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Lee sits at the bar and drinks, staring straight ahead. He can hear the party in the background, can hear the laughter and joy. It doesn't touch him. He taps his glass again and the bartender fills it up without a word, the bottle sitting at the ready. Lee lifts and drinks, his hand barely shaking as the glass clinks against his teeth. He licks his lips as he sets it back on the bar, letting the squared lines of the base settle back into the ring of moisture on the smooth surface. He doesn't taste anything other than the burn, and even that's dulled to a pulse he can barely feel. He can feel eyes landing on him discreetly from all around the room, but he can't manage to give a frak right now. Ever. The old man's the first one to approach him, sitting beside him and nodded to the bartender. Lee just picks up his glass and ignores his father, falling back on years of practice. A lie, he thinks. He never really ignored his father. He just kept trying to impress the old bastard, and never managed to do it. His father's apathy was far better than his own. Second best. You think he'd be used to it by now. "Lee?" "Admiral." "Look, Son, I know…" Lee takes his glass and stands up, walking away mid-sentence. His father doesn't follow. No one follows. He empties the glass and sets it upside down on a random table. Silence filters around him as he walks through the crowd to the hatch, whispers turning to words to laughter as he passes through. He leans against the bulkhead and blows out a breath, wondering how long he's been holding it. Turning his head, he watches a few revelers slip out into the darkened passageways seeking sin and sex and comfort and his mouth almost manages a smile. He doesn't belong on Galactica. Never has. His smile fades to resignation and he turns, heading for his Raptor and plotting the short course to Pegasus, another metal prison that's the closest he'll ever find to home.
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