He knows some of them and doesn't know others, doesn't recognize their faces anymore. But he's looking for strangers if he's looking for anyone, because he doesn't want to see the faces he knows. Doesn't want to have to be someone he's not sure he is anymore, and doesn't want to have to explain who it is he's become.

He hears names he hasn't heard spoken in over a year echoing in the suddenly noisy hallways, skeleton crews fleshed out to whole. He stops and leans against the bulkhead as a group of people straggle by, still wrapped in the scarves and shawls to brace against the New Caprica winds. Motion sends one scarf to the ground, fluttering down at Lee's feet. There's no wild wind to whip it away, and no breeze to make the wearer realize she's lost it. Lee stares at it for a long minute then picks it up, winding it around his hand like a bandage, wondering where exactly the bleeding is.

He knows there are things that happened down on the planet, things buried in the dirt that rasps across his skin from the cloth. There are things he'll never understand, things his father will never understand. Lee looks at Tigh and sees that he's broken, but his father sees the shattered pieces that can still be glued back to whole. Lee's sure his father will try, sure that Saul will fall in line like a good soldier.

He's equally sure that, no matter how strong the glue, there will still be pieces missing.

He caught sight of Anders, and thought he'd seen the flash of blonde that only means one thing to him, but he'd turned away. The last thing he needs, the last thing he wants, is another victory of Starbuck's to outshine his own. He laughs softly, shaking his head at his own petulance and blows out a breath, starts moving again. "Welcome home."

"Thank you." The voice takes him by surprise, but he doesn't falter in his step, not even as she falls in stride with him. He knows her vaguely - Tory, Roslin's aide after Billy - but his time with Roslin was at an end by then, his seat at the inner circle overtaken by Zeus's own throne.

They walk in silence for a distance, miles measured in steps as the sky falls away around them. "The President is on board then?" By law, Zarek is president, and Lee can't help but smile at the thought, wonders what Zarek would do with the power now that he's seen what can happen at the hands of a man who thinks the world owes him something, but no one doubts that Laura Roslin is the one at the President's desk.

"Interim, acting president," Tory corrects him. "And she is."

Lee nods and wonders at that meeting - his father and Laura Roslin sharing drinks in the Admiral's cabin pretending the only thing they're discussing is where they go from here, talking in silence with their eyes. "To be a fly on that wall, hm?"

She laughs, and Lee's surprised at the sound of it. He hasn't heard laughter in a long time. Her voice is thick and rich, throaty. It's smooth and dark like her skin, copper touched with gold even in the hazy yellow light of Galactica. "I'm sure nothing will be said that isn't in Laura's very detailed, very precise notes."

"It's not what they'll say," Lee tells her, a smile curving his lips. "It's what they won't."

"And what won't they say?" She tilts her head and her hair falls like dark wave around her face. Lee shakes his head, shakes the vision free and shrugs his shoulders. He's married now. And more than that. He doesn't fool himself in that regard.

"No." He shakes his head, changing his mind. "They'll say it." He swallows and shrugs again. "Good to see you, Admiral. And you, Madame President. Oceans of meaning in those words. Enough to drown anyone's thirst." He takes a breath and lets it go, offering her a slight smile. He huffs a soft laugh as he realizes he's already smiling. Has been since everyone landed, since metal replaced dirt under their feet. "I should go. There's still a lot to be done."

"Commander Adama?" She reaches out and touches his arm, and he feels it through his uniform, through his skin. It's warm and human and nothing like duty and he nearly jerks away from the press of her fingers. "Lee?"

"I should…I should go."

She lets her hand slide away from his arm, releasing him without a fight. The second her fingers leave his arm, he misses their weight, their heat. "I'll see you around then, Commander."

He nods and steps back, turning on his heel and moving away.

The ship is still thrumming with life, and it seems louder now than it ever did. Soon there will be an accounting of who lived and who died and who goes where in this newest version of the world they've created. He sees old Fleet members touching uniforms as they pass, reaching out to feel the rough fabric, their faces uncertain, their places uncertain. Some will fall back without a word, slipping into jobs like a second skin, while others will fight for dominance and power, smearing the rungs of the ladder with blood and sweat.

