Bill's vomiting, sitting in the gutter, wearing a civilian suit. It's all over him; he leans back against the cold, hard world as though it cradles him. He wipes a hand across his face and looks up, from the gutter to the stars. His vision clears and he can see them, in the black of Caprica by night: home. Whatever drives a man to them, it calls to him now. They are so lovely he laughs at them. And they laugh back.
The ships are leaving, the tapestries are rolled up in boxes. The harem is cold and hard, transformed from a temple to just another storage compartment. Their symbol, the Gull, still hangs above the door: Grace, Unity, Life, Love. (Seem silly? It's just a bumper sticker, something you can stick to your car's backside. ICHTHYS, the Jesus Fish: Greek for "Jesus Christ, God's Son and Savior." Said Athena, on Kobol: "We know your scriptures better than you do.") Gaius sits in the echoes and the emptiness; it was covered in rugs, once, that muffled the cold hard sounds. Tinfoil stars for a tin-crowned king. Now, it's just the world he's choosing over his own soul. It is empty.
"There's no need to torture yourself," the Angel tells him, dressed in red. "Just trust in God's plan for you." She thinks, arm across his shoulder, as he shakes with indecision. "You're following it right now," she says, playing with his hair. "Taking charge of mankind's remnants, and guiding them to their end." Paulla appears before he can find out what, urging him to join them. He asks for just a moment, waving his hand in the empty space as though he's alone: one more minute in the temple. His eyelids flutter, terrified, and she looks at him: just enough love to lend him bravery. Imagine those eyes.
Cottle gives Ishay just enough drugs for two more rounds of Laura's injections; enough to keep her upright for two more days. Laura nods. Two days. "That should be enough," she says. Just to hear the words aloud. "You're using up the last little bit of life you got," he gruffs, as though that wasn't always true. "You realize that, don't you?" She's tired of the conversation; she knows. He says goodbye, and makes ready to leave for the departing Raptors. He's too valuable for this mission. She stops him, to thank him, and he blows it off: "Just doing my job," he says, uncomfortable. It's no good, she's already crying, trying to break through the act for just one moment. Not a hysterical patient to her doctor, not a dependent, not vulnerable or weak or naïve: Thanking him, beyond and through and above their work together. For playing XO as she steered this ship around the last bend.