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

There is a line of thought that suggests that all pilots have a screw or two loose, when it comes down to it. Still, Trudy grins at him, back to being cheerful.

"That they do. We keep the base runnin', and they know it."

Coffee! Coffee, coffee, coffee, and she watches the cup and his hands eagerly.

"So, what you do in your where and when?"

"It's a little complicated right now," he admits. (One advantage of that eager grin on her face: it puts him close enough to laughter that he can push back on the ruefulness, hard enough to keep it buried.) "I'm...more or less operating as a civilian contractor for the time being. Once this particular project's over I'm not sure where I'll end up, though."

Her grin turns into something closer to a smirk, but still good-natured.

"Yeah, you, too? Pandora's a similar gig."

"Were you military before you took the job?"

He wouldn't be surprised for that answer to be yes, either.

"Yep, eight years in the United States Marines. Current pilotin' job, it's..." She tilts her hand this way and that. "Military in all but name, t'be honest. Can't hack being a normal civilian, I guess." That grin is back.

"You?"

He nods. "Not as long in the service as you though, sir -- "

(The sir remains completely unconscious.)

" -- I mustered out after four years. And that was...a year and a half ago, almost."

He says 'sir' the way military folk call her 'ma'am' - it's the word that throws her, not tone.

"Lasted longer than me. You call all your officers by 'sir'?"

He blinks.

"Yeah, of course, is that not something -- ?"

She shakes her head. "Male officers are 'sir' in my world, while female are 'ma'am."

"...Huh."

All right, in theory that makes sense -- and it fits with a few of the other strange glances he's got upon calling someone with authority sir around here -- but in practice, it can't help but stir up an uncomfortable twinge in his gut.

It's so disrespectful.

Some of that comes through as he goes on, "We make that distinction with civilian authority, sometimes, but...never with military."

She senses the discomfort, and it makes her smile, a little.

"Makes you feel better, could always just call me 'Chief' - I'm a Chief Warrant Officer."

Gaeta cracks a small grin at that.

"Might end up confusing you with the Chief I already know," he says, lightly enough to be joking.

She grins back - joking is good.

"Bet I'm prettier," she retorts quickly.

"Mmm, I don't know about that, he is a pretty handsome guy..."

Trudy pulls a bit of a face at him, the kind where she is laughing behind it.

"Coffee?"

" -- Right, yes." Hurriedly, as he grabs the mug from the coffee maker (which shut off automatically about a minute ago). Somewhat embarrassed, he pushes it Trudy's way. "Sorry about that. Here you go."

"Nothin' to apologize for," she says easily, curling her fingers around the mug. "Oh, thank you."

The smile returns, easing its way around the faint chagrin. "My pleasure."

He glances down the bar; with some reluctance, he adds, "And I should, ah, probably go help some of the other patrons. It was very nice to meet you, though -- let me know if you need anything else?"

"...ah, yes, the duties of work. And, yeah, I'll let you know. Nice meeting you, too."

"Never stops, one way or another."

...That comes out far more wry than he intended, but he lets it go.

"Have a good night," he adds with a nod, and makes his way down the bar.

[ooc: and thank you for that! That was very fun :D ]

[OOC: Thank you. :D! It really was; they ought to talk again sometime soon.]