She talks like someone that's seen maybe too much death -- but then again, there's no such thing as too little, is there. He takes another spoonful, another chew what's left of the meat in his bowl. Luck is part of it, always is, he wishes he could tell her something else but Wash has never been about empty platitudes and even then she's clearly seen enough that it'd be useless, anyway. Insulting, even.

"It's never fair." Whatever loss she's seen, whatever she has in mind, Wash doesn't know what it is -- but he can see it in her. "That's all the more reason to keep trying though, isn't it? Or at least, that's what they always say."

There's a bit of a wry smile, there. A half-shouldered shrug. Coming from a soldier who's seen too much death for that to really mean anything, anymore. Whatever loss she's seen, whatever loss she's thinking of -- that's the best he can offer her, really. Not an answer. Just solidarity. It's luck, it's never fair, and yeah. That's always terrible.