"Because this is my life! This is the life I picked. And it's fine! But you know what? It's not. I didn't pick this life." He has never needed his wife more than at this moment, and she doesn't know, and she can't know. He is begging, and it sounds like lies. He even slams a fist upon the table, scaring the Admiral, hoping to shock a glance from the Gods. And everywhere in the bar, people are staring, growing disgusted. "This is not my frakkin' life." The Chief says "Frak." The Admiral, shaken, asks him WTF is going on, why he spits on her memory, why he tells these lies and asks Adama to tell him they're true.
And again it's grief, and not guilt, and not the song, that speaks: it's every widower. Ever since the attacks, we've been begging for somebody to do this: do it publicly, do it loudly, take five seconds out of their day and just scream. To say that the dead can go frak themselves, that we're better off without them, that their absence hurts too much to bear and so we must debase them. Mourning is too lonely a thing to do on our own. But the halls of Galactica are too quiet, and the faces that we wear are too important to risk, so we go on crying in silence, begging for the scream. I wish it weren't him; I love him too much. As wishes -- and loves -- the Admiral, more fervently than ever. He asks the Chief again and again to go home with him, put it away, button up, because she's dying in front of his eyes for the second time and all he has is paperback pulp novels, and he can't afford to scream like this. All the sickened faces in Joe's Bar: How much of their horror is just jealousy?
"Know what? I'm sorry if I'm not gonna do this the way you want me to, or the way you might. But I will not make an angel out of someone who wasn't an angel. But I can see you have." The Admiral starts to break down; this is pushing it. When he's trying to understand her, the way she moves, the way she changes all at once, the way she keeps changing, too fast to follow. She's becoming a blur, moving faster and faster, like Kara into the storm. Mourning is too lonely. Don't tell me not to make her an angel, when an angel is what she already is.
"And now you've come down here to be in my club, but you're not in my club. You don't know what frakkin' club I'm in 'cause you never asked the right questions." Who could? Not even Brother Cavil saw you at the Cylon parties, and if you're talking about grief -- which you're not, but if you were -- that's a club of one. Apocalypses happen to people, not to nations. The political is only ever personal. "Chief, let's get out of here," says the Admiral, in that voice you know he means it. And Chief pushes, just that centimeter more that could break it all apart, destroy it all and make it dust: "No. Why don't you go? Take care of your precious ship." It's the tone, not the words, that jerks the Admiral's back straight. "Stop it. Stop all of this. 'Cause if you don't, I'm going to have to act on it, now shut up."