It doesn't taste like anything if you drink it fast enough.
[ Which is to say: sorry, no, it's all vodka. Gaby isn't especially picky with her drinks since they all have the same effect — except wine. Too much of it and the headache the next day is worse than getting shot. (Marginally.) Solo has the most discerning sense of taste in their little team (although Illya might argue that point when it comes to fashion), but he didn't stock the cupboards of this safe house so what they have is what they have.
Most of it will be canned soups, honestly. Crackers with no cheese, cereal with no milk. Things that don't expire. Gaby adds, ]
I think we have some of that orange powder drink. It's new. Mix it with your vodka if you're so picky. [ They're almost to the city limits now and the safe house is further out a bit. Maybe half an hour more. She twiddles the dial of the radio to static, then gives it a hard smack with the heel of her palm. Music jolts to crackly life. ] Do you like music?
[He can officially make do with orange-y vodka if he doesn't have an alternative. Honestly, totally fine. He'll live (what a wild concept that is, actually).
Bang: the heel of her hand against the radio. He jumps, startled like a dumb nervous dog, and then clears his throat like he didn't. The music saws sadly to life, buzzing miserably enough through the static that he reaches across to finish what she started.] Sure. Who doesn't like music?
[He hammers on the radio one or twice, fiddles with the dials, and eventually what pipes in is more or less clear.]
[ Look, Watney. If Solo had saved you, she's sure you'd have been greeted with fancy rice and stinky mushrooms as a welcome/congratulations on surviving meal. But risotto is beyond her ability in the kitchen and truffles are not in any of their budgets (technically) so if she unearths a can of Spam or something, then that's that. Actually, the adrenaline from that car chase has left her with quite the appetite. She could do with some Spam if not maultaschen.
The music distracts her from how hungry she suddenly is. Gaby taps her fingers in time to the beat on the steering wheel. ]
You fixed the radio. [ Not really, but. ] Maybe I really did rescue a genius. [ Is she joking? Her default tone of voice is dry and deadpan, sometimes it's hard to tell. ] What kind of music do you like? What they played in Berlin — [ East ] — wasn't a lot of fun.
[Oh lady, give him ten minutes and something to pry the radio out of the dash and he can do more than get it sort of working. But that's probably better saved for when they're really bored in whatever safe house she's taking him to. No need to sabotage himself now by tackling all the busy work before he needs it, right? Right.]
I'll listen to pretty much anything. Anything with a beat, right? The Beatles make good music, but I'm telling you now that Marvin Gaye is where it's at. The man is sultry. Just avoid the Beach Boys, okay? They've got like one song and they just play it six different ways.
[Maybe he'll get around to prying the radio out after all. Speaking of drumming fingers, he drums his absently on his thigh to no particular rhythm - a motion to fill space, to give his hands something to do.]
[ The Beach Boys comment makes her laugh and it's probably out of the blue and short-lived, but at least it's genuine. She hadn't thought of it that way. But he's right.
And the thing is, she probably could fix up that radio too. Give her a good set of tools and a couple hours and she could turn this engine into something worthy of a racetrack. But she knows to never lay all her cards on the table. She knows that it's better people underestimate her for her slight frame, her height, her sex. With a glance to the man next to her, she knows Watney wouldn't be amongst those people — not really. She did just pull him out.
She doesn't mind he asks about Berlin. She did tell him as much. Americans are always curious about Berlin. Something about their sense of capitalist freedom, she guesses. (That's the funny thing about her little team, isn't it? She's far from a communist but between living in East Berlin and the Red Peril as one third of their group, their experience with that sort of life is greater than Solo's.) ]
Mmhm. When I said I had to get over the Wall, you didn't think I just meant any wall, did you? [ Her lips curl in a slight smile. They take a turn to a dirt road. ] We didn't have The Beatles. Or real chocolate. You know I didn't even realise it wasn't real chocolate until I got out? Belgium. It's very good there. [ Solo had brought back a box of truffles to her hotel room for her to try. She likes those truffles better than the other kind. ] Sorry, no chocolate at the safe house.
See here I was thinking you'd just jumped over a nice garden or retaining wall.
[No, of course he'd figured that much out. Consider it a dumb leading question. He clears his throat and then reaches forward to pop open the laughably tiny glove box. Finding nothing of immediate interest - no surprises there, really -, he snaps it shut again a moment later.]
Next you'll tell me there's no electricity or indoor plumbing either. You're not going to make me use a bucket for a bathroom, are you? 'Cause sister, I've really had enough of that kind of thing to last me a life time.
[ That earns a bigger grin out of her, but more for what it makes her think of than anything else. ]
I know another American who would be very upset if our toilet was a bucket. [ The look on Solo's face would be priceless. She almost wants to lie to him when he arrives, tell him it was broken when they got there. Point him to the bucket in the corner. ] Don't worry, Mr Scientist. Just because we're out in the woods doesn't mean we have to live like it.
