë amended. “And we locked the door.”