Gaeta huffs a laugh. He's got no room to talk -- he started going gray in his mid-20s, too. (Albeit more because of the Cylons than his genetics, but, well.)

At the next, he makes a small, noncommittal noise and wiggles a hand: so-so. "Aside from wishing Mortanne brought us to a tropical island instead of this one? Could be worse," he says. "I think half my grocery budget's going to firewood the next three months."

A pause.

"...Winter's only three months here, right? Nothing frakked up with the orbit that makes some seasons longer?"