Standard of Flight

By Crystal Wimmer

3,554 words so far / Rated PG-13

Author's note: I want to pass on my most sincere thanks to Doc for her inspiration, permission, and encouragement in this story. Based on the concepts and relationships she introduced in her "Standard of Care" story, it gives a different perspective of many of the same events in that same time-frame. If you haven't read Doc's story, I highly recommend it – you don't need it for this one, but it certainly makes it come together more clearly. Okay… on that note…

Chapter 1

Down Time

Lords I miss running at the Academy. You wouldn't think that a clay track and white lines would be so memorable, but damn-it they are. You just can't get that same feel from the metal deck of a ship, however solidly that ship is built. There aren't any shoes soft enough to absorb the shock, and after a few laps your knees and ankles let you know that you're doing something that the human body really isn't designed for. But it's worth it. Even on the Galactica, where I seem to spend more time dodging people than lengthening my stride and tuning things out, a good run is the only thing that keeps me sane.

Sanity is a precious commodity on the Galactica. Lee says I keep mine by periodic adrenaline overload; I think I just don't let things get to me. On the other hand, everyone has to have a release. He has his, too, but most people don't see it. Someday I'll spill the beans. Someday.

But not today. Today is for stretching my legs, reading a good book – or not so good book, and maybe getting my hands on something closer to coffee than the crap that's started showing up in the dining hall. I think it's some soy something-or-other; no one is certain. I also think they're trying to poison us, but that's another problem altogether. In any case, I'm not letting it get to me today. It's my first day off in over a week, and the twelve-hour shifts are starting to hurt. I'm tired of being tired. I think all of us are. Today is a day for rest and recovery: a good run, as good a breakfast as I can manage, and time behind a closed curtain in quarters. No one would dare touch that curtain. They know better. This pilot bites.

Literally.

Okay, so it was only once, and it was a long time ago. I'd been on the Galactica a few weeks, and Ripper was running us ragged. He was good for that when you first started, always checking to see what you were made of and what your limitations were. He hadn't found mine just yet, although he'd come damned close. Somehow, just as he edged closer to getting slammed, he seemed to come up with the sense to back off. And then he touched the curtain.

I'd been on back-to-back patrols, an eight and an eight, and I'd been up four hours before that to manage paperwork and the workout I usually got in. No one had bothered to mention that Kennington was down with the flu, so I didn't know I'd be looking at twenty hours between naps. Still, I'd done more and under worse conditions, so I held it together. When I came back with a busted rotor in my primary engine, my landing was not great. It wasn't hard, but it wasn't really soft either. It was enough to jar my teeth and rattle my nerves. I slipped past the usual orders to get checked in Life Station and headed to bed. After all, twenty hours is a hell of a long time when you've had to keep your concentration steady. I was due for a break, not a two-hour wait to be poked and prodded to find out what I already knew: I was tired.

So I headed to bed, pulled my curtain, and I think I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. The next thing I knew, there was this incredibly bright light, even through closed eyelids, and a shadow taking away the darkness. I wasn't awake enough to know Ripper was pulling back the curtain to make me go down to the Station. All I knew was that I was tired, daylight was annoying, and that curtain was going to close. I reached up to yank it back, and he made the mistake of trying to get me to let go of it. So I did what any girl would do in that situation; I bit the hell out of him. Lords, the havoc that caused. If there was any saving grace at all it was that Ripper spent longer in Life Station than I did, and the brig has a nice, quiet bed.

So no one messes with the curtain. Hell, even Ripper learned his lesson. He usually sent a flunkie to get me up after that if it absolutely had to be done. The pilots around me had the good sense to call my name rather than yank on my privacy. There isn't a lot on a Battlestar; it has to be respected. I have my book, I have my lamp, and I'm going to tuck in behind that curtain for some much-needed down time. It's looking like a pretty good day.

"How do you do this?"

