Felix Gaeta (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mr_gaeta) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
milliways_bar2010-03-11 09:05 pm
mr_gaeta) wrote in milliways_bar2010-03-11 09:05 pm
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Gaeta wasn't expecting to find a door this soon. Part of him, despite knowing (and knowing of) several people from Galactica who'd successfully reached Milliways, may have even expected that he wouldn't find a door at all after leaving Colonial One.
That could account for a lot: the way the door rocks backward with the full weight of Gaeta's shoulder behind it, the galley tray in his hand, the more casual civilian clothes (gone is the suit; gone, too, are the layers of someone living in a cold climate), the mildly dumbfounded expression as he stares around the room. After a moment, he heaves a sigh and makes for the nearest open seat -- in this case, one at the bar. His tray drops onto the bartop with an unceremonious clatter.
"Can I please at least finish my frakking dinner first?" he asks a beat later, too tired for the curse to carry any real heat. He gets no reply except a second napkin with a long string of zzzzzzzs scrawled across it, and so, with a quiet exhalation of, "Fine," he gets up and makes his way around the bar.
Eventually:
HAPPY HOUR
Hot Lunch
Coffee 43
After Dinner Mint
EXHIBIT A: A meal from Galactica's galley.
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(Here sits his unfinished dinner beneath the chalkboard.)
Offer suggestions to make it edible & drink half price.
It looks, for the record, like globs of something that might be mashed potato substitute, a bowl of wilted and depressed-looking greens, and a sickly-colored soup.
[tinytag: trudy chacon]
[OOC: ffffff. My body does not want to respond to pithy back room threats, alas; I am crashing and crashing hard. Mea culpa for bailing an hour early -- however, new tags are very much welcomed, and all slowtimes will be picked up!]
That could account for a lot: the way the door rocks backward with the full weight of Gaeta's shoulder behind it, the galley tray in his hand, the more casual civilian clothes (gone is the suit; gone, too, are the layers of someone living in a cold climate), the mildly dumbfounded expression as he stares around the room. After a moment, he heaves a sigh and makes for the nearest open seat -- in this case, one at the bar. His tray drops onto the bartop with an unceremonious clatter.
"Can I please at least finish my frakking dinner first?" he asks a beat later, too tired for the curse to carry any real heat. He gets no reply except a second napkin with a long string of zzzzzzzs scrawled across it, and so, with a quiet exhalation of, "Fine," he gets up and makes his way around the bar.
Eventually:
Hot Lunch
Coffee 43
After Dinner Mint
EXHIBIT A: A meal from Galactica's galley.
|
|
|
▼
(Here sits his unfinished dinner beneath the chalkboard.)
Offer suggestions to make it edible & drink half price.
It looks, for the record, like globs of something that might be mashed potato substitute, a bowl of wilted and depressed-looking greens, and a sickly-colored soup.
[tinytag: trudy chacon]
[OOC: ffffff. My body does not want to respond to pithy back room threats, alas; I am crashing and crashing hard. Mea culpa for bailing an hour early -- however, new tags are very much welcomed, and all slowtimes will be picked up!]
no subject
They're in the same boat!
Ha?
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"Got it," he says, and begins to turn away, only to remember himself and quickly offer a hand. "Felix Gaeta, by the way."
no subject
"Buffy Summers."
She has a firm and well-moisturized handshake.
no subject
Sadly, moisturizer is not included in packages of Fleet rations, so Gaeta's only falls into one of those two categories.
Hooking a thumb over his shoulder, he says, "I'll...get started on those, one minute," and goes to start the hunt for tortilla chips and cheese.
no subject
Then she waits. And wonders why Milliways always has cuter bartenders than the Bronze.
Well, okay, because Milliways can kidnap people from all over the megaverse, and the Bronze would be a shitty place to work even without the 10%-eaten-by-the-undead yearly turnover.
no subject
Ones he does: cheddar cheese, olives, tomatoes, lettuce, salsa, guacamole, and sour cream.
A quick run through the microwave later, he delivers the nachos to Buffy with a, "There you go."
no subject
She reaches for the edges of the plate, and pauses. "Wait, where's my second plate? Or did you split it up already?"
no subject
Ta-da!