The front door clanks open, sounding for an instant like it's much heavier (and much more metallic) than it appears. It's not very different from how it opened the last time Gaeta came to Milliways
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"It has been a while," he agrees, tucking his hands behind his back to stand at parade rest. A touch of flustered uncertainty drifts through his posture, completely unintentionally, as she fusses over him.
(The last time anyone did that was six years ago, right before his graduation.)
Gaeta's about to settle in at a different table when he spots Simon. Changing his mind, he beckons to a waitrat and quickly places an order for some (whiskey-free) coffee of his own.
As soon as it returns with his order, he heads toward Simon's table -- carefully, with the deference of someone well aware he might be interrupting.
Those duty blues aren't Amestrian -- the cut's wrong, the color's off, and the rank insignia's not on the shoulder-tabs where it should be -- but there's a certain similarity to military uniforms the world over. It catches her eye.
Hawkeye is, for once, not in blues herself. She thought she was heading out to take her dog for his evening walk, and you don't wear your uniform at home; that's part of what off-duty means, and what respect for the uniform means. (She wishes she were, a little -- being in Milliways has not stopped feeling like being in a danger zone yet, even though nothing's happened, and it feels more appropriate to be in duty dress for that -- but at least she's still got a gun.)
The man gets a glance that's on the calm side of interested. She'll wait to see if he's looking sociable before she greets him, though.
Gaeta, by then, has settled in at a table with both hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. (He's contemplating a cigarette, but realizing that he left the current pack he's working through in his rack.
(One thing he does miss about civvies: they actually have pockets.)
He catches sight of the woman, and of the glance she's giving him; he offers a nod in reply.
Hawkeye returns it, the slight polite gesture of one stranger to another. (It must be said that even in a skirt and flats, there's something military in that impeccably straight-backed posture. Even though Hawkeye did have good posture before the military academy and parade grounds finished the job.)
She turns her steps towards his table -- not necessarily to join him, of course. One nod is hardly enough welcome for that. But standing by the door indefinitely feels both silly and conspicuous, and Hayate is making quiet let's-go-outside-boss whines; there's no reason to not carefully investigate the outside, and no reason she can't let her path carry her near the other soldier's table while she does.
(And if it makes her shoulders prickle to walk across the crowded room in this bizarre place -- it's only mild, easily ignored, and the wariness only barely shows.)
The military posture becomes all the more apparent when she starts walking; it snags Gaeta's attention a second time, and much more thoroughly than the first.
Whether she's ex-military or merely off-duty, he can't decide. Possibly the latter. Or, if it's the former, she must have very recently left the service.
Don't worry, it'll buff out soon enough, remarks a surprisingly bitter thought, and, startled by it, Gaeta shoves it down and away.
Danger! Danger! Incoming hot stuff at two o'clock!
...which is to say Lorne really is a fan of uniforms.
...which is to say, again, that there's a green fellow watching a certain human very closely indeed. In fact, he gets a raised glass, should he look this way.
It's not deliberate when he does. It's just one of those idle passes around the bar after he's taken a seat with his coffee, absorbing the scenery, keeping watch on his surroundings.
Gaeta stops. Blinks.
And, mildly puzzled (and after the familiar, chiding mental iteration of you've seen stranger), he raises his mug in turn as a silent hello.
Having toasted each other, Lorne takes a small sip of his hot pink drink, lowering his eyes in a way that might seem demure but is in fact nothing of the sort.
It's the kind of averting your eyes that you do when you're weighing your options.
Lorne's done weighing. Might as well trot the trot on over and introduce himself properly.
"Hi. Hope you don't think I'm taking too many liberties." He holds out his hand for a shake (it's big and green - what's not to love?). "I'm Lorne."
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"I don't believe that I've ever seen you smile so. It suits you wonderfully."
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"I thought the outfit wasn't that bad either myself," he quips, spreading his arms.
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"You look like yourself in a way I've never seen you look before."
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(The last time anyone did that was six years ago, right before his graduation.)
"I'm still, ah, settling back in."
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He hasn't noticed Gaeta's entrance yet.
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As soon as it returns with his order, he heads toward Simon's table -- carefully, with the deference of someone well aware he might be interrupting.
"Simon?"
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Gaeta sketches a gesture toward Simon's datapad; he adds, quickly, "I didn't mean to bother you, I just, ah, wanted to say hello."
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Those duty blues aren't Amestrian -- the cut's wrong, the color's off, and the rank insignia's not on the shoulder-tabs where it should be -- but there's a certain similarity to military uniforms the world over. It catches her eye.
Hawkeye is, for once, not in blues herself. She thought she was heading out to take her dog for his evening walk, and you don't wear your uniform at home; that's part of what off-duty means, and what respect for the uniform means. (She wishes she were, a little -- being in Milliways has not stopped feeling like being in a danger zone yet, even though nothing's happened, and it feels more appropriate to be in duty dress for that -- but at least she's still got a gun.)
The man gets a glance that's on the calm side of interested. She'll wait to see if he's looking sociable before she greets him, though.
Hawkeye is friendly; outgoing, not as much.
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(One thing he does miss about civvies: they actually have pockets.)
He catches sight of the woman, and of the glance she's giving him; he offers a nod in reply.
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She turns her steps towards his table -- not necessarily to join him, of course. One nod is hardly enough welcome for that. But standing by the door indefinitely feels both silly and conspicuous, and Hayate is making quiet let's-go-outside-boss whines; there's no reason to not carefully investigate the outside, and no reason she can't let her path carry her near the other soldier's table while she does.
(And if it makes her shoulders prickle to walk across the crowded room in this bizarre place -- it's only mild, easily ignored, and the wariness only barely shows.)
Reply
Whether she's ex-military or merely off-duty, he can't decide. Possibly the latter. Or, if it's the former, she must have very recently left the service.
Don't worry, it'll buff out soon enough, remarks a surprisingly bitter thought, and, startled by it, Gaeta shoves it down and away.
"Evening," he offers as she passes by his table.
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...which is to say Lorne really is a fan of uniforms.
...which is to say, again, that there's a green fellow watching a certain human very closely indeed. In fact, he gets a raised glass, should he look this way.
Reply
Gaeta stops. Blinks.
And, mildly puzzled (and after the familiar, chiding mental iteration of you've seen stranger), he raises his mug in turn as a silent hello.
Reply
It's the kind of averting your eyes that you do when you're weighing your options.
Lorne's done weighing. Might as well trot the trot on over and introduce himself properly.
"Hi. Hope you don't think I'm taking too many liberties." He holds out his hand for a shake (it's big and green - what's not to love?). "I'm Lorne."
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If, perhaps, a little bit like being the metaphorical deer in the headlights, too bewildered to be anything other than unfailingly polite.
(...Not that Gaeta is anything other than unfailingly polite ninety-nine percent of the time.)
He clasps Lorne's hand in a firm, practiced shake. "Lieutenant Felix Gaeta. It's a pleasure."
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