Gaeta snorts a tiny laugh. "Yes, sir," he says, sketching a loose salute. (Well, loose by his standards; it's still more crisp than some members of the Fleet would toss off on their best behavior.) "Gods forbid I get scolded by both of you for frakking up my health."

It's about that moment that Gaeta realizes something.

In the course of his conversation with Peter, he's lost track of the cards and the potential probability values around the table.

Well, frak. He gives his hand a mildly alarmed glance, trying to re-run calculations that would've been more useful five minutes ago.