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[Room 372]
[After this.]
"Okay," says Gaeta -- out of breath, as always, from the climb up the stairs -- as he shoulders open the door. The bird immediately weaves around him and darts in, plocking happily at its return to its new nest.
Once it became obvious that Gaeta would be a permanent resident, Bar kindly supplied a few additions and expansions to his room: a kitchenette, a couch and TV, a small bookshelf, a wooden partition to separate his bed from everything else. It looks more like a studio apartment now than the hotel atmosphere of most Milliways rooms.
Stepping aside as best he's able, he holds the door so Louis can come in.
"Okay," says Gaeta -- out of breath, as always, from the climb up the stairs -- as he shoulders open the door. The bird immediately weaves around him and darts in, plocking happily at its return to its new nest.
Once it became obvious that Gaeta would be a permanent resident, Bar kindly supplied a few additions and expansions to his room: a kitchenette, a couch and TV, a small bookshelf, a wooden partition to separate his bed from everything else. It looks more like a studio apartment now than the hotel atmosphere of most Milliways rooms.
Stepping aside as best he's able, he holds the door so Louis can come in.
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He takes a step toward Felix, then stops.
"Back before anything, no matter what, was declared to be worth the cost in service of the war. Before Admiral Cain's hatred of the Cylons led her to turn a blind eye - led us to, to..."
The stream of words chokes off there, and he shakes his head, unable to speak at first -- and then, only in a whisper.
"She was wrong. Oh gods, Felix, as incredible as she was, she was wrong. So were we all.
And so were you."
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Maybe that's part of it. Maybe it's the obvious pain, or not just comparing Gaeta to to the former admiral anymore: comparing him to the entire crew, to Louis himself, no longer singling him out to bear the full weight of his anger.
But by the end of Louis' small speech, his own fury gutters low, curls up, and winks out.
(He's so godsdamn tired. And he knows for certain, now, that he's not the only one.)
Cautiously, he begins to pick his way forward across the tiny room, one awkward half-step at a time.
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(The bird, after some hesitation, follows behind him, ready to intervene if things go south again.)
"I'm sorry."
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A ragged breath, and then Hoshi opens his eyes and takes the last step across the physical distance, reaching as he does to wrap one arm around Felix's shoulders, drawing him in.
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You never told me. Just as Gaeta never told him.
Not everything was worth the cost; I tried to draw lines. And it didn't do any frakking good.
I'm only sorry I hurt you. I'm not sorry for acting.
The weight that Louis' words transferred away from him is slowly, slowly being replaced by another -- this one much heavier, and so much harder to shake.
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Eventually he notices that the bird is watching them with beady-eyed avian suspicion, and shifts a little, preparing to ease back a bit.
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It's not until the bird lets out a meaningful, "Plock," that he glances over to see what's going on. It's planted its feet, features ruffled up again to make it looks like even more of an oversized puffball, head cocked as it stares at Louis.
What? That hug could be a precursor to strangling his nestmate! WHO KNOWS THIS HUMAN'S INTENTIONS.
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Gaeta sighs, a weird knot of frustration and gratitude forming in his chest. Adding to the things he know he can't say: I think it's just looking out for me.
"Bird," he says instead, "stop it. Be nice."
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Or, more precisely, in Hoshi's direction.
"Um."
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He rearranges his crutches enough to offer a hand. After a grudging second, it cranes up to bump its beak against his fingers.
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"Guess he doesn't think much of me."
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He trails off for a beat, letting the bird continue to nose his hand.
"We were shouting pretty loud."
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Where it's left them, however, is something he's not sure about.
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"Come on," he murmurs to the bird, and hobbles back toward the bed. It follows willingly; as soon as Gaeta's seated, it makes a beeline for the posts to haul itself up.
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"We... said a lot," he begins, finally.
"Maybe we should... think about it for a while."
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He knots his fingers together, resting them in his lap.
"How -- " The words stick in his throat. "How long were you thinking?"
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"A couple of weeks, maybe?"
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Yet, mutters a voice in the back of his mind.
Gaeta hesitates before managing a nod. No louder: "All right."
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"Are you sure?"
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"Honestly? No," he admits. "But this isn't about what I want."
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"Humor me," he says, after a few seconds of silence. "Answer me this: what do you want?"
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Gaeta looks down.
"Everything, or just specifically related to us?"
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"Let's stick with the latter for now."
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