"Here you go, sir." The Admiral nods to the bartender, and tries again. "She was a good woman." Chief tells him that if he really believed that, he wouldn't have put her up against a bulkhead and threatened to shoot her, which shocks Adama: are we still going to go there? Now that we're mourning her, now that we're sharing a drink and the problem was solved? But Chief's just spinning dreams now, willing them to be true. Begging them to be true, to make sense. This is grief, not guilt, speaking now. Not the Cylon but the man.
"It's okay, though. I thought about doing it many times myself. Believe me." The Admiral begs him to stop, but he won't. Especially not now. "How many of us ended up with the people we really wanted to be with? Got ... stuck with the best of limited options? And why? Because the ones we really wanted, really loved, were dead and dying, or turned out to be Cylons and they didn't know it. If Boomer had... If I had known..."
The Admiral doesn't know. How can he? How can he stop begging the Chief to stop, stop breaking his own heart, stop shouting, calm down, go to bed, like Saul on those hot nights, how can he talk him down and make him happy, how can he prove his love when every bit of kindness is a hair plucked from the head? Last time, he proved his love with fists; he apologized with blood. This is not appropriate for a widower, not when his last apology was for ever letting their family go. He begs the Chief to stop, to go with him, but the Chief only shouts louder, drawing stares.
"No, no. I didn't know. I didn't know. So I buried my head in the sand and I took it and I settled! I settled for that shriek, those dull vacant eyes, the boiled cabbage stench of her. And why?" Because you are a dirty boy. A Fool. A boy unable to admit the difference between love and guilt. A boy so full of hate for an idea that he couldn't love the reality; a boy driven sick and mad with dissonance. A boy willing to take what he was given, because everything he was given was taken away. A boy who thinks love means building bars. A boy who engineered his own sadness and pain out of loneliness and obsession and fits of rage and violence. A boy who'd barely learned the world, before it was destroyed, and spent every moment trying to put it back together in a way that makes sense, a boy who tried to machine the engine of the world and make it run again. A person, like you and me, and Tory and Boomer, and Cally. Because you are a good boy, who deserved none of this pain or fear or confusion, but must somehow bear it. Just a boy, who deserved to be loved.