"Please don't do this," she whispers, her eyes on his. Not for herself, not for denial. She's not denying anything to herself, that's the gift of a year in the schoolhouse, of admitting the possibility of a cabin near a river. She's not afraid of death anymore, and she's through hiding anything. She learned, a little, how to live, when Gaius Baltar saved her from dying. That's his gift, and she's still got it. She treasures it. She's not begging for herself, she's begging for him. For the two of them, the love they still have for each other, the understanding, that's telling her right now that he's about to attack. For the Fleet, and the hopes of her people -- her people -- in the face of so much uncertainty, she will not answer this question until it is asked. She will give them what strength she has to give. But that doesn't mean by asking the question, you're not breaking her heart. Not for herself, but for their people, she puts her forehead at his feet: "Please."
"Madame President, are you taking chamalla at this time?" Her voice is tiny, her eyes welling with tears and frustration, so small in her chair. "Captain Apollo. You remember that?" He's dead. "I always thought it had such a nice ring to it." It was perfect. He was her Aurora: what Kara was to flight, to the warrior in Bill, Lee Adama was to truth and reconciliation. The first name across her lips, knowing that Bill still hates Joseph, was still Lee's, because her love for, and belief in, him are still so terribly strong. "I am so, so sorry for you now." Me too. He's a good boy. Captain Apollo is dead, in only three acts.