He feels like a ghost, walking the perimeter of the ship like some sort of sentry, unsure what he's looking for or what he's hoping to find. Maybe nothing. Maybe he just needs to see it all for himself before it starts changing. Look in the eyes of the ones who went and the ones who stayed and see how it feels before one of them looks away. He reaches the corridor and she's there again, her eyes closed. He stops, unsure why, and watches her, scanning the blurred edges of her skin, smiling as his eyes droop as well, lethargy sinking in now that he's stopped moving.

She smiles. "I could sleep for a year."

"You'd miss everything."

She cracks one eye and there's a flash in the brown, something akin to amusement. "I lived through enough in the past year to make up for it."

"Laura's going to need you."

She shrugs and straightens, stretching. Lee sees muscles and sinew beneath the loose clothes she's wearing and can smell the sweat of fear and worry and disappointment on her skin. It's his own scent, and he wonders how many of them are wearing it now. He starts walking again and she falls in step again, like soldiers, like aide and advisor, like either of them knows anything beyond where their next foot is going to fall.

"It was hard. On everyone."

Lee nods and keeps walking, listening to the sound of their footsteps on the metal gratings. Hard doesn't begin to describe what it was for any of them, but he doesn't know the words for what she went through, and he can't seem to define whatever it is he saw in his soul and tried to swallow down.

"You're married."

It's not a question and it's not a statement, but something in between, and Lee's not sure he knows the word for that either. As it is, he stops and looks at Tory, tucking his hands behind his back. She copies his gesture - an echo or imitation or mockery, he's not sure - and looks at him, that same strange hint of a smile on her face. Lee nods. "I am."

"It doesn't suit you."

"It's not marriage that doesn't suit me."

"Oh?" She cocks an eyebrow and starts walking again, leaving him behind for a few paces until he follows, catching up in a few strides. "Please tell me you're not going to say command. I went through the briefings with the Admiral and the President. I know what Pegasus did."

"She was a good ship."

"Something I learned on New Caprica, Commander?" Tory catches his eye and holds it, her eyes sharp. "Any ship, any crew is only as good as the person commanding."

"Captains go down with their ships."

"I'd rather have a captain that lives to fight another day." She nods to him and turns, heading back to her post. "Resources are thin, Commander. I'm glad to see we didn't waste a valuable one."

A rotation later, Lee makes another circuit. Changes are taking place, sliding into routine, falling to familiar. He begins to recognize faces, remember names. Civilians are moved from ship to ship until loved ones are found, beds and bunks made, space stretched to accommodate.

Roslin and Adama and Zarek huddle together, pushing and pulling at military personnel, assessing and evaluating. The ones who stayed have a silent brotherhood, tested by the crew of the Pegasus, though few overlap, and they've worked together too long to let it do more than ruffle a few easy feathers.

But for every pilot who stayed, there are three that left, abdicated right and responsibility. Some are ready to be who they were again, and others don't even remember who they are.

"Commander."

He smiles to himself as she falls in step beside him. "Not sure that means anything anymore. Not much of a Commander without something to command."

"There are plenty of names and ranks that don't mean anything at any given moment, Commander. Doesn't make them less important. Or less worthy of our respect."

He shrugs, conceding the point as far as he's willing. She falls silent and they walk side by side. "So, what happens now? From a civilian standpoint?"

"There isn't much of one. Mostly we're grateful Galactica and Pegasus showed up. The trick lies in which civilians remain so and which become Fleet."

"No." Lee shakes his head as she stops, leaning back against one of the hatches, resting her arm on the locking wheel. "We're all Fleet now. We're all soldiers. All veterans. All the walking wounded."

She sighs. "People are tired. They're going to want to resign their commissions, Commander."

"We're all tired. Things aren't right and won't be for a long time. But the only way they ever will be right again is if we all keep working, keep moving. The trick to winning the war isn't in the number of soldiers or the number of guns." Lee begins walking again, not surprised when she doesn't follow. "The trick is to keep moving. And always have the element of surprise."

