"What does this search for paragons net us, anyway? Except greater guilt at our own failings? Or worse, the idiot's solution of the clean slate." Fixed is not unbroken. "The fresh start." Sometimes it's better to stick with what you've got, he's saying. Not Captain Apollo, paragon and imaginary being: Lee Adama, man and boy, son and hero. There is no such thing as a fresh start until the moment that you are strong enough to bear it. As my friend Rachel says, and could have said about the Cylon long ago: "The ones who come back are the ones who suffer. Live as if you've never lived before." If it doesn't hurt, if it doesn't feel like dying, it's not change.
Lee can't handle it, and tries to stop him wiping away the names, the ones they haven't ruled out yet. That word "yet," he uses now. Romo smiles, as Lee starts writing the names again, begging him to hear, smiling as he doesn't, smiling because his denial, the inability of Captain Apollo to hear the words, speaks as highly of Lee as it makes him a punchline: "This one's a loser. An exercise in futility." Lee fusses over rewriting them, busily, murmuring to himself about lawyers. Romo's not talking lawyer, he's talking devil. Fuss fuss fuss. Right in the room with Romo and Lance the cat, and Lee can't hear or see either of them: Three cats in a box.
In sickbay, Bill is fussing too, grilling Cottle about how this involuntary vacation is going to affect Laura's treatment. I would say the fact that her ass got BLOWN UP speaks very highly for the treatment of her cancer, but I don't know about the concomitant symptoms.
Even Cottle's like, "Um, you mean if we assume no other changes in her circumstances?" Like how she got blowed up and you know that? Adama is fierce, and lovely: "Yes." Diloxin is an ass-kicker, so she'll actually be getting friskier for a while as the poison he's been injecting into her body slowly drains away -- and let's seriously consider what a frisky Laura Roslin is capable of doing on a Cylon Basestar, given five minutes or so, and let's maybe tremble a little bit -- but then the cancer will also get its shit together, which feels less awesome. Bill, almost in tears, asks for a hard deadline: how many hours does he have to wish her back? Cottle won't give. "Let's just say that the sooner you get her back here, the better her chances are." And while he's digesting that, Cottle also has some interesting news about some labs he just got back on Caprica Six. Bill tries desperately to give a crap about that. His body is a cat in a box but his heart is somewhere else. It calls.