Closing his eyes, he rests his head against the scored metal and breathes it in, aching in ways that hurt his heart and his head and the muscles he's beaten back into submission. He splays his hand on the dark lines of his name, rubbing the edge of the letter with his thumb.

He exhales shakily and pulls away, blinking back anything in his eyes that might give him away. It's sharp and painful, like swallowing glass, to step over to the ladder and stand at the base of it, zipping up his flight suit. It's still slightly snug, and he jerks the zipper hard up the last few inches. It's futile frustration, but it burns through his veins and it's as close as he can get to pride or fire right now.

He snaps the collar in place and secures his helmet under his arm. He climbs the stairs quickly, sliding into the cockpit in one smooth, easy motion. His breath catches and he leans his head back, offering up a silent prayer to the Gods or whoever might listen that he's here, he's back and, maybe someday, he'll be himself again.

Sliding the helmet on, he starts to breathe the dry air, lets it fill his lungs until it saturates his blood. He rests his hand on the controls, closing his eyes and fingering them carefully, reciting and remembering. He falls back on tricks taught at the Academy, reminding himself of every button, every gauge.

This is where it started and he keeps coming back to it. No matter where he goes on the chain of command, he ends up here with the stick in his hand and the thrum of the Viper around him. This is home for him. Not Caprica, not Pegasus, not Galactica. Tight confines and death dealt at his fingertips. Lee fingers the stick and his thumb settles over the firing button.

Endings and beginnings are all the same, one and another. He spies Kara across from him, across the hangar where her bird sits, staring at his with unblinking eyes as she carefully doesn't look his way. Beginning and endings. His body remembers both with startling clarity.