...Cut to Laura on Colonial One, getting a blessing from Brother Cavil. He's a Cylon. He is in competition with Six for coolest Cylon, in fact. He's holding Laura's hand. "...Give the people of this Fleet the wisdom to see the goodness and the strength of your servant, Laura Roslin. Amen."
Back from commercial, a Marine lets Baltar into Adama's quarters, which are dark and spooky: "Admiral? Uh..." Roslin appears from the shadows. "Madam President," Baltar says, in no mood. She steps toward him: "The Admiral's not here. This is my meeting." He's nervous but still. "I wanted us to talk privately, without the press getting wind of it," she adds. "Please, have a seat." She steps closer; Baltar doesn't move. "Well," he says, climbing back toward Gaius Baltar mode, "you must have something very interesting to say to resort to such pedestrian methods of deception." He sits. I have another vision of her offering him a cup of tea with a human finger floating in it.
"The question of permanent settlement may well be the most important issue we face since the attack," says Roslin. Baltar looks at the President like he's going to fight this on principle, but thinks about it and gives in, grudgingly. "The question should be carefully studied before making a final decision," she says, slowly, in the murky dark. "The middle of an election campaign is hardly the time for careful study. Therefore, I propose a truce." Fake smiles abound. "You and I will issue a joint statement declaring that the question be tabled until after this election." Baltar gives a great "the fuck we will" look off this, then folds his arms and stares around, "listening" so condescendingly, as Roslin continues: "We will both pledge that -- regardless of who is elected -- the decision will be made only after careful deliberation, involving all elements of the public, and after consultation with the military, and the Quorum of Twelve." Her measured tone, her eyes begging him to agree. She's too tired to airlock his ass today. He sighs, resting his head on his hands, elbows on the table, about to rebut, but she keeps talking: "Doctor. I know we've had our disagreements, but this issue transcends personal disagreement -- as well as politics." He looks away, and he's never looked so much like Julian Bashir -- and so less -- than right this second. "I am appealing here to your sense of patriotism," Roslin begins, and that's the button. She's trying to be so, so scary, and so very presidential, but she's just pushed the exact wrong nerve, and she doesn't even know it. "Patriotism" is the thing her letter tickled, the thing, the manhood of him, that her letter questioned, and now Billy's dead and she'll never know Gaius read it. She has no idea how that concept cuts to the bone of him, that he knows that she thinks (correctly) that he's too much of a whiny little selfish bitch to be President. It's one thing to be the next LBJ in a long line of LBJs -- that's not history. But to beat a beloved leader of the people in a fair fight, which is what this now is? Roslin's putting on the table Baltar's worth as a man, and his debt of destruction; she doesn't know she's just brought in any of these things. She just thinks (correctly) that he's evil and sort of an idiot. It's awful to watch. "Let me tell you," he hisses, "my sense of patriotism is doing just fine, thank you very much for asking. I see it as my patriotic duty to lead this Fleet to a new world." Roslin leans back a millimeter, realizing she just fucked up. "...[and] that new world is unquestionably New Caprica," Baltar finishes, hands spread: "But hey, dude..." He thanks her for "demonstrating just how desperate" her reelection has become, and stands to leave.