Wash matches that slight curve of her mouth with his own. "God forbid the squirrels go to waste."

He follows her to the mess tent, moving up to walk beside her, and -- immediately, that almost-smile flickers away, fades into more of a frown. Wash is a thinker, a worrier, always has been. He's been keeping track, in his head, of everyone that's brought in, who's drinking, who's eating, who finds it difficult to so much as keep down a cup of water. "There's someone back there who hasn't managed to eat since yesterday." An exhale. "I tried again this morning, but . . . I'll need to try again once we get back."

Even when Wash makes himself take a break, he's evidently not very good at them.