His voice is slightly out of breath, but not nearly as weary as he makes it sound. Lee hasn't been running long this time around, but he's done it long enough that he can keep up with me. We're near the same height, have a pretty similar stride, and unless I'm really pushing he manages to give me a run for my money. I let him think that anyway. "Wimp," I call back to him, knowing that it will bring a smile. It does, and I'm glad about that. Lee doesn't smile enough. I guess none of us do, but it's hard to be happy when the world has been yanked from beneath you. More literally, blown from around you and then left light-years behind.

"Hey, you're the one who insists this is good for me," he grumbles. I can hear the laughter in his tone; he's not nearly as tired as he's putting on. Hell, he and I used to run almost three miles every morning at the Academy, around the full perimeter of the grounds and then several laps on the track. The clay track. As I jog up six stairs and dodge a Lieutenant with his nose in a report or something, I once more miss that damned clay track.

"It is good for you," I tell him as he comes along side me. We've finished two circuits of the ship, and it's time to cool down, so I slow my stride and he follows suit. "Besides, with the artificial gravity, exercise is essential if we're going to stay healthy to colonize anyplace."

"You're ready to settle down?"

That question catches me off guard. No clue why I brought this up. "No," I tell him as I slow to a walk and he paces me perfectly. "But I hope we find someplace, Earth or not. I miss oranges."

Lee laughs and claps me on the back like a brother. If his hand stays there just a little longer than it used to, I try not to notice. Lee is a friend, and a good one. I don't want to screw with that. "I miss bacon," he says wistfully. "Coffee and bacon," he corrects. "Waking up to them, I mean."

I have to agree. "Pizza," I say softly. Dairy products were the first thing to go after our flight from the Cylons began; no cheese, no pizza.

"Meadows," Lee adds with a strangely soft look. Anyone else would probably miss that, but I know him pretty well. His brother and I were close; more than close. I've seen the meadows back behind their family house. Hell, I've made love in them, although I wouldn't admit it to anyone if they paid me. Some secrets remain with Zak and I. If the memories are all I have left, then I need to keep some for myself. There aren't many I selfishly guard, but that day in a Caprican meadow with flowers all around and Zak over and around and in me… that one is mine. I'm not sharing, even if Lee wanted to hear it. Frankly, I'm sure he doesn't. Hearing about your little brother's sex life is kind of like hearing about your parents'; while you know it must be there, it's best not imagined.

"Meadows," I echo, and my voice is not as steady as I would like. Damn, I must really be tired if a simple memory can put me near tears. I need today more than I thought.

"So, what are you doing with your day off?" he asks. It's spooky how he does that; always knows what I'm thinking before I do. If it weren't so reassuring, it might piss me off.

"This," I told him simply. "Then maybe some weights, a shower, and some bunk time. I haven't read anything except reports in longer than I can remember."

"You've got books?" he asks hungrily. I should have expected that.

"I've got one, and you can't have it until I'm done." I'll stand firm on that.

"What's it about?"

I stick my tongue out at him, more as a distraction than anything. There's no way I'm going to tell him that I've borrowed a romance novel from the Galactica's Chief Medical Officer. Some things he doesn't need to know. Lee is predictable as always, ruffling my hair affectionately and laughing a little. He's pretty playful when nobody is watching. It's a revelation for a lot of people; he's pure tight-ass when it comes to work.

I guess he has to be, though. Carrying all the CAG responsibilities isn't easy in peacetime, and he got it thrown at him at the beginning of a war. He didn't know any pilot except for me, and he also came in with the disadvantages of being both the Commander's son and at least five years younger than the average Captain. It didn't surprise me, though. The man is driven. He takes responsibility the way most people take a presidential order. Every rule is law, and nothing is to be overlooked. He was tough on everyone at first – tougher than he had to be. But he's eased up a bit, and the crew is starting to get used to him. It's not as easy as it sounds. He's most definitely a stickler, but once you know him you can see that a lot of it is a disguise for being really insecure. He falls back on the rules because he doesn't trust himself. If he can blame the rules, then no one can blame him when it all falls apart. We all have our ways of staying sane.