[ She points up ahead. ]
See that stump? We'll park and walk from there. Can't make it easy for them, you know. You're more important than you look. [ She makes a face. Airily, ] No offense.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ Which is to say: sorry, no, it's all vodka. Gaby isn't especially picky with her drinks since they all have the same effect — except wine. Too much of it and the headache the next day is worse than getting shot. (Marginally.) Solo has the most discerning sense of taste in their little team (although Illya might argue that point when it comes to fashion), but he didn't stock the cupboards of this safe house so what they have is what they have.
Most of it will be canned soups, honestly. Crackers with no cheese, cereal with no milk. Things that don't expire. Gaby adds, ]
I think we have some of that orange powder drink. It's new. Mix it with your vodka if you're so picky. [ They're almost to the city limits now and the safe house is further out a bit. Maybe half an hour more. She twiddles the dial of the radio to static, then gives it a hard smack with the heel of her palm. Music jolts to crackly life. ] Do you like music?
no subject
[He can officially make do with orange-y vodka if he doesn't have an alternative. Honestly, totally fine. He'll live (what a wild concept that is, actually).
Bang: the heel of her hand against the radio. He jumps, startled like a dumb nervous dog, and then clears his throat like he didn't. The music saws sadly to life, buzzing miserably enough through the static that he reaches across to finish what she started.] Sure. Who doesn't like music?
[He hammers on the radio one or twice, fiddles with the dials, and eventually what pipes in is more or less clear.]
no subject
The music distracts her from how hungry she suddenly is. Gaby taps her fingers in time to the beat on the steering wheel. ]
You fixed the radio. [ Not really, but. ] Maybe I really did rescue a genius. [ Is she joking? Her default tone of voice is dry and deadpan, sometimes it's hard to tell. ] What kind of music do you like? What they played in Berlin — [ East ] — wasn't a lot of fun.
no subject
[Oh lady, give him ten minutes and something to pry the radio out of the dash and he can do more than get it sort of working. But that's probably better saved for when they're really bored in whatever safe house she's taking him to. No need to sabotage himself now by tackling all the busy work before he needs it, right? Right.]
I'll listen to pretty much anything. Anything with a beat, right? The Beatles make good music, but I'm telling you now that Marvin Gaye is where it's at. The man is sultry. Just avoid the Beach Boys, okay? They've got like one song and they just play it six different ways.
[Maybe he'll get around to prying the radio out after all. Speaking of drumming fingers, he drums his absently on his thigh to no particular rhythm - a motion to fill space, to give his hands something to do.]
Berlin, huh?
no subject
And the thing is, she probably could fix up that radio too. Give her a good set of tools and a couple hours and she could turn this engine into something worthy of a racetrack. But she knows to never lay all her cards on the table. She knows that it's better people underestimate her for her slight frame, her height, her sex. With a glance to the man next to her, she knows Watney wouldn't be amongst those people — not really. She did just pull him out.
She doesn't mind he asks about Berlin. She did tell him as much. Americans are always curious about Berlin. Something about their sense of capitalist freedom, she guesses. (That's the funny thing about her little team, isn't it? She's far from a communist but between living in East Berlin and the Red Peril as one third of their group, their experience with that sort of life is greater than Solo's.) ]
Mmhm. When I said I had to get over the Wall, you didn't think I just meant any wall, did you? [ Her lips curl in a slight smile. They take a turn to a dirt road. ] We didn't have The Beatles. Or real chocolate. You know I didn't even realise it wasn't real chocolate until I got out? Belgium. It's very good there. [ Solo had brought back a box of truffles to her hotel room for her to try. She likes those truffles better than the other kind. ] Sorry, no chocolate at the safe house.
no subject
[No, of course he'd figured that much out. Consider it a dumb leading question. He clears his throat and then reaches forward to pop open the laughably tiny glove box. Finding nothing of immediate interest - no surprises there, really -, he snaps it shut again a moment later.]
Next you'll tell me there's no electricity or indoor plumbing either. You're not going to make me use a bucket for a bathroom, are you? 'Cause sister, I've really had enough of that kind of thing to last me a life time.
no subject
I know another American who would be very upset if our toilet was a bucket. [ The look on Solo's face would be priceless. She almost wants to lie to him when he arrives, tell him it was broken when they got there. Point him to the bucket in the corner. ] Don't worry, Mr Scientist. Just because we're out in the woods doesn't mean we have to live like it.
[ She points up ahead. ]
See that stump? We'll park and walk from there. Can't make it easy for them, you know. You're more important than you look. [ She makes a face. Airily, ] No offense.