He walks the circuit twice every rotation, circling the ship like an orbit, caught in the pull of the hum of the motors, the distant thrill of the FTL. He hears his name and raises his hand, talks to people if they fall in step with him, moving quickly along the gratings. He takes inventory, takes stock. He sees who has purpose and who doesn't, who moves like ghosts in the corridors. He's surprised by some, expecting something different, but years change people, as do hardships, and he's not the same, so he's got no right to judge.

She's waiting when he completes the second circuit. He slows his pace and falls in step with her, matching his stride to hers. "All right, fair enough." she says softly. At his look, she offers him a smile. "I thought about what you said. We all had hardships. Yours were different than ours."

"Everyone made a choice." His voice sounds rough to his own ears, and he tries not to think about choices - ones he's made, ones made for him. Choices change everything. "We all have to live with the consequences. Good. Bad." He shrugs and tries not to notice as she looks at him. "In-between."

"We're going to have problems. Those who left and those who stayed."

"We won't, except with the pilots. And we won't until Starbuck's back." He wants to take the words back as they slip past his mouth. Her name is like a knife in his side, stabbing until he can feel the hilt against his skin. "Pilots do their duty, pilots answer to authority and Kat will do her job and keep them in line for all that."

"Until Kara comes back."

His jaw sets and he nods. "If Kara comes back."

"She's here," Tory's voice is as gentle as her touch as her fingers brush his wrist. "She's back."

He lifts his arm slightly, looks down at her hand, the dark skin against his own paler flesh. "Kara's back. I haven't seen any sign of Starbuck at all."

Nodding, she pulls her hand away and they begin to move again, walking more slowly than before. "You know people," she says softly, looking at her own hands, "and sometimes they disappear and sometimes they stay right in front of you, but they're still gone."

"Sometimes they do both." He shakes his head. "I'm not going talk about Starbuck with you."

"What makes you think I want to talk about her?"

"It's in everyone's face. I walk these corridors and everyone waits, ready for the moment I make the turn and there she is. Like there's nothing better to do than wonder if we're going to frak or fight the second we lay eyes on each other."

"You're married."

He looks at her, surprised at the comment. "Yeah."

"I'd think that would lay odds in favor of fight."

Lee laughs and turns, walking backwards, facing her as he walks away. "Yeah, with Starbuck? There's not much difference between the two."

After five days, he starts jogging the first circuit. Jogging's a generous term and, for the first time, he feels the weight on his skin. He goes slow, conditioning himself for the movement, breathing steadily, ignoring the glances he earns. There's something in the movement, in the motion that's familiar and he falls to habit, the circle of corridors a maze he knows, though he's not sure the end is an exit or a Minotaur.

He never alters his path unless construction steers him somewhere new. He runs with purpose, if not destination, and offers only smile or salute when required. Occasionally someone will fall in step with him - Helo or Kat or Racetrack, but most often the ones that chose the surface, looking for regulation and familiarity in the recirculated air and the pounding drum of feet on metal.

He doesn't stop when he sees her, arms full of books and papers and directing the traffic that lands at Adama's door, doesn't envy her the position of being the last guard at the foot of Mount Olympus. He salutes her from time to time, tossing off a quick gesture with a smile that she returns when she sees it, her dark eyes laughing at some joke he doesn't get, even though the look in her eyes makes it clear it's something between them.

The second circuit he takes at a jog until the last half, slowing to a walk. He doesn't think about where he is when he does it, doesn't do it with intent, but he knows that, for the duration of the Roslin/Adama/Zarek talks, she's bunking here with Roslin in the best suite money can by, which puts it directly across from the brig. He slows before the turn and has settled into a brisk walk by the time he reaches the hatch.

"Commander."

He stops and offers her a smile and a salute and the laughter is there in her eyes again. "You're going to have to tell me at some point."

"Tell you what?" She doesn't start to walk, so he shifts from foot to foot then settles into a sort of parade rest and her eyes flash brighter.

