milliways_bar | (no subject)

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There's a Watcher in the bar.

Specifically, there's an Andrew Wells in the bar, seated in a booth not far from the fireplace. He's ostensibly making a list in his notepad, but right now he's staring into the fire without really seeing the flames or the serenely circling fish, pen resting forgotten on the page.

He's got stuff on his mind.

Any moment now he's going to notice that the tip of the pen's making a large blot and the list will have to be redone.

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"Not bad." He takes another nibble. "...It's really sweet."

"Well," taking a swig of milk, "it's supposed to be. I mean, the marshmallow is basically just sugar and gelatin."

"True," he allows. With a wry smile, "You're always introducing me to the weirdest foods."

It's clear he means it as a compliment.

"I try," he says modestly. (It's clear he takes it as such.)

"... If you think s'mores are excessively sweet, though, you probably won't like Igor Bars."

"What's in those?"

He swigs a little of his coffee to balance out the sugar, then takes another nibble of his s'more.

"Okay, uh --" He spreads out his hands flat over the table, by way of illustration. "It starts with a layer of chocolate chip cookie bars. Then over that there's a layer of caramel and nuts, and over that a layer of Rice Krispies treats -- that's crisped rice in melted marshmallows, formed into bars -- and then over that there's a layer of bittersweet chocolate."

A beat.

"And then over the chocolate you can put toffee bits, candy-coated peanuts, or anything else you think is excessive."

"I think I contracted diabetes just listening to that."

Weakly.

"Preeeeetty much," he agrees cheerfully.

Shaking his head in amusement, Gaeta takes another bite of s'more.

...Yeah, he's probably not going to be able to finish more than one of these.

Gogo, on the other hand, would very much like to eat the entire bag of marshmallows the waitrat brought over -- which means that he's carefully edging forward, slow enough that the giant featherless dodos won't notice him, with all intent to snatch the bag off the table.

"Now properly speaking," he says with one finger in the air, "these are a campfire food. You toast the marshmallow over the fire on a stick, then you grab it between two graham crackers with a square of chocolate, give it a minute to melt, and there you go."

Om nom nom.

Gaeta brightens a touch in recognition. "Oh, yeah, we did that too," he says. "Um. The marshmallow part, at least. Obviously not the rest."

Gogo snags the bag with the tip of his beak and starts to ease it over the table's edge.

"And of course the hard part is keeping your marshmallow from melting off the stick --"

Fwumph.

The marshmallow bag topples off the table, smacking Gogo in the head (plock!) before landing on the floor. Instantly, he sinks his talons into it and --

"Frak, no, Gogo -- "

Gaeta drops the s'more to make a grab of his own for the bag.

Andrew valiantly tries not to laugh.

With ... mixed success.

"Gogo," says Gaeta again, warningly. A brief tug-of-war ensues; when Gaeta succeeds in pulling the marshmallows free, Gogo lets out a sullen plock and stares forlornly as his nestmate slaps the bag onto the very center of the table. "No marshmallows until we're done now."

"Plock."

"Yes, I know, I'm very mean."

"Poor bird," says Andrew sympathetically. "Don't worry, we'll be done soon."

... yeah, he's not sure he can eat more than one s'more either.

"So begging at the table is next on the training list too, I guess," says Gaeta, eyeing the bag of marshmallows. "Gods, it really is like owning a dog."

"I never owned a dog," he says a little wistfully. "You?"

"I didn't own one, really," he says. "But...there was a dog I sort of looked out for, a while ago."

"Yeah?" He polishes off the last of the s'more, and drinks some milk.

And studies the remaining s'mores with mild regret.

He nods, takes another sip of coffee.

"It's a long story," he admits. "I, ah, don't know if you actually want me to tell it, or..."

Andrew could've just be opting for politeness there.

"Well, sure. Uh, unless you'd rather not?"

"No, no, it's all right," he's quick to say. Gaeta pops the rest of the s'more in his mouth, washes it down with another swallow of coffee, and thinks.

(As he does, one hand absently drifts down to settle on Gogo's head. The bird looks up, a touch startled, then eases closer to his chair.)

"When I first came here," he says, quieter, "we'd just settled on a planet called New Caprica. I'd left the military and joined up with the new political administration that was going to oversee the settlement -- I was named Chief of Staff."

"Yeah?"

He vaguely remembers Gaeta being in civilian clothes, when they first met at Happy Hour. And being back in uniform the next time.

"Yeah."

He rubs his other hand over his mouth, sorting through the next words.

"The administration turned out to be corrupt. And about a year in, when the Cylons found our settlement, the President surrendered to them. This...rebellion started up to counter it." A shrug. "I was still working as Chief of Staff, as far as anybody knew I didn't have a part in it -- "

(hiding behind Baltar's skirts)

" -- but I started passing information to the resistance from a dead drop."