It wasn't often that Colonel Young found himself shirtless in front of a mirror, clutching rolls of belly fat. Not often at all, and frankly, he was disturbed at himself. Disturbed like a teenage girl of average weight.
It just didn't make any sense to him. Since arriving on Destiny, his health reports with TJ showed he was only losing weight. Vaguely, Colonel Young remembered that muscle weighed more than fat. Maybe the ghastly sight in front of his mirror was just what happened when abs atrophied and turned to lard.
Sighing, Young rolled his shirt back down over his stomach, thinking about his options. He couldn't join civilian boot camp - by now, they were almost guaranteed to be fitter than him, even the old and fat ones. And he couldn't even begin to imagine the embarrassment of Lieutenant Scott waiting with the civilians to see Young finish up his exercises, lagging behind the rest.
Even worse, he couldn't imagine the embarrassment of being out-run by Rush. Although somehow, Young doubted Rush attended boot camp.
Just a hunch.
Colonel Young firmly decided that boot camp was out of question. If he was going to get back in shape (and hell, this was embarrassing), he'd do it on his own. In private.
He looked around his quarters, doubtfully judging how much room he had for push-ups and jogging in place.
In private in the halls, then.
Yeah.
It was harder than Young had thought for an officer in command to find some seclusion. If Eli wasn't trying to make him laugh, Camille was criticizing him. If Camille wasn't criticizing him, Scott was looking for some bonding time. And if Scott wasn't looking for some bonding time, Rush was plotting doom.
He really hated when Rush plotted doom.
But finally, Young managed to get away from all his pesterers and took a look at his watch as he headed down the less inhabited corridors. It was one a.m.
He could barely keep his eyes open, and he was going for a jog.
Brilliant.
One hundred more yards, Young told himself, focusing on picking his feet up off the floor as he ran. I can do one hundred more yards. Easy.
Fifty more lunges, Young told himself, sweating and steadily ignoring the pain in his knees. Just fifty more lunges. I can do that.
Twenty more sit-ups, Young told himself, face contorted into a horrible grimace as his stomach muscles screamed. Just twenty more. Feel the burn.
Ten more push-ups, Young told himself, wheezing and fighting for breath, arms trembling. No pain, no gain. Any soldier worth his salt can do ten push-ups!
He fell on his face.
It continued through the week, and the only noticeable difference - so far as Young could tell - was achy limbs and a sour temperament. He felt awful. But every night, he managed to get away from those under his command and steal some precious moments of exercise.
It was after one such exercise session that Young set off down the hallways. He was sweating profusely, flushed and shirtless from the heat. He was also somewhat proud - he'd managed ten more push-ups today. He'd also managed thirty less lunges, but he was sure he didn't need them to begin with.
I can do better tomorrow, he thought, confident in a way he hadn't been just the week before. Soon, I'll be running circles around the civilians. Hah!
That was when he bumped into someone.
Startled, Young jumped back, just managing to catch the other person by the forearms, both of them talking before they realized who they were talking to.
"Sorry."
"Sorry."
And it would have stayed at that, if Young hadn't strained his eyes and recognized the scraggly little man before him.
"Colonel Young," said Dr. Rush, startled. There was an awkward pause.
"Hi," said Young. He couldn't see it, but he could definitely feel Rush looking him up and down. At first he was flattered. Then he was disgusted at himself for being flattered, and mildly weirded out. Then -
"Why are you all …?" Rush trailed off, his voice suspicious. Then his face paled and he took a step back. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Colonel!"
He sounded scandalized.
"What?" asked Young, a bit offended.
"What the hell were you doing? Were you -" Rush inhaled sharply, and his voice got lower, more intense. "Were you in my room?"
"No. Why? What the hell are you hiding in your room?"
"Nothing," Rush growled. "That's the point. I'm sick and tired of people thinking it's unoccupied and using it for … that."
"Using it for what?" Young asked. He couldn't imagine a lot of people liked to exercise in Rush's room … but then, Destiny had a strange crew, and the doctor was disliked.
Rush was glowering at him.
"What?" asked Young again. Shaking his head, Rush barged past him.
"Forget it. Not even gonna bother."
Young turned to watch the scientist go. Right before he reached his door, Rush's back seemed to spasm and he turned around again, pointing threateningly at Young.
"My sheets had better be clean, Young! I will lodge a complaint with Camille!"
Young shook his head and clamped down on the urge to flip Rush off. How would he do anything to Rush's sheets? It wasn't like he went around wiping sweat off his face with strangers' bedclothes. Although, he may make a special case for Rush from here on out, just to spite him.
Sweaty and flushed, still half-clothed, Young set off for his own bed.