There we go. Tucker pointed towards the cockpit because someone was talking sense for once, and apparently it was Locus. "See? See? Even he agrees! You want to get up and moving around and all that shit? You need to rest."

Because Wash wouldn't, Tucker was really sure. Still active probably meant only ten reps of squats instead of twenty, meant twenty laps instead of thirty. Especially if he was really believing that stupid at least I didn't break my legs bullshit. Broken legs wouldn't have killed him like this almost had. Broken legs wouldn't have almost robbed him of all vocal luxuries. Broken legs had a much higher survival rate than this.

"Look, I'm not saying you can't walk, because even if you can get better parking for this wheelchair, it sucks." His voice softened a little, eyes worried, and fuck, Wash, don't make him give you this sad look; it's embarrassing. "I just don't want you do your usual routine, okay? Or any routine. Just lay off the exercise for awhile."