For that day when we all have the time.
No matter what, I don't know how, we will manage. Find a balance. And that's the day we win, and that's the day we rest. And when there's no more war, Lee can orchestrate peace, and Bill can build a cabin, and lay down his burden, and step down from that pedestal. Or everybody steps up, onto theirs, so he can look them in the eye.
"I'm glad you stopped by," says Roslin, her body language crying out. "I have something for you. This was given to me by one of the Colonists, down on New Caprica." She holds out a silly old paperback, like they both love. Tory found it, in a pile of old clothes. Blood Runs At Midnight, it's called. "Don't let the title fool you, it's a pretty good mystery. I think you'll like it." Books for these two are like the lost language of flowers. After the mutiny, after they forgave each other under the Gods' watchful eyes on Kobol, to keep her alive, he said "fuck story logic," and he gave her a book. It is their policy never to loan books; only to give them. This is the language of their love, whatever definition is yours. "And it's not a loan. It's a gift." She gets -- is she nervous? She keeps packing, fidgeting, getting her makeshift office together, to go back to Colonial One. Unless he speaks.
He speaks. "You ever...think about the times...much? On...New Caprica?" She looks at him a moment. "I try to think about the good times, yes." Her eyes go wandering. "I do." He clears his throat and/or staves off an impending vomit attack. "One in particular stands out in my mind. You were wearing a really ... bright...red dress." Dude, me too. She was retina-violatingly hot in that thing. "Said you wanted to build a cabin." She leans back, in the international posture for Bring It The Fuck On, speaking like she kind of remembers what he's talking about. "It was at Baltar's groundbreaking ceremony." She grins. "I got a little silly that night." He takes his time replying. "You ever wonder what would've happened if the Cylons hadn't have come back?" She considers him. Say too much and you're a fool; say too little and you get Apollo'd right out the door without any nookie at all. The tree doesn't fall far from the apple, right, but also: it's hard when godlike faÃ§ades come face-to-face. That's like playing poker with tarot cards. "I think...given Baltar and the terrain, we couldn't have made a go of it." She lets that sink in, and begs him to be the one to give in: "What about you? Do you think you would have stayed on Galactica? Or do you think you would have settled?" He goes gamer: "It's pretty hypothetical, isn't it?" Without thinking, she gives the proper answer: "It is. Until it isn't." The "you pussy" at the end of that sentence is silent. He doesn't fill in the blank.