Three seconds is more than long enough for someone sitting near the door to look up and see who's standing there. More than long enough to register the missing prosthesis, and the look in his eyes.
Andrew's rising to his feet before Gaeta speaks, and then he's diving for the door, hand outstretched to grab it before it closes.
His palm slams stingingly against metal, and his gaze swings up toward Gaeta's face.
'Stricken' might be a good word. Certainly far more so than Gaeta was three seconds ago.
'Poleaxed' would serve better.
(He left, deliberately, with no good-bye, and this is exactly the frakking reason why he did it -- everything had finally lined up and fit together and now it's unraveling and tangling just like before, he cannot do this again -- )
The initial bewilderment is scaling up into alarm, as Andrew's gaze flicks past Gaeta into the unfamiliar room, no sign of the prosthesis or the crutch anywhere nearby, and back to his face.
Involuntarily he reaches to steady him with his free hand, even as he's flinching back slightly from the force of the word; his hand hovers helplessly in midair for a moment before it drops.
"Not," and it takes everything he's got to say it, "not until you tell me what's going on."
If he'd been given the choice between telling his Milliways friends in person and giving a stack of letters to President Roslin, Gaeta would have opted for the letters anyway.
And on Galactica, it's not like anybody would need telling.
His eyes, newly brightened, blink open.
"At about 1630 yesterday," he says, "I was convicted of mutiny and treason against the Twelve Colonies." His gaze shifts up to Andrew. "My sentence'll be carried out at 0600."
(Despite the sheen of exhausted tears, it's nothing but a steady, bare recitation of facts.)
"You know I wouldn't have done it unless I had a godsdamn good reason. And I did do it. Which means in another four hours I'll be put in front of a firing squad and -- "
He yanks his arm away before Andrew can close his hand around it. The movement wrenches his precarious balance in a way it shouldn't go, and leaves him with one less support besides.
Gaeta tries to make another grab for the door, but connects a little too late: he's able to catch himself only when he's halfway to the floor already.
It's not a hard fall. Certainly not the worst he's had.
But it's still a fall, and it still draws a pained gasp out of him.
Andrew's rising to his feet before Gaeta speaks, and then he's diving for the door, hand outstretched to grab it before it closes.
His palm slams stingingly against metal, and his gaze swings up toward Gaeta's face.
And for a breath, nothing moves.
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'Poleaxed' would serve better.
(He left, deliberately, with no good-bye, and this is exactly the frakking reason why he did it -- everything had finally lined up and fit together and now it's unraveling and tangling just like before, he cannot do this again -- )
"Andrew." Low. Pleading, nearly. "Don't do this."
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The initial bewilderment is scaling up into alarm, as Andrew's gaze flicks past Gaeta into the unfamiliar room, no sign of the prosthesis or the crutch anywhere nearby, and back to his face.
"Where are you? What's ..."
He falters.
"What's going on?"
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If he tries to lean enough weight against it to shove it closed, he'll lose his balance. Especially if Andrew shoves back.
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His voice is unsteady. "Felix, talk to me, you're scaring me."
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The vehemence of that one word rocks him forward an inch; just enough to necessitate grabbing onto the locker's door frame with his other hand.
Rapidly, "This is -- this is not the time to be here, Andrew, please just go -- "
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"Not," and it takes everything he's got to say it, "not until you tell me what's going on."
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Gaeta's expression collapses into defeat, and he shuts his eyes, leaning the side of his forehead against the door frame.
"You cannot," he says, "ask me to do this."
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"Felix ..."
He has no idea what to say.
"I don't understand."
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Very soft.
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The alarm is now full-blown dread. He swallows, hard.
(okay, you really want to know? one last chance to back out.)
And whispers: "No."
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And on Galactica, it's not like anybody would need telling.
His eyes, newly brightened, blink open.
"At about 1630 yesterday," he says, "I was convicted of mutiny and treason against the Twelve Colonies." His gaze shifts up to Andrew. "My sentence'll be carried out at 0600."
(Despite the sheen of exhausted tears, it's nothing but a steady, bare recitation of facts.)
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His mouth opens, just the smallest bit, and no sound at all emerges.
Every other part of him, including his mind, has frozen.
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He shifts his grip on the door frame.
"You know I wouldn't have done it unless I had a godsdamn good reason. And I did do it. Which means in another four hours I'll be put in front of a firing squad and -- "
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And then disappears entirely at the last words.
"Oh Frith no."
He reaches out blindly. "Well, come on -- you've got a door, get out of there --"
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He yanks his arm away before Andrew can close his hand around it. The movement wrenches his precarious balance in a way it shouldn't go, and leaves him with one less support besides.
Gaeta tries to make another grab for the door, but connects a little too late: he's able to catch himself only when he's halfway to the floor already.
It's not a hard fall. Certainly not the worst he's had.
But it's still a fall, and it still draws a pained gasp out of him.
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