"The joke."

Her brow furrows, and he can sees her looking him over. His jaw sets and he wonders for a moment how he got it so wrong. The joke wasn't with him, it was on him. It was him.

"Never mind. My mistake."

"Commander Adama."

Her voice holds the same command that Roslin's does, the same grip that wraps its fist in his honor and holds him steadfast. "Yes, ma'am?"

"There is no joke."

"I've seen enough looks," he tells her softly, his voice betraying him with an undercurrent of hurt, of self-doubt. "To know."

"To know what? That maybe you made a bad decision, Commander? That maybe you're human, Sir?" She shakes her head. "You said this was hard on all of us, Commander. Well, you were right. We deal with it the way we deal with it." She looks away from him and swallows, her own jaw working over the words she seems poised to say. "There is no joke, Co…Lee. It's just good to see you."

She stares at the bulkhead like there are answers spray painted on the grey surface. Lee takes a tentative step forward, his hand raising of its own accord to brush a dark lock of hair back from her face. "It's good to see you too."

"We've all…lost something. A friend, a lover, sight. We've all lost sight. B-but the bandages will come off, and we'll see again. Sharp and clear and…" She turns her hand up, holds out her fist and opens it to her empty palm. "There's a future out there. W-we just have to find it. Grab it. Make it…ours." She turns her head and her eyes are bright, shining with something more than laughter, something a shade darker than tears. "Ours for the taking."

He takes another step forward, his fingers in her hair now, brushing along the nape of her neck. It's comfort, he tells himself. Nothing more. "What did you lose?"

She laughs and there's nothing but bitterness in it. "The future. She…she gave me the future and I lost it."

"You just said it was ours for the taking."

"Yeah, well, I'm a politician, Lee," she admits with a milky laugh. "I do a lot of lying."

"I'm not a politician."

She nods. "That has never been more clear." She licks her lips and watches him, watches as his eyes fall to the moist flesh she leaves behind. Her eyes fall to his mouth and he can feel his lips part, his breath catch. "You should finish your walk."

"I should." His hand curves around the base of her neck and holds her as he stares into her eyes, uncertain of what he's looking for, uncertain if he'll even know it if he finds it. "You're right."

She steps away and strands of her hair stay tangled in his fingers as she vanishes back through the hatch. "Goodnight."

He does a third circuit that night, unable to sleep and unwilling to lie in bed beside Dee. He's not looking for anything, but he knows it when he sees it. Hatches remain closed at all times, and an open one is an invitation. He doesn't wear a gun, but he goes in prepared, surprised by how much it doesn't surprise him to see her, fast asleep, her head pillowed on sheets of paper, the pen still tight in her fist.

He closes the hatch and dogs it, leaning against it to watch the smooth rise and fall of her shoulders as she sighs. He spies the bottle on the other end of the table and snags it, letting the bottle hit the rim of her glass lightly. She jumps and sits up, blinking and defensive, eyes wild.

"It's okay. It's okay." He reaches out, his fingers light on the back of her hand. "Just me."

"Gods." She breathes heavily, pushing her chair back. Her hand shakes as she reaches for the glass, tossing back the liquor in one smooth swallow. "Gods." She huffs out a few more shaky gasps then dissolves into nervous laughter, holding the glass out for another hit.

Lee reaches out and cups the bottom of the glass with his hand, steadying hers, his fingers brushing her skin. "All right?"

"I don't…sleep. Well. I don't sleep well."

"You seemed to be doing fine."

"Yeah. I think that scares me." She presses her fingers to the center of her forehead and rubs it, ironing out the lines that crease her skin. "A year of hell, trying to make a life, much less some sort of living, followed by four months of occupation and, Gods, no hope. We kept telling everyone to have hope, but it was…we didn't. Some of us didn't. People helped the Cylons. People turned in loved ones. People…betrayed each other."

"That's not war, Tory. That's not even the Cylons." He presses against the glass, urging it to her lips. "That's just life."

"I know that. I'm…I'm a politician, remember?"

