In the Galactica morgue, Adama sits with his old friend Boomer's Corpse. He's asked it "why," and had it answered again and again by our Sharon. He's used it as a prop like Hamlet, and as a literal shoulder to cry on, and as the symbol of death always coming for him and his, without resting, with its matching wounds and matching scars. And he keeps returning to it, the body of his fallen enemy, to ask the ashes why. Roslin enters, unable to meet Adama's eyes. She can't look at Billy either, on the other side of the small room. She walks to Bill, looks down at Boomer. Her body decomposing, sore and disintegrated, the holes in her fine, strong face, and asks, "Is this what you gave them?" Adama calls the gambit a "calculated risk," I guess banking on the fact that nobody is creepy enough to keep her body around except him. Roslin spits it at him: "It wasn't worth it." He can't look at her. It wasn't. She stares into space, completely alone, and straightens her spine to approach Billy's body. Adama looks heavy and doesn't turn around, his back to Roslin. She pulls up a chair and seats herself regally at Billy's side. Her stiff upper lip lasts a second or two before she nearly collapses, holding herself awkwardly against the far wall. Bill keeps it together, not turning. Roslin cries over Billy's still body, looks down at him like they're about to go into a press conference, the way you check before the cameras come on. She notices that his hair is mussed, and moves it slightly. He is beautiful. "Oh, dear," she whispers. "Well, that's better. That's better." To nobody at all, she whimpers, "He was so young!" He was. She wanted him to be her successor, down the line of leaders. She sucks in a gasp and nearly loses it. She stands. And leaves. Bill doesn't look at her. She doesn't look at him -- she turns clockwise, awkwardly, toward the wall, so that she won't even see Adama's back, bent and sick and mourning and to blame. Imagine Bill the day he learned the truth about Zak, looking at Kara's beautiful face. Imagine the way your mind would stop, if you had to look.
Dualla sits with Apollo, sleeping. His hand moves in hers and he looks up. She's back in uniform. Lee: "Hey...what is it?" He has no way of knowing, about Billy or Sesha or what his father did. What Kara did, and how she can't repay it. Dualla: "Nothing. When you're feeling better, we can talk." He calls it a "hell of a vacation," and they smile. He falls back out of consciousness, moaning weakly. Dualla resumes the litany because she doesn't know what else to do: "Lee? Lee, you can't leave. You have to stay." Somewhere, Lee's floating in a black sea, her voice over the radio, calling him home. I wonder if all the pilots, Viper and Raptor and all, aren't just a little bit in love with Dualla? It's been said that she is the voice of home, out in the black. Behind Dualla stands Kara, in Captain's dress, watching them. "You have to really stay. You understand?" Kara leaves silently, her heart breaking for him. Which is worse: Adama hating her again, or Lee knowing that when the chips were down, she couldn't protect him -- she in fact shot him herself. A little taste of his guilt, after the Resurrection battle, when she walked into the Pegasus bridge with a gun in her hand, all alone. The price of representing the emotions of the entire cast is being sacrificed to them yourself, and that's not a role Lee's ever going to be able to control or even understand about himself. "It's okay," Dualla whispers. "I'll be here when you wake up." And she will. Lee's all she's got. There's a wide shot from above: Apollo sleeping, Dualla awake. "I'll be right here."