A/N: Just before the Battle of New Caprica.
Gunny Sims knelt before the regimental shrine, erected in a storage room off of the briefing hall that had seen the death of so many good marines on the opening day of the war. Inside were the regiment's most prized possessions, symbols of their history. A sabre, their former CO's, hung directly over the entryway. A Colonial flag to the right, a Marine Corps flag to the left, and straight ahead the Foxtrot Company battle standard. It was ragged, depicting a faded Angel of Death advancing across sword blades, sword and shield in hand as its feet bled. Its robes had faded from dark green to a grey, and the stitching was a little ragged on the helmet it bore, covering the face. There were bullet holes, cuts, from where it had been borne into battle, or where good men had died defending it. Along the walls hung the dog tags of every Marine killed in action. In front of the battle standard was a small table overflowing with tiny carved idols. In the center of it was a magnificent Corinthian helm, horsehair crest striped blue and white. The heart of the Three Hundred Fifty Second Regiment of Colonial Marines was that room.
He didn't know what he was doing there, but Sims knelt none the less, staring at the empty eyes of that bronze helmet. It was a tribute to Ares, to the spirit of the Corps, to the sigil of Death on their battle standard. It filled him with pride, yes. But that pride wasn't clearing away the doubt fast enough. He shifted a bit, Kevlar creaking. He was in full battle rattle, shotgun slung and helmet under one arm.
"This is a suicide mission," he murmured to himself quietly.
The plan was halfassed. At best, the plan was a cocked up and risky procedure that would cost the Fleet one battlestar and thousands of good men. He was ready to die. He should have a hundred dozen times already. His men, though... his men deserved to live.
"Better to have both battlestars. All or nothing."
This was throwing away men, he thought. Men who had pride, the will to fight. Oh, they would fight to the last man. Every one of the fallen would be heroes, like those that came before them. But it was so…he struggled for words. The plan was too risky, too dicey. They needed more support, they needed the Pegasus. Something. He didn't know, he didn't like the odds, but he was going to try. A soft voice pulled at his thoughts.
"Penny for your thoughts, Gunny?"
Gunny Sims stood, turned around. Racetrack was in her flight suit, a copy of the Scriptures under her arm. He saluted her briskly, tried to come to terms with his feelings.
"Little worried is all. Worried about the plan. It's riskier than I'd like. "
"Your men."
"Yeah."
"Your soul."
"Not so much."
"I never did take you as the religious type, Gunny."
"I'm not."
"Then why are you in a shrine, Craig?"
He caught himself. Racetrack never used his first name. Not once- not after retrieving him from Kobol, not when they were trapped between two battlestars in an unarmed Raptor, not when they assaulted Caprica.
"I don't know. Why are you here?"
She stared at him brown eyes glowing with some internal fire. Her voice was joking, but her face was grim.
"Came looking for you. I'm doing something on the flight deck."
He cocked a heavily scarred eyebrow at her.
"The Line."
"Oh."
The Salt Line Ceremony was not a tradition that generally bore thinking of. It was based on an event from an ancient last stand. Poor precedent. None the less, Racetrack stared at Gunny Sims. She walked past the Gunny and placed the Scriptures atop the small table, balancing them as best she could.
"Craig."
She took a step closer to him, placing both hands on the sides of his head and pulling down until she placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. He stood there in amazed silence, trying not to let his jaw drop.
"Come with me. I'd like to have you at my side when I do this."
In his mind, he knew. He knew that, all along, while he had been enamored with Callie, dating Jean, blind all along, she had been waiting for him. She had ferried him into battle, been screaming and cursing as she fought with him on her mind. In that one kiss, she had distilled all her patience, her passion. He reached out a gloved hand, took hers.
"I never thought you were the religious type, either," he said lamely as they left the shrine.
"No, Gunny. But religion and faith are two very different things."
A/N: It's not great, but I had to write it. Hope you enjoyed. Also, things like 'Corinthian helmet' and 'colours' both have articles on wikipedia, if you know not what they are. I know, very calm for Racetrack…but the Salt Line Ceremony took me right off guard.