"Yeah. And I'm an idealist." She smiles and he laughs. "You do what you have to. You don't always like it. You don't always agree with it, but it goes on. You make sure it goes on."

"And how do you live with it? How do you justify it?"

"As an idealist?" He laughs softly and sits on the edge of the table, taking a hit directly from the bottle. "You don't. You just take the hit."

She sits next to him and he feels her tremble. "As a politician, you spin it. Make it seem for the good of the people, the continuation of the race." She takes the bottle from him and fits her lips over the neck, taking a drink and shivering in the wake of the burn. "And as a husband? As…" She sets the bottle down and reaches over, her hand like a burning weight upon his thigh. "As a man, Lee?"

He turns his head and watches her, holds her eyes until he's too close and his lips are brushing hers. "You lie."

"What's one more lie?"

He shakes his head and breathes against her, nuzzles the warm air from past her parted lips. "Won't be the last."

"L-Lee."

"Tory," he whispers back, sliding off the table, his body warm as it presses to hers as she parts her legs, allows him against her. "Lie with me?"

She tastes like the festival of Hestia, warm and milky-sweet, meaty nuts dipped in honey and slathered on warm dough. He imagines sugar sprinkled on her skin as he tugs her shirt away from her collar, his tongue tracing the bone. She makes a sound and threads her fingers into his hair, letting her head fall back to allow him better access to the sweep of her throat. He whispers her name against her skin, feels it shiver inside her.

"Lee," she gasps softly, breathlessly, and he pushes her shirt up, tugging it off of her. He's as gentle as he can be in the frantic heat of it. She arches up off the table, her back curving to the pressure of his hands sliding along her spine, shifting her, fitting himself easily between her legs.

It's been a long time, longer than he likes to remember. He kisses her breasts, tongue circling the dark nipples, leaving them wet and hard, leaving her shivering in the lukewarm air. His teeth close around one hard nub and he bathes it with his tongue, groaning as she mewls softly.

He wonders how long it's been for her. Any man or woman wanting her would be called into question, their needs and desires weighed against the information and people she knows, wondering what they want from her. He brings his hands up to her breasts, cupping their weight against his palm. He wants nothing from her but this, and he can taste the relief on her skin, the abandon as he trails his mouth down, licking and kissing the flat plane of her stomach.

Tory shivers beneath him as his hands fumble with the catches of her pants, tugging at unfamiliar clothing instead of the safe trappings of a uniform. It hits him in that moment, what he's doing, what he's about to do and he closes his eyes, wondering as he frees her from her clothing, if that's the kind of man he is.

She snakes a leg around his hips and pulls him closer and he shakes his head, eyes still closed as he strokes the insides of her thighs, letting his fingers weave pathways on her skin up to the apex of heat, the damp skin. He touches her and she shudders, her breath loud in the silence. His fingers part her skin, slide inside her, moving steadily with the heavy shift of her chest. "Tory…"

"No." She shakes her head and closes her eyes, refuses to see him. Instead she arches her back, shifting so her feet find the edge of the table, lift her up to him. All he can see is her, all he can smell is the heavy scent of hunger, of want. It's enough, he thinks, as little as it is, to feel wanted and he strips off the uniform more easily than he ever thought possible. Another skin falls away and he slides inside her, his hands framing her face as he buries himself in her heat.

There's nothing right in this, but right and wrong don't seem to matter as much any more. Now is about survival, and Lee's not sure he can survive another day without something. He's not sure Tory is the right something, and he's sure this isn't, as good as it feels, but it gets him through another day.

The blinders can wait another rotation to fall away.

He jogs both circuits now, a steady pattern of others in step behind him. They pass Adama's quarters and they pass the now empty room across from the brig. They pass empty conference rooms and Lee's own quarters and a hundred other hatches that mean something to someone. They keep searching, keep moving - through time, through space - toward something.

Earth, maybe, though Lee's not sure of that anymore.

He keeps searching, every night, on his third circuit when Dee is asleep and he finds he can't close his eyes.