He's bled on it, thrown up on it, gone to his knees and kissed it - no, wait, that was Jack.
He's taken it at a run, crawled up it bleeding, sauntered, aware of just how very fucking cool this was, he was, they were, and Monday morning walked up it, eyes lowered, jaw working to hold back a yawn.
He's landed on it, boots smacking, knees buckling, staggering forward.
He's been tossed onto it, spat out, hitting hard, rolling and collecting bruises.
And now he's going up the ramp one last time, and his feet don't touch the ground.
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