"You didn't think I would hurt her if I let her go? It never occurred to you? No wonder we had to invent some compassionate God for them to believe in. We couldn't have them deify us, could we?" Ellen fights him on that, since he's amnesiac about even God and getting his facts muddled, and Caprica -- eyes rolling like a horse at this point and screaming through her oxygen mask, I mean literally, it's hilarious how far they've stretched her sanity -- screams at them to shut the fuck up, for God's sake, because she's bleeding out and they're fighting over whether or not God exists, and Ellen's like, "My bad. Again." She thinks about tiptoeing away and Saul tells her to fucking bounce, and her heart breaks but she goes. And when she turns at the curtain, and sees him crying, all the words stop. She puts her hand on his shoulder, like a wife. And he clutches at it, desperately afraid and terribly grateful.
"Never Mix, Never Worry"
Out in the world, out in the darkest recesses of the old drowning girl, Bill watches them working on her, rebuilding her future, eliminating purity in the hope of something better. Fixed is not unbroken: you can't move backwards to the time before you broke your arm, yourself. But you can wonder at the newfound strength, once it's knitted back together. How much stronger we can be, at the places we were once broken. How much stronger our souls are at the places where we put our dreams away, or watched imaginary futures die, and moved past them into better futures that hadn't been written yet. He will put his pure futures to rest inside her bones, and accept the change that's already come. The fresh wind and the morning light, the dead skin of a dead dream of Earth, and what comes next. She's been mother and wife and womb to him, as he became something beautiful; she's drowning now but she will live. She will be stronger. Stronger at the places she is broken, even as pure futures die inside her:
Caprica sleeps. Ellen whispers word magic, the knowledge of a goddess and a queen, an Empress: the intuitive leap that brings the system back online. "Talk to her. Tell her you love her. It's what she needs. It's what the baby needs." Saul's uncomfortable. This tragedy began in the wardroom, as the words turned to ashes in his mouth. As he played for time, stuttering and stammering, afraid to say the words. He leans over his lover, whispering too. "Caprica, listen. I love you. All right? Can you hear me?" He shakes his head, every fiber angry, outraged, terrified. "This is nonsense. She knows it. I don't need to say it. I shouldn't need to say it. To anyone. Isn't it enough that I feel it? I feel it. For her. For you. For Liam. Shouldn't need to spout the words. I feel it less with words. Just let me Godsdamn feel it and I'll fill the frakking room." He shakes and stares at her, feeling it; it shines out of him, filling the room.