iii.

On day nineteen, Mal entered the kitchen, pulled out a chair, and sat right up next to Book, eyeing the shepherd with mistrust.

"Is there something the matter, Captain?"

Mal continued to glare at Book for a while longer. "Somethin' is fishy," he said finally. "Something you said."

There was a pause, and Book set down his tea. "Something I said? I don't think I've said anything quite out of the ordinary recently."

"No, not recently. A while back. When you first got on board my boat."

"...I'm afraid I'm not following."

Mal let out a thin whistle between pursed lips. "Somethin' about rosemary. 'A man can eat rations forever if he's got enough rosemary,' or some such frippery."

"Oh, yes. That. What about it?"

Mal jerked his shirtsleeve up to his elbow, and Book glanced down at it, then stared for a second.

"Captain, you're inj--"

"It ain't an injury, Shepherd." Mal tugged his sleeve back down, over the angry red dot on his forearm. "Turns out that your logic don't quite work when a man finds himself to be highly allergified to your special brand of spices."

Allergified?

"I'm sorry to hear that, Captain. I'll keep the rosemary out from now on."

"You do that." Mal was still glaring at him.

Book decided that perhaps his bunk would be the safer retreat for the rest of the afternoon. Possibly for the rest of the voyage.