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"We'll be married next I see thee," he'd said, after they'd kissed in private, one last time.

At which Kate's eyes had crinkled, as he was already loving to see them, and she'd smirked. "Unless, my lord, we happen to meet elsewhere."

That had been weeks ago, and though Harry has been as wildly happy as he's ever been in his life, ever since he and his father had left the Mortimers in Hereford, he'd found no door, no passage, and no Kate, for all he's entered every room with hope.

Perhaps because he is not thinking on it -- because Alnwick and Warkworth both are humming with preparations for Harry and his lady-to-be to take up residence and management at the latter -- because he is stuffed to the gills with tailors and bishops and letters to the king, he stops thinking of where he is going, only of escape.

Which is precisely when he steps through, realizes where he is, and beams—in hope.

Even if you aren't Elizabeth Mortimer, this is really an excellent time to meet him.

[[ooc: 4/28 11:25 p.m -- Heading to sleep soon, but this post is open until it scrolls!]]

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"Plock," it says, cocking its head to study Harry in kind. After a second, it stretches forward a little to try and nudge him with its beak.

Maybe he has marshmallows!

"It's a type of bird from Earth," says Gaeta. "I think in some worlds it went extinct about four hundred years ago, but...apparently there are worlds where it got domesticated instead."

Harry grins and reaches to skritch its neck behind its head. There isn't a creature in the world that doesn't enjoy a good skritch.

"God laughed with the devil when he made thee in the Garden," he says approvingly to the dodo.

Gaeta only has the vaguest sense of what that might mean, but the man's tone makes it clear that it's a compliment.

The dodo's in a similar boat: it doesn't know what he said, but boy those scritches are good. It lets out a fluttering noise that sounds like a deeper, throatier cousin of a pigeon's coo, eyes half-closing in bliss.

He has to laugh a little at that. "Should have tried that before it made me come all the way out here for marshmallows."

"What-mallows?" He peers at the fellow's bag of... puffy white things. "He eats those in the wild, does he?"

Harry has had wolfhounds all his life. He is the sucker who will pet a dog for half an hour and love it. And the feathers aren't at all like a falcon's or a hawk's; they're much softer, fluffier. They two are a match made in heaven.

"Marshmallows," he clarifies. "And...no, mostly they eat fruits, nuts, and seeds."

If he sounds a bit like he swallowed an encyclopedia entry, it's probably because he all but memorized the dodo care guide Claudia found for him.

"But marshmallows are good for occasional treats. Like dog biscuits."

They don't have those either, in Harry's time, but he can guess. His mouth twists wryly.

"Does he have a name?"

He? She? He's never sexed a dodo before.

"Come to think of it, your pardon -- do you?"

"It's name's Gogo." Beat; a little sheepish, "I'm still not sure if it's a he or a she. I think he, but it'd involve comparing sizes with another dodo I know the gender of and -- "

Aware that he's starting to ramble, he cuts himself off.

"Anyway. I'm Felix Gaeta."

...yeah, it's still not any easier to stop the lieutenant prefix before it forms.

Edited 2013-04-29 03:33 (UTC)

"A fine name that does credit to the flock, I'm sure of it."

He means Gogo. When Gaeta introduces himself, he rises and nods.

"Harry Percy."

He gives Gaeta another look, and doesn't hide it. Harry's been growing into being a soldier his entire life, and he looks it: broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, casually powerful.

He's been a soldier long enough to know there's something about soldiers that can never be put away.

"Pleasure."

The scrutiny of that look -- and the way Harry stands -- does nothing to disavow the assumption: Gaeta can feel his back pulling straighter like a reflex, as if just being in the same room as another soldier can work old muscles into shape again. It doesn't look anything like how he used to stand before...well, before everything. But it's enough.

"May I ask where you're from, sir?"

"Northumberland, England, 1390. That is along the border with Scotland," he adds. "And yourself?"

By now, he knows just enough about Earth geography to pinpoint that as...er, being from Earth. (Which would have probably been a fair assumption to make anyway; frakking everyone is from Earth in this bar.)

"River Junction, Picon, originally," he says. "I, ah -- I live here now."

Harry knows about spaceships (and how people who have them only ride horses for leisure, unforgivable), but it just seems more likely that this fellow is from the future. The only one he's met from before his own time is Will Scarlett, so that should be a pretty safe bet on his end, right?

He grins again. (He does not know what Gaeta means, not remotely.) "As fine as place as any, I'll wager. Do you meet others that you know here?"

Because has he mentioned that he's getting married soon? He could mention it. Because she's perfect and she's marrying him and she comes here herself, and. He's getting married soon.

"A few, yeah." His smile's small, and only a little uncertain. "My -- "

Ex? No. Well, technically yes, but things with Louis remain too complicated to quantify with any real certainty.

"A friend," he settles on at last. "And one or two other people I served with."

"Served how, if I may ask?"

Formalities, of course, but he's always curious.

"I was a lieutenant in the Colonial Fleet until recently. It's the primary military branch in my world."

(He almost says it was, but just because Gaeta's time has stopped doesn't mean the Fleet's has as well.)

"...Not, I take it, a man of the sea?" Just, you know, checking. There are more ways than he'd known about to call a company a fleet.

It's all right, Harry grew up next to the ocean and never cared much for it himself.

"A man of the stars." His tiny smile grows a touch. "They're spacegoing ships."

Gogo, sensing that they're going to be here a while (and Gaeta hasn't even bothered to open the marshmallows! TRAGEDY.), plops down near Gaeta's foot and leans its head against his leg.

"'Zounds! I can little think what such a thing should be like. Give me a horse and a sword, a foe I can touch -- that is a war for me."

That's really a prompt, though. Because while Harry is rational (no, really) to a fault, he will confess to standing at the Window and wondering from time to time.

"It's...definitely different, fighting a war in space," says Gaeta wryly. "More buttons and bullets, less hand-to-hand combat. At least where I was stationed; I worked on the ship's bridge."

Though even that saw its share of bullets before the end. Much more than Gaeta would have ever wanted.

"Do you know it, though? Were you asked to learn it?"

He nods.

"I went through boot camp like everyone else," he says. "Target practice, flight certification, tactics. Tactics were the only thing I ended up using on a daily basis, though."

"Mm."

So no swords or horses, then. And Harry was never much of one for arrows.

After a moment, he perks up. "Have you met Ellen Park? Her armor is a marvel unlike any I've set eyes on."

Yeah, he knows. Being a bridge bunny is never glamorous.

"I might have?" he says, the words turning up into a question without Gaeta really meaning to do so. "The name sounds familiar, but my memory's kind of..."

He almost lifts a hand to gesture vaguely toward his head, then, between the crutches and the marshmallows, thinks better of it.

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