Felix Gaeta (
mr_gaeta) wrote in
milliways_bar2009-08-21 09:42 pm
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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.
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.
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"Hello," Carlisle offers amiably enough. "Are you busy?"
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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?"
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A beat passes. How to put this gently?
"The last time we spoke, you sounded as though you could use a diversion."
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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."
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"Have you ever heard of a sport called baseball?"
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"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.
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"Clearly this means you should sign up to play in the Milliways game we will be hosting."
Naturally.
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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.
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"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..."
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"Have you eaten today?"
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Much.
"I had a sandwich?" he offers.
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Its not his fault that all the mortals she knows seem to be trying to destroy themselves, he's just the closest one.
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...He thinks.
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She kisses his cheek and pulls out a fresh loaf of bread,
"What are you making?"
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"Nothing, really," he says as he sweeps a few of the planes aside, a touch rueful. "Just...trying to keep myself busy."
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Because it's not like he would rather be back on Colonial One, all that much. It just...feels like he should be.
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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.
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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.
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"Sorry," she manages to finish, finally.
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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?"
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"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.
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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.
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Her lips press together for a moment.
"I'm not Boomer."
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Gaeta drops it on top of the splayed pile of airplanes and collects the rest of his thoughts.
"How long have you been here?"
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