milliways_bar | (no subject)

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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!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Having reached an ebb in the flow of customers, Gaeta's gone back to eyeing the tray, chin in one hand.

He suspects he would have long given up and traded it in for better food, if some tiny stubborn corner of his brain wasn't so determined to spite Kara Thrace and finish his godsdamn dinner.

He doesn't notice Simon's approach right away.

"-- Felix?"

Simon's on the other side of the bar, looking faintly concerned.

Gaeta's head comes up; the rest of him straightens to full attention an instant later.

"Simon," he greets him. "Hi. Can I get you anything?"

"I'm all right, thanks."

He's not sure how to ask the question, largely because Gaeta's manner doesn't quite seem to fit with what he'd expect if it were the case.

"...Is that actually from Galactica's galley, or did Bar provide you with a facsimile?"

Gaeta smiles: faint, and a little crooked, but -- for a moment -- undoubtedly real.

"It's actually from Galactica's galley," he says.

"From your contact?" Gaeta mentioned having made contact with someone on the ship, last time they spoke.

He shakes his head. "No. It's my dinner."

Gaeta takes a deep breath.

"They came back. We evacuated New Caprica a little less than a week ago."

Simon's eyes widen.

(big damn heroes, sir)

"That's wonderful news." A touch of uncertainty laces his tone: isn't it? did something go wrong?

"It is, yeah." A little quieter.

It sounds less like an unequivocal agreement, and more like Gaeta knows it's supposed to be good news; that in terms of the long-term goals of the Resistance, he ought to be in agreement.

Because he should. For all the lives lost, more would have died if they'd stayed.

"It was...rough, though. Getting as many as we could out of there."

As many as we could. The wording alone gives him one good explanation for Gaeta's subdued manner: as many as we could isn't everybody.

"I can imagine." More soberly, now.

"But," he says with a sigh, and that same wan and lopsided smile as before, "we're getting back on our feet. I suspect once we have we're going to pick up the search for Earth again."

He leans his arms on the bartop, absently crossing them over one another.

He nods. Can't think of anything to say except that's good, and ... from the look on Gaeta's face, he's not at all sure it is.

What comes out instead is "Are you going to be all right?"

He looks down.

(well, isn't that nice; man can turn his coat, collaborate with the enemy, contribute to the deaths of thousands -- )

"President Baltar's dead," he says, and even there, the uncertainty persists: whether to see this as a moment worthy of celebration or one of mourning. "He didn't make it off."

(doing all of Baltar's dirty work for him -- probably never even thought about what was happening to me, right?)

"It's, ah, left something of a void, in terms of who people can take their frustrations out on."

(President Baltar signed an order of execution ... two hundred names. he read every one.)

"Frustrations," he repeats. Almost uninflected; if there's anything in the word, it's a touch of disbelief at the understatement.

Gaeta doesn't quite catch the disbelief.

With a similar lack of inflection: "About what the administration did and did not do during the course of the settlement and occupation."

"No, I understood that. Just ... given what you've told me, I'm not sure whether 'frustrations' would quite cover it."

Beat.

Quieter: "And I know you shared that."

He acknowledges that with a quick lift of his eyebrows, looking somewhat resigned.

"The times I've tried to explain that haven't gone over very well."

A long beat.

"I see."

Gaeta shrugs again, very slightly, a faint awkwardness to the movement.

"But I'm making do," he says, not noticing the unintentional echo of his conversation with Starbuck until the words are out of his mouth. "I'm...more or less acting as a civilian contractor to help repair Galactica's communication systems. It keeps me busy."

And in the end, what people have said to him -- they're just words. Words can be ignored.

(Or walked away from.)

A civilian contractor. Not reinstated as part of the crew.

And surrounded by people who blame him for the failures and the outrages of the New Caprica administration.

(It's been years, but Simon can remember what his first few weeks aboard Serenity were like.)

"Well. ... I hope things get better for you soon." He essays a small smile. "Now that your people are out of the worst danger."

Small as it is, it sparks an answering smile from Gaeta. "I'm sure they will," he says -- and there, at least, hardly any uncertainty lingers.

He straightens up again, pushing himself away from the bar. "So how have you been doing?"

Change of subject. He can do that.

"Fairly well," he says. "I don't know if I've mentioned to you that we moved recently?"

"...No, I don't think you did."

The smile grows a little.

"Where to?"

"Logan City, on a colony world called Praxed. They've started a medical research initiative there, and ... I was offered a job with the project, and I started last month."

"Wow. Congratulations, that's...that's great news."

(He hopes.)

And half-remembering a conversation long ago, when Simon first told him about Serenity: "Are you transitioning okay again?"