Mal: There ain’t-a one of us looks the part more than the good doctor. I mean, the pretty fits, soft hands, definitely a moneyed individual. All rich and lily-white, pasty all over—
Simon: All right! Fine, I’ll go. Just… stop describing me.

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Simon: What’s going on?
Kaylee: Crime!

Wash: Don’t fall asleep now. Sleepiness is weakness of character, ask anyone.
Zoe: It is not!
Wash: You’re acting Captain. You know what happens, you fall asleep?
Zoe: Jayne slits my throat and takes over?
Wash: That’s right.
Zoe: And we can’t stop it?
Wash: I wash my hands of it. Hopeless case. I’ll read a nice poem at the funeral. Something with imagery.
Zoe: You could lock the door. Keep the power-hungry maniac at bay.
Wash: Don’t know. I’m starting to like this poetry thing. “Here lies my beloved Zoe, my autumn flower… somewhat less attractive now that she’s all corpsified and gross—”

Zoe: You sanguine about the kind of reception we’re apt to receive on an Alliance ship, Cap’n?
Mal: Absolutely. What’s “sanguine” mean?
Zoe: “Sanguine”. Hopeful. Plus, point of interest? it also means “bloody”.
Mal: Well, that pretty much covers all the options, don’t it?

Wash: Every planet has its own weird customs. About a year before we met, I spent six weeks on a moon where the principal form of recreation was juggling geese. My hand to God. Baby geese. Goslings. They were juggled.

Simon: I reattached a girl’s leg. Her whole leg. She named her hamster after me. I got a hamster. He drops a box of money, he gets a town.
Kaylee: Hamsters is nice.
Simon: To Jayne! The box-dropping, man-ape-gone-wrong-thing.