“Jil…”

They’ve stopped. The kitchens, for a ship like this, are enormous, numerous, and perhaps the only place on the ship that sees regular cleaning. The Manor staff twice over couldn’t hope to fill the one they’ve stopped in. Now, it’s occupants only number two. They have a whole island, just for the two of them. More than enough space to fix a proper meal, in private, where they won’t be disturbed. Where no one will wonder why the Captain lays his hand so gently over her white-knuckled grip.

“...we’ve still got half a galaxy to go.”

He squeezes, once. 

“Could you fetch me that pan? Second from the right, medium size. Would you like something savory, or sweet?”

He’ll need a little more of her help, as it turns out. Half of everything’s out of reach, wheelchairs move too slowly to prepare everything in time. No matter what her tastes, there are dozens of steps made easier with an extra set of hands. Fetching, and peeling, and stirring, and washing. Plenty to keep the hands busy, and the mind, just busy enough to be occupied. And, at the end of it all, the promise of a hot meal, shared in friendly company. 

Hard to go wrong with that, no matter how much the world'd turned upside-down.

“If all the clans needed were money,” he continues, at a time when all there is to do is stir and wait. “I can think of plenty of options for more sensible risks that’ll still pay you a sufficient reward. After all, people make money all the time, everywhere. The Starsong make plenty, running couriers, scavenging, knocking over local warlords, that sort of thing. This far out, there’s bound to be whole planets that have barely been touched. You’ve even got your own ship now.”

He sets aside the bowl a moment to rub his aching hands. “So why bother risking a trip to Gaia, just to wish for a planet of gold and jewels? Where’s the sense in that?”