"You're a fuck of a copilot, Chuck. Now we're gonna be stuck circlin' around until we run out of fuel." Fuck, Chuck, stuck: what, he's turnin' into a friggin' poet. He gives her a smug little grin and heads southeast. They'll be over open water again eventually, but for now he hugs the coastline of the Northern continent 'cause it's prettier and more interesting and pretty much just because.

Reaching over, he pats her cheek. "You doin' okay, lady? Still havin' fun?" For whatever reason, it matters. Shit. He hopes that doesn't become some friggin' habit with him.

What the fuck ever: he radios in the change of destination, gives an estimated arrival time over to the heliport at Costa del Sol. Refueling, he figures, can be on Corporate but the rest is on him.