But times like this – off duty and away from the crew – he's just Lee. He's Zak's big brother, the Old Man's son, and a damned good friend. That's the place I've given him, anyway. It's what I'll allow. If there are days he pushes that envelope – times when a touch lingers or those damned blue eyes lock onto mine – then I just ignore it until he goes away. I also ignore that flash of disappointment that inevitably follows, usually accompanied by a soft smile and a downcast expression. There's nothing more obvious than a man going from staring into your eyes to avoiding them. There's not much that makes me more uncomfortable than that, either. He's not a lovesick fool; don't get that impression. He's just lonely. We're all lonely, and I'm familiar.

"So, workout and a book. Sounds… nice."

I give him a glare at that, along with a punch in the arm. "It sounds damned dull, and that's how I want it. Forty-eight hours of peace and quiet is more than I've seen in longer than I can remember. I'm not wasting it.

He nods. "I'm sorry about that," he tells me. "You know I only do it because you're the best I have. If I could trust anyone else with the rooks…"

I shush him with a wave of my hand. We've been through this a dozen times. While many of us are proficient pilots, I'm the only one with training to instruct. I did it for two years at the academy, before my judgment killed my fiancé and left me alone and adrift. His father took me in then, gave me a place flying for him here on the Galactica, and pulled Lords know how many strings to keep me out of prison for manslaughter if not outright murder. It wouldn't be so surprising that he did it – after all, the Old Man and I are pretty close – but the fiancé in question happened to be his youngest son. So if what I can do in return is to fly a few extra shifts to make his remaining son's life a little easier, then it's a frakking small price to pay. Hell, it's an honor to be trusted with the responsibility, and proof that the lectures on forgiveness and second chances were more than just words being thrown around.

"Any chance of getting dinner after you've had some down-time?" Lee asks. And there it is. Again. I avoid looking at him, instead using my top shirt to wipe sweat from my face and keep it out of my eyes. I always sweat worse after I start to cool down. Lee's asked me to dinner, albeit less directly than his first couple of attempts. Ironically, I find it harder to say no to this approach. He's subtle – asking as a friend – and I can accept that. He's also good company, I enjoy being with him, and he's familiar. That doesn't mean I want to marry him, or even sleep with him, but it does mean that dinner would be a pretty good experience; dining hall cuisine notwithstanding.

"What time?" I ask, not giving a direct answer because I may want to give myself an out.

"Seventeen-hundred?" he asks, and his expression is somewhere between hopeful and uncertain. Who would believe Lee could be uncertain? Frak.

"Make it seventeen-thirty," I suggest.

"You've got it. I'll meet you in the Dining Hall."

I nod as I realize that we're at the entrance to general pilot's quarters. We enter together, but Lee heads for a room at the back, which used to be a storage area and now serves as his office and bedroom. I stop at one of the first bunks, pull off my shirts and shorts to wash later, and head to my locker for clean underwear. Opening it, I see three smiling faces – Zak, me, and Lee. Lords, were we ever that happy? It doesn't even feel like that picture, taken during Zak's first year at the Academy, really has Lee and I in it. We aren't those people anymore, I realize. But they aren't people I want to forget. They were good people. Maybe someday at least two of them will be reborn. Until then, I remember them. I say a prayer for Zak every day, light a candle on his birthday and holidays, and beg his forgiveness with every breath I take.

Morbid thoughts, and ones that I thought I was long past. It's my day, and I'm not wasting it on sad memories and frustrating mental circles. I just want to enjoy myself for a few minutes. I take my shower, forgetting in all my mental wanderings that I was going to hit the weight room, and settle into my bunk with Doctor Salik's book. She promised I could keep it as long as I wanted, but things have a tendency to disappear around me so I like to return borrowed objects quickly. I never had much growing up, so having my stuff taken now isn't that big of a deal. More than once as a child I stole from others to have what I needed – clothes, food, or medicine. I figure if anyone needs something badly enough to steal it, then they should have it. I can live without it. But I won't put another person's possessions in that same category. So her book stays in my locked locker along with the few things I won't life without: my picture of the Adama brothers with me held eternally between them, safe and happy for at least one day in my life, and two small sets of underwear, because in a world of mostly male pilots the smaller uniforms are tough to track down, and a close fit is necessary to get into the flight suits. Also in there are a couple of other odds and ends that I do treasure: Zak's last letter to me – note really – about two weeks before he died, my engagement ring, a small box of wedding invitations that I never had a chance to send out, and the gold cluster that Commander Adama awarded me shortly after the jump from Ragnar. Oh, and three fine Geminon cigars. Those are mine; those I don't share.

