She looked at him again, the smile remained, and while he would have the sense she was aware of his weakness and vulnerability, he would also have the sense she had no interest in taking advantage or pressing him in any fashion. "My name is Tiraa Shai, I've really just come on board. I suppose the easiest name to give it is I'm the First Officer here. What's your name?"

Ragnar used the moment when her attention shifted away from him to watch her properly. Not stare. Not admire, exactly, although he had eyes and she was a beautiful woman in the sort of way that usually came with a warning label written in blood and very small print, in a language most did not understand. Beautiful people were rarely harmless in his experience. Beautiful people who knew what rooms did around them were worse, and this one moved like she had spent a long time learning the exact difference between being looked at and being underestimated. He recognised the courtesy of her looking away for what it was, or what it might have been. Consideration, calculation, good manners with teeth. Any of them were possible. All of them might be true.

But she was the First Officer. That put her somewhere he had to take seriously even if every instinct in him was still busy checking the locks. Ragnar’s hand shifted from the edge of the replicator to the cup that materialised, something dark and hot enough to pass for tea in some systems, he guessed, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Ragnar Meral,” he said, the dryness still there but tucked into something closer to professionalism. “Combat lead, apparently.” A small grin pulled at one corner of his mouth, brief and crooked, there and gone before it could become too comfortable. He could not remember the last time he had introduced himself as something other than mercenary.

Tiraa’s smile grew into a grin, projecting genuine warmth in the expression. “Well, how fortunate for me to meet the man in charge of our safety. It is nice to meet you, Mr. Meral — or would you prefer Ragnar?”

Her voice was a caress on his name; her mild Orion accent added an exotic touch to the already rare name. Her eyes flicked to the cup in his hand, then back to his face.

He looked at her, taking a slow breath, green eyes focused on her. "Whichever works, ma'am," he said, smoothly, with a small smile tugging at his lips. Not suspicious, but careful. "I suspect it will be situational...Ragnar until we are being shot at, in which case Meral. I never was precious about what people called me."

She laughed at that, the sound having the same melodic quality as her voice. "I suspect you're right, Ragnar."

Without moving her eyes from him, she gestured with grace toward one of the small tables. "Would you like to sit down with me? I'd like to get to know you a little better."

“Of course,” Ragnar said, after a moment just long enough to suggest the answer had been chosen rather than given on reflex. He took the cup with him and crossed to the table at her side, not quite beside her and not quite behind, his pace easy enough to pass for casual. To him, Tiraa moved with the sort of grace that never really belonged to harmless things. Not dramatic and not showy...just exact, like a bird of prey that had learned to look decorative until the moment it decided not to be. He was not surprised. He waited until she sat before taking the chair opposite, old habit from a more civilised quadrant, then set the cup down in front of him without drinking from it yet. Not because he did not want it, but because it was too hot, and somehow drinking it and burning his mouth in front of Tiraa seemed...less than ideal. “I suspect in a way, this is your chance to interview me for the position...” the words came out lightly, even playful.

"Oh yes, good point." The words were laced with a mild giggle, and she adjusted her body in the chair so she sat up straight and slightly leaned forward so she could place her folded hands on the table. She cleared her throat, and when she spoke again she did so in a tone that mocked seriousness.

"Well then, Mr. Meral... what qualifies you for this position?"

He laughed at the words, and at the mock-serious face she wore with far too much ease. It was a convincing impression of half the senior officers he had known in Starfleet, though usually with less charm and worse tailoring. It did make him curious about her qualifications, but he had enough self-preservation not to ask that before the tea had cooled. “I’m a bastard who is good with a rifle,” he said easily, because it was the truth and he had never seen much use in dressing it up unless someone was paying extra. “And I’m not precious about how things get done, provided the people on our side are still breathing at the end of it...after all, I do like getting paid.”