There's a thin, pale figure clad in an old leather coat sitting at the bar, his back to the counter, legs crossed at the knees, a cigarette pinched between his fore- and middle fingers.
When the American soldier makes his entrance, a smile creeps onto his red lips like a snake with a kink in its tail.
"Oh, I do love a man in uniform," he purrs in Bill's general direction.
(Gaeta's even considered, on occasion, destroying the notebook he keeps with the Bar, or asking it not to give the papers to anyone else -- even Adama himself.)
For the time being, though, he does have a cup of pitch-black coffee and two inquiring eyebrows raised in Bill's direction.
"Your jokes ain't as good as mine." He twists in his seat, looking for a waiter, somethin', he don't wanna get up if he don't have to. "I could sock you in the eye, see if you're so smart then."
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When the American soldier makes his entrance, a smile creeps onto his red lips like a snake with a kink in its tail.
"Oh, I do love a man in uniform," he purrs in Bill's general direction.
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Wait a minute.
He lurches to a stop. And stares.
Give him a minute, he's trying to figure out what he's lookin' at.
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"Mm, already with the pet names? You flatter me, mein Herr."
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No, honest to God, what the hell is this?
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(Gaeta's even considered, on occasion, destroying the notebook he keeps with the Bar, or asking it not to give the papers to anyone else -- even Adama himself.)
For the time being, though, he does have a cup of pitch-black coffee and two inquiring eyebrows raised in Bill's direction.
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He drops heavily into the seat opposite, his expression rueful.
"Is it true what they say about steak?"
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Complete and utter deadpan. Gaeta sips his coffee.
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