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[mr_gaeta]

It's been a long day.

A long week, actually.

(Gaeta won't even talk about what the past month's been like.)

Not having something to occupy his hands and mind -- a report, a stack of notes, even just a pen and paper -- feels awkward enough that Gaeta's taken to folding a small fleet of paper airplanes at his table. Being made out of napkins, all of them are too wobbly to fly, but that's not exactly the point; the point is to stay alert, stay awake, and do anything but sit around doing nothing.

...Even if it's much more likely that any alertness Gaeta currently possesses comes more from the three empty mugs rimmed with coffee stains, not the slowly massing collection of floppy aircraft.

Comments

[ofthefamily]

When Carlisle was sworn in for captain duty, he had been bending paper clips. He figures Felix's intentions are much the same.

"Hello," Carlisle offers amiably enough. "Are you busy?"

[mr_gaeta]

"Hm?"

Gaeta glances up with one half-folded wing tucked between his fingers. It seems to take a second before he recognizes Carlisle -- or is able to focus on him, more like.

"No, not at all," he says, and gets to work sweeping the airplanes aside. "What can I help you with, sir?"

[ofthefamily]

"It's Carlisle, please, and I actually have a proposition for you."

A beat passes. How to put this gently?

"The last time we spoke, you sounded as though you could use a diversion."

[mr_gaeta]

"Carlisle," he corrects himself. "Right. Sorry."

He continues to busy himself by gathering the planes into a pile, with more fastidiousness than is strictly necessary. Eventually, he looses a quiet breath as the side of his mouth quirks, rather wry.

"I guess there isn't much point in denying that, is there."

[ofthefamily]

"Not really, no." It's easy enough to smile at this, since Carlisle can relate. He is forward enough to claim a seat for himself as Felix cleans up his paper airplanes and leans into the table on his elbows.

"Have you ever heard of a sport called baseball?"

[mr_gaeta]

A small, puzzled crease forms between Gaeta's eyebrows.

"I don't...think I have, no," he hazards.

It could be an obscure sport that was sequestered away on a remote corner of Gemenon, possibly.

It's much more likely, he suspects, that it's an Earth thing.

[ofthefamily]

Entirely too bouncy for someone as poised as Carlisle is usually:

"Clearly this means you should sign up to play in the Milliways game we will be hosting."

Naturally.

[mr_gaeta]

What, says Gaeta's expression. Mildly.

Either that, or, Your logic does not correspond to normal logic, depending on which way you tilt your head.

[ofthefamily]

Carlisle leans back in his chair then -- he needs his hands to count off on his fingers the reasons why Felix should sign up!

"Endorphins are good for your body and they make you feel better; you probably have a good throwing arm with your mesomorph shoulders; you will meet new people; you can learn a new sport to adapt to your world..."

[wheatencrown]

The coffee mugs are not reassuring as Demeter sits beside him, there's more silver in hair today and her voice is tired,

"Have you eaten today?"

[mr_gaeta]

The incessant folding stops. To his credit, Gaeta does not look like a child on the receiving end of a scolding.

Much.

"I had a sandwich?" he offers.

[wheatencrown]

"And how long ago was that?"

Its not his fault that all the mortals she knows seem to be trying to destroy themselves, he's just the closest one.

[mr_gaeta]

"A couple of hours ago."

...He thinks.

[wheatencrown]

"Then perhaps you should have something more with your coffee."

She kisses his cheek and pulls out a fresh loaf of bread,

"What are you making?"

[mr_gaeta]

The spontaneous affection never ceases to startle him; there are worse things to be startled by, though, and it catches him in a small smile.

"Nothing, really," he says as he sweeps a few of the planes aside, a touch rueful. "Just...trying to keep myself busy."

[wheatencrown]

"What would you rather be doing?"

[mr_gaeta]

A shrug, uncertain and a touch awkward. Gaeta rubs a hand over his hair. "I don't know," he admits.

Because it's not like he would rather be back on Colonial One, all that much. It just...feels like he should be.

[youask-why.livejournal.com]

Sharon's nerves don't typically get too frayed, even in circumstance much more stressful than being in a bar.

But still being trapped in a magic bar full people she doesn't recognize has her rather on edge.

Which is why she's glancing over her shoulder for a second too long as she walks through the bar, carrying a mug of weak tea between her hands, and runs into Gaeta's table. Her reflexes are good enough to keep her tea from spilling over, and murmurs, "Frak, I -"

And then she looks to Gaeta, and seems to forget what she was saying.

[mr_gaeta]

The bump registers first. "It's -- " Gaeta begins to say without thinking.

The familiar curse registers second.

And then it's the voice: Boomer's. Sharon's.

Eight's.

Gaeta's head snaps up; the alertness goes beyond "passable," and has nothing to do with his coffee any longer.

[youask-why.livejournal.com]

Sharon doesn't move, neither in a twitch to glance at the locked doorway, nor a step back. Though they had been cleaned and even pressed since she first came in, her clothes are still gray sweat pants and a blue hooded sweatshirt over a sleeveless shirt - not exactly the kind of style an Eight would typically choose to wear.





"Sorry," she manages to finish, finally.

[mr_gaeta]

That makes two, notes a stray and distant thought. Five to go.

He mentioned to Simon that better a Six find Milliways than some of the other models. The Eights...they could be considered about the same. Maybe. It's still better than a One or a Five.

(Except, of course, for how the Cylons ideally should've never found the bar at all.)

He takes in her outfit, quickly and a touch sharp, trying to place it to any of the Eights he's seen on New Caprica. Nothing comes up except a nagging familiarity; enough to prompt Gaeta to ask, very evenly, "Do I know you?"

[youask-why.livejournal.com]

It might be a little ironic that Sharon isn't used to being mistaken for every other Eight. She does look surprised, for only a moment, before her eyes drop, and her expression evens.

"I'm Sharon."

Her eyes come up again, though she glances a little desperately to the completely unhelpful rafters. "I was on Galactica, and I just -"

But she still can't really explain what happened.

[mr_gaeta]

Galactica.

Gaeta takes in an unconscious breath, straightens all the more.

It must be the copy of Sharon who's been living in the brig for over a year. Unless -- his thoughts flicker back to his last conversation with Roslin, how she said the time discrepancies can apply even to people from the same world.

"Not Boomer," he says, cautious and half a question.

[youask-why.livejournal.com]

"No, I -"

Her lips press together for a moment.

"I'm not Boomer."

[mr_gaeta]

"All right." Quiet, far more to himself than to her, as he nods down at the half-folded plane in his hands.

Gaeta drops it on top of the splayed pile of airplanes and collects the rest of his thoughts.

"How long have you been here?"