"Ohhh my fucking--" Despite herself, despite all this shit, Libby laughs, sliding off the table to pound on his back. "It's space moonshine. Alcohol? I made a still in my room. Wicked strong, huh? Fuck. I should get you a mixer or something."

She goes to the refrigerator, glad to have something to do. Anything that's more than sitting around hating everything. She'll get James fucked up and they can hang out, just...exist. She likes Miles and Jesse, a lot, but they're always so weird about her age. Like she's a child when she's been through more than most of the adult women on this ship, and she's survived. She picks out some juice--cranberry, it's good for cutting the sharpness--and two cups, then comes back. She still hasn't bother to put her jumpsuit on properly again.

"'Nothing' my fucking ass, it's something. You tell me yours, I'll tell you mine?" She tucks her hair back behind her ear (and, strangely, wonders if he likes the new look--less make-up, less artifice, and it's not actually important what he likes but...she wonders) and fixes up two drinks, equally strong.