Takes place a couple months after the exodus to New Caprica.
Never Again
"Sir!"
"At ease."
"Yes sir."
The marine on guard crossed his hands behind his back, spread his feet, but didn't entirely relax. His eyes followed the Commander's meandering progress through semi-darkness, among dormant, temporarily impotent vipers - months past left equidistant on the silent midnight deck of the Pegasus landing bay.
The guard was aware he came alone, once a week or so. Late at night.
He wandered. That keen, soft, dark smell of oil. Reached out, a hand caressed an undercarriage, brushed a wing. What appeared so sleek had so much texture under the fingertips. What was so warm after flight was now so cold to the touch.
Moved on. Leaned his forehead against her nose.
How many years of his childhood and youth wanting, dreaming of flying her? It had been the only part of the military that had been for himself and not his father. He thought he'd been willing to give her up in order to leave it all behind, eons ago. Now, now he was still here and had to give her up. All because of "friendly fire" not even received in battle with the Cylons, but because he couldn't get out of the way. Hadn't realized how hard it would be, how much a part of him flying her had become.
He wanted to climb into the cockpit right now. Each time he came down here he wanted to, and each time he resisted the impulse. It was bad enough he came here at all . . . in the middle of the night.
Like the first time he had felt good enough to try running on Pegasus. Not the throbbing ache. That had mostly healed. But he hadn't been able to get enough air. Doc Cottle had told him then, shown him the x-ray, the scar tissue. He would never get enough air again. Not with only one fully-functioning lung.
Did his father know when he gave him command of the Pegasus? Of course, it wouldn't have mattered. He wouldn't have done it if he didn't think he could handle it. Still. He would never fly again. Not a viper. Ever.
There'd been anger, rage even. At Kara, at himself, at Fate. That had stayed with him a few days. Then one night he'd awakened from a dream and recognized all the little things from the past year that had to happen to put that bullet and himself together at that particular place at that particular time. And there was no point in anger. His Mother would've said that realization was a kind of grace. If only he could feel it as grace, instead of as punishment. He wasn't sure for what, but it lingered.
"All quiet?"
"Yes, sir. As usual, sir."
"What's your name, private?"
"Collins, sir."
"Goodnight Private Collins."
"Goodnight, sir."