Galen remembers a house with flowers on the table and a broken mower in the backyard, the grass growing ankle-high. After Sam’s memories are spilled out of the bullet hole in the back of his brain, Galen can’t get the image out of his head.

He kneels over the machine, fiddling with the components, examining it through the eyes of a person who’s never crawled inside the engine of a Battlestar, someone not him.

“It’s gonna rain again,” Sam’s voice from behind. “You better get that fixed or we’ll be living in a jungle.”

Galen feels Sam’s hand on his shoulder, leans into the touch, remembers the last thunderstorm. They were having dinner outside and the skies opened up. Back in the house, they stripped each other of their wet clothes, Sam pressing Galen hard against the wall, his mouth hot and hungry, his fingers tugging at Galen’s buckle.

Galen wakes from this dream, this memory, and he’s hard and aching and can’t shake the feel of Sam’s warmth on his skin, Sam’s hand wrapped around him, Sam pressing into him.

He wonders if Sam remembers this life, if he kept it secret to protect him, to protect them.

Days later he finds himself heading toward sickbay, his fingers tracing the walls as he goes, and not for the first time, he hopes that Sam remembers.