The priestess lights incense for the Gods, and Gaius Baltar screeches outside, kicking in the hatch: "We want justice, not these stupid old Gods!" She points out, kindly, that they're having a service, but he's not interested. "Are you? But whom are you serving?" She asks him to leave, but he's off on such a tear. As the faithful scream, he defames their temple, laying waste to their worship, tearing down icons and destroying the altar, hurling Zeus and Aphrodite and Persephone to the floor. And he screams, pushing the beautiful young priestess to the floor, even as his followers join in the fray, even as the Marines arrive to take him away:
"Would you be serving Zeus? Apparently King of the Gods, who also happened to be, let me tell you, a serial rapist. Prone to giving birth out of his own forehead -- that's very likely, isn't it? -- Well, Gods? Strike me down. Oh, what are you going to do? Damn you, you ignorant witch, telling the people lies and stories. Maybe you want me to pray to Asclepius, who healed wounds with the blood of Gorgons? Or Aphrodite? Or Artemis Or any other of this rubbish? How awful! Out of the way, you hideous old witch. That's the kind of rubbish that you made! I will not be destroyed at this level! God! Haven't enough of us died already?" The question most of us would reserve until the war is at least underway, but it's Gaius: he is a drama queen. And he knows PR better than Pepsi and Coke combined.
I THINK WE ARE IN RATS' ALLEY / WHERE THE DEAD MEN LOST THEIR BONES
(Masks come off; Walls come down; every word is a Lie.)
When Bill gets to Sickbay she's already packing her stuff. "Am I that late?" No, it's not that. This ritual he's created -- we just do prayer differently, on Admiral Atheist's side of the salt -- doesn't signify, because it wasn't a treatment she was in for: just a blood test. And now they can spend the afternoon together, and play out the ritual in a better temple. "You brought a new book?" Yes. "A classic," he calls it, before admitting the truth: "My favorite." His favorite. How much time does he give her now? After the funeral, how much time is he willing to waste? Laura knows it on sight -- of course she knows it -- and exclaims happily. "Sea Rider Falcon! I haven't read it in years, I don't remember how it ends."
Neither does Bill; he never read the ending. Bill doesn't do endings. He lets things fade, or blows them up in a drunken crazy spree, but he can't sit quietly through endings. He feels them too much; he destroys his favorite things when he's forced into endings, he bitches about the protocol of funerals, he speaks with the dead every single year, but Bill doesn't do endings. Not when he loves. Bill Adama is asking a woman to share a new frontier with him: an ending, to his favorite story. His favorite story ever, he is willing to build cabins in its end, for her. With her, alone. And of course, Laura doesn't get it. "You're kidding. It's your favorite!" He smiles sweetly, his eyes alive: Yes. It is.