Showers on the Galactica are quick. Five minutes of lukewarm water divided into one minute of getting wet before soaping and shampooing with the same liquid astringent, and four minutes to rinse the foul stuff away and try to cool down from a run. There's just the one temperature – whatever is left from twenty-eight hundred people using the same water supply all day long and limited time for it to be heated – and no choice in soaps or shampoos. It takes a lot of the guess work out of life. Simplicity can be a good thing.

Once clean and rinsed, I towel dry, scrub my hair with that same towel before hanging it on my hook – we each have one – and slipping on the clean underwear that I keep under lock and key, hand-wash myself, and hope lasts until we can come up with something to make more uniforms from. All my hair needs is a quick combing, and then I curl up in my bunk, pull my curtain, tuck the bottom into the corners of my mattress, and flick on the rechargeable lamp to see my book. It's time to see how the Caprican princess survives capture and enslavement by the vicious Leonian pirate. Is it totally unrealistic fluff? Hell yes, but that's what I want. Today is for escaping reality, and this is just about as far from the current reality as anyone can go. Caprica's gone, princesses never existed, and guys like this are killed in tragic Viper training accidents. Tucked back against my pillow, I know it's going to be a damned good day.

Hours later, I'm awakened by a soft voice, and thankfully no bright light. Quarters are almost always bright, because someone is on shift, getting ready for shift, or coming back from shift. A glance at the book held in my floppy hand shows, by the very dim light of my nearly discharged lamp, that I've been asleep for almost eight hours. I had read exactly twenty-three pages before I'd gone out, and the crick in my neck was proving that I should have opted for the nap rather than the book. It's just that free hours are so rare that I had to use them for sleeping.

"Kara?" he calls again, a little louder. I smile as I realize he's not getting his hands anywhere near the curtain. Smart man.

"Hmm?" It's the best I can manage.

"It's almost eighteen-hundred," he explains. "When you didn't show, I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Fine," I grumped. "I fell asleep. Sorry."

"It's okay," he assured me, and while I could almost detect disappointment in his tone, it is steady enough as he continues. "I brought you down a tray. I have duty in about half an hour so I need to get prepped. Where do you want me to leave this?

Frak. Lee might not be a boyfriend, but I hate to have stood anyone up. "I'll take it," I tell him as I tug the corner of the curtain away and open the cubby to both air and light. He's smiling a little now, although it doesn't reach his eyes. I've really hurt his feelings. Damn. I'm not sure if I'm upset that I hurt him, or simply that the feelings were there to hurt. Life was getting damned complicated. It got more so as Lee passed me the plate and silverware while looking everywhere except towards me. On a hunch, I looked down to see that when I'd slid down the pillow in sleep, my shirts had risen up. Braless, I was showing a little more skin than was strictly appropriate, and Apollo the Proper was in mid-blush. Typical. I tugged the shirts down into place, set the plate on my bed, and looked him in the eye. There is something magnetic about that particular shade of blue, which is why I make an effort to ignore it. "Thanks," I tell him. "I probably would have slept through mealtime and been sick by breakfast."

He smiled at that. "We take care of our own," he said simply, ruffling my sleep-tangled hair. "Eat, go back to sleep, and then go back to your book."

I nod at that, wondering if he had caught the title while I had the curtains open. I try to convince myself that he didn't, and then I try to convince myself that it didn't matter. I'm not terribly successful on either count. What I don't know is why that bothers me so much.

(to be continued)