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"What color were your eyes?"
"What?"
"Your eyes, Agent."
"Why, Kaliyo, am I not pretty enough for you now?" He tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, putting on a smile that promises all kinds of fun.
Kaliyo's about eighty-five percent sure she could get him to deliver on that promise, if she pushed enough. She's just a little worried about that other fifteen percent.
"Oh, don't worry," she drawls, "I got a thing for cyborgs. But you're avoiding the question."
"Green," he says. "Happy?"
"... You're lying."
"Am I?"
"You're lying," she says, "which means you don't want me to know, which is real interesting."
"You seem awfully fixated, Kaliyo," he says, all mocking concern. "Do you dislike knowing less about your associates than they know about you? Feeling a bit exposed, after that nasty business with Anspi'shel?"
She almost starts snarling. She catches herself. She's better than that. "What nasty business? Helped out an old friend, learned you were a big softie under all the cloak and dagger banthashit—it was a fun time."
Another smile. A fifteen percent smile. "That it was."
Smug fucking bastard. "Don't think I didn't notice how you changed the subject, there, Agent," says Kaliyo. "Lotta effort to avoid answering one simple question."
"Green," he says again, sounding almost bored. "Honestly, Kaliyo, so much suspicion is downright unhealthy. You really ought to put more trust in people."
"Sure. You first."
They look at each other for a moment. Then Kaliyo snorts out a laugh, and he does his creepy little chuckle, and she turns her back on him and moseys down the hall to the galley.
It's an insult, and they both know it. They get each other. That's what makes this whole arrangement work.