(Untitled)

[stilljustandrew]

[Some days after this.]

It's late evening.

Andrew's sitting at a table not far from the bar, with a half-empty glass of scotch at his elbow.

Comments

[presidentpythia]

The woman who walks through the door looks tired, but composed all the same.

Roslin crosses the room to the bar and says,

"Ambrosia, please?"

[stilljustandrew]

He looks up sharply.

It doesn't necessarily mean anything. Lots of worlds have drinks or desserts called 'ambrosia.' He's just, well ... seeing ghosts.

[presidentpythia]

She turns away from the bar with the glass in her hand, and looks around the room as she searches for a free table.

Her glance meets his, and Roslin gives him a polite nod and a slight, yet warm, smile.

[stilljustandrew]

He nods back. Doesn't quite smile.

(There's a look in his eyes that he's not aware of. Something wounded; something lost.)

[presidentpythia]

Lost. Yes.

Her gaze sharpens, and Roslin says,

"Excuse me, but -- are you all right? I don't mean to be rude, it's just that you look..."

She lets that trail upward, giving it the feel of a question.

[stilljustandrew]

"...what? No. Sorry. I -- "

He rubs a hand over his forehead, pinches the bridge of his nose briefly.

"I'm a little tired," he says, offering a smile, "that's all. Um. Hi."

[presidentpythia]

"I know what that's like," she says, a little wryly. "And hello, yourself."

"Would you rather I...?"

Roslin makes a small motion, indicating that she can leave him be, if he prefers it that way.

[stilljustandrew]

For a split second he almost says yes -- he doesn't really want company.

But he's down here for a reason, instead of up in his room with the sign on the door that reads PLEASE GO AWAY. And he's never seen this woman before; maybe she's new here, and he should try to be welcoming.

"No, it's okay," he says, and gestures with his chin at the chair opposite him. "Please."

[presidentpythia]

"If you're sure," she says, but moves toward the chair anyway. She takes a seat and sets her glass on the table, then smiles at him.

"Thank you. It gets very crowded in here sometimes," she tells him.

[stilljustandrew]

"It does, yeah. -- You've been here before? I don't think we've met."

Normal, everyday conversation. He has to get used to this again.

[presidentpythia]

"Oh, occasionally, from time to time," she says.

"And I don't think we have talked before, no. I'm Laura Roslin. It's nice to meet you."

[stilljustandrew]

He's smiling when she starts speaking -- not brightly, but it's a good journeyman attempt at his usual welcoming smile.

And then his face abruptly closes like a fort against a siege.

"You're President Roslin," he whispers.

[presidentpythia]

"... I am, yes," she says, looking at him with some surprise. "I'm afraid you have me at a slight disadvantage, though."

[stilljustandrew]

His voice has changed entirely, flat and ungiving.

"My name's Andrew Wells. I'm --"

The briefest of pauses, and then his face is stony again.

"I was a friend of Felix Gaeta."

[presidentpythia]

"I see," Roslin says quietly. She looks him over, studying him, and then nods.

"I'm very sorry for your loss."

It may not be exactly gentle, but it's not unkind.

[stilljustandrew]

"Yeah." Coldly. "Thanks."

He's sitting straighter, unconsciously, his drink forgotten.