She slams Sam's bullet down on the bar and thinks for a second, about how far they've come and how hard it's been for Chief, and changes her entire tone. "You go see Boomer in the brig yet?" His reply is a terse negative; he's not interested in any of this, sharing pain; he downs his gin. "You should go when she's asleep," she says, changing too fast for Galen to see what she's trying to give him. "I watched Sam until I just couldn't handle the fun anymore..." Chief grabs the whole bottle and stalks away; she smacks the shot glass down on the bar, and a new song starts on the piano.
Bill touches the cracks in his girl, until he can't handle the fun anymore. There's stuff inside her that he didn't know about; they're putting stuff in her he doesn't understand. The world is changing faster than he can keep up, like waking from a long sleep to learn it was all a joke, all along.
Ellen smiles painfully at her when Caprica opens the hatch of her quarters. "There you are!" Ellen says. "Look at you," she says, waving toward Caprica's belly, and then walks uninvited into their quarters. She's still wearing her party dress from when she escaped Cavil's lobotomizing ways; she looks lovely but it's a funeral sort of party. A wake for Galactica, falling apart all around them both. "You haven't changed much," she says, reminding her daughter that she'll always know more. "How did you get the guards to bring you here?" Caprica asks, as Ellen casually opens one of their lockers and takes a gander inside. Ellen laughs: "I thought maybe we could have a drink. Where's the booze?" (George: "Martha, will you show her where we keep the, uh, euphemism?") There is no booze; there is no euphemism. I wonder if Ellen even knows that yet, how Saul's stopped drinking at the same rate Bill's picking up the bottle. I wonder if it terrifies her.
Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf? is two different plays. If you haven't read it or seen it, you at least know it's about one thing: Liz and Dick are terrifying to a young couple with their incredibly terrible fighting and awkward love and hatred, too tired to kee`p from showing the scars, too angry to be good hosts and plaster on that smile. And if you've read it or seen it, you know there's another story going on there. I don't want to tell you what it is, because it's absolutely wonderful and you should watch it unspoiled, because there is some Shayamalania that goes down. So I won't mention it again except to note that human psychology is based on projection. Sometimes what we agree to believe is just as important as what we can see all around us. Sometimes I wonder if that's all love is: a dream we agree to dream together. It's fragile. A doubt, or a betrayal, of the dreams we make together can mean the difference between living and death. All it takes to kill a hope -- or a future, or a love -- between two people is to say: "I don't want to play anymore." Sometimes that's all it takes for the Gods to send their little lightning bolts shooting down.