He can't help but crack a smile at Hawkeye's easygoing patter. It's so different from Doc Cottle's gruff, no-nonsense demeanor; it's a little jarring, but not in a bad way. More like one more quiet reminder that wherever Gaeta might have wound up after his execution, he's as far away from Galactica as is possible to get.

"That sounds good. Better than good," he says with the smallest chuckle. He unpins the folded end of his pantsleg and starts to roll it up so the doctor can get a better look. "The one I had before was basically a peg leg anyway -- it didn't fit, the endcap went all the way up to here." He taps a spot a quarter of the way up his thigh. "I couldn't bend my knee at all."

And in examining the residual limb, it's easy to see that took its toll. The scar tissue is still pink, mostly healed, but not healed well; in a few places, it's even still pockmarked with scabs from where the poorly-fitted endcap of Gaeta's old prosthetic chafed at his skin. This was a situation with few medical supplies to be had, and an urgent need for all hands on deck no matter what physical toll it might take.