milliways_bar | (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!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It still clashes weirdly in Gaeta's head, paralleling the visual cues of an Eight's face colliding with a Fleet uniform: hearing Sharon say off-duty.

(He's aware that it shouldn't. Boomer was nearly two years ago, though; New Caprica is less than a week past.)

And though he hasn't yet let himself think too far beyond a day or two ahead, the thought sometimes flickers up, as the rest of those who mustered out take the oath again. If there's hope for her, maybe there's hope for me.

The coffee maker does not ding so much as make a loud aa-OOO-gah! when it finishes brewing. Gaeta eyes it, with mild skepticism, before retrieving the mug and passing it Sharon's way.

"Looks like the doors might move around more than they did on Colonial One," he remarks, and even manages to keep it fairly mild. "Be careful."

"Thanks," Sharon murmurs.

And she waits, using the time to take a sip from the cup.

Then -

"How is it, being back on Galactica?"

She doesn't manage to keep it mild. Not really.

A little more stillness works its way into Gaeta's frame. He picks up a nearby cloth; not bothering to hide the diversion, he buffs a corner of the coffee maker where a few drops sloshed over its edges.

That's only able to delay him for a handful of seconds.

"It's...different, being on the civilian side," he decides on at last, and doesn't disguise that he's hedging there, either. "Moreso than it was on Colonial One."

Even as a prisoner, Sharon can't say she's ever been on that side.

"Yeah. That's not surprising."

Her voice is relaxed, even amiable - but also not tentative, or uncertain.

Gaeta folds the cloth into neat quarters and tucks it next to the coffee maker. He looks up.

"How about you?"

Sharon lifts the cup again.

Then, as she's lowering it: "I think the quarters I have now are smaller than what I had before."

(That's true. Even if she is, obviously, joking.)

He huffs a small laugh.

"You get used to it pretty fast," he says. "If only because it's either that or go crazy."

"Yeah, well -"

She looks at him a little more directly. "I missed being in a Raptor, too."

So it's something like a fair trade-off.

Edited 2010-03-20 03:47 (UTC)

The faint smile trails off into nothing, as a single word trails in: "Right."

It's an effort not to break eye contact, but Gaeta manages it; it's a resigned look, though, and a faintly rueful one. "I, ah, forgot, that you can...all share the same memories."

Sharon's eyes do fall. "It's not exactly that easy."

But it does sound like an agreement.

"How does it..."

He falters, and finally glances away.

More tentative: "I, ah. I think I may know the basics, but."

It's more shame than secrecy that limits how much Sharon wants to explain it.

What she decides on is: "It's only - our own model. And even if the others could get to mine, I don't think they would."

Gaeta nods.

And just for an instant, it's on the tip of his tongue to ask: there was a copy of your model that I knew, on New Caprica, she helped me, did she -- ?

Is she all right?

Because Sharon would know, one way or another. She'd have to know.

It's visible, when he finally manages to stifle the question.

Sharon looks away for a moment, as she picks up the coffee again.

But she notices when she glances back, and asks, "Did you say something?"

"No," he says, with the speed of someone startled out of another thought altogether. "No, ah, I'm sorry, I didn't."

(Enough of the Fleet dislikes him as it stands. They'll like him even less if they learn he really did work with a Cylon, even if only briefly, even if that Cylon was on their side.)

Her gaze lingers, but she doesn't ask again.

"Anyway, I -" There's a quick glance away, but - "I know I wasn't the most popular decision Adama's ever made."

On the other hand, there would probably be a steep competition for that title.

"I'm sure he's already told you that it's not his job to be popular." Quiet.

(And if not this Sharon, he thinks, he could have conceivably said it to Boomer.)

"I think most of it's died down by now."

Admittedly, having Helo was probably something of a buffer, in any case.

Lucky you.

It's a thoroughly uncharitable thought, and one he squashes the instant he's aware of thinking it.

Still, there's a touch of...something resigned, when he says, "Good. I'm glad to hear it."

Sharon lifts the cup one more time, then puts it down, and slides it across the bar toward him.

"Thanks for the coffee."

It's also slightly resigned.

"You're welcome," he says as he reaches for the empty mug. "Anytime."

Beat.

"That...I'm on shift here, I guess," he adds, and this time it's more wryly amused than anything.

There's a slight smile at the comment, and Sharon rises from the stool.

"I have to see if this place is gonna let me leave, anyway."

Being stuck in a flight suit any longer than necessary is worth about one cup of coffee, and that's it.

He quirks half a smile. "Good luck with that."

And then he hesitates, fractionally.

"And, uh, good luck with everything else too, sir."