I'm not so much known as a thinker. Can't say I blame 'em for seeing it that way, but it's not like I don't have the grey matter between my ears. The way Mal would have you believe it—acting all shocked when he catches me working a crossword puzzle in the mess—I'm nothing more than the rock-solid muscle I've got attached to my arms.
Not that I'm not that, too.
Sometimes I speak before I think—but when I really need to say something bright, things need more time to process. Even I know that.
I find occupying my muscles with a set of weights is a good way to let my mind wander, speculate.
The simple up, down, breathe in, breathe out lets the engine turn over a few times and the only thing I feel is the burn in my shoulders that lets me know when my thinking is almost done.
And then when Mal comes back at me with some smart-mouthed, genius retort, I'll have just the thing figured out to put him back on his ass, all shut up, and thinking twice about his assessment of Jayne Cobb.
I also might finally have an answer to the clue for number eight down: nine letters, a primate thought to be distantly related to humans.
Wasn't too pleased when he pulled the puzzle out of my hands and scribbled in his response.
There has to be another word that fits there besides "Jayne Cobb."