Eyes intent on his face, she feels her spine straighten. Her fingers crave tangible proof, itching to reach out and touch either his hair or his half-missing leg, but she resolutely holds her hands at her sides.

"Two weeks."

And it's barely been a week since she was on Galactica, and he had hair that never dreamed of curls. He had two legs. He sure as frak never sang.

Don't ask, she tells herself. Do not flip the godsdamn question around.

She bites the inside of her cheek, but it's not enough. "How long for you?"