Lee touches Anastasia's hair, without even thinking about it. There are stars in their eyes, remembering less the things that never were than the beauty that they had, for the first time. He smiles, intimately. "I think I managed to stall a full-scale panic, but I've got no idea what to do next." She knows he will. She is grateful, happy, peaceful, coquettish; she thanks him for a good day. She is grateful and at peace, and happy for one good day. They look into each other's eyes, and she hesitates only a moment before she kisses him, passionately. Hungry to touch him, tonight, now that the world is ending, to remember every hair and pore and inch of him. She always loved being an Adama best. That's what she feels like tonight.
Anastasia grins and backs away, smiling at him one last time from the hatch of her quarters. He has tears in his eyes as she goes, and a little bit of hope. He wanders away when she is gone, floating on a cloud. Inside, Felix settles a watchcap over his missing leg, as a makeshift pad for his artificial leg. Anastasia enters humming to herself, putting away her things, dreamy and unfocused, memories like perfume, dancing in the air. Holding onto the pieces of it.
She quirks a smile at Felix: "What?" He gives her a look. "You're glowing." She's big-sister coy, little-sister delighted: "Am I?" He grunts, standing. "All I can think of is that waste of a planet..." but she cuts him off easily, grinning. "Felix, please. I just want to hang on to this feeling for as long as I can." He's brusque, jealous of the feeling, but he's always adored her. The voice of home, and its nervous system. All the parts of them that have gone missing, but he's still grateful they have each other. There are no guarantees in the Fleet, not even in the best of times: who knew you could find such a good friend, in the midst of all that chaos? It's rare no matter when or who or where you are, isn't it? Someone with so many of the qualities you respect? They gossiped about the higher-ups, and planned their mutinies, shared private revolutions. He'd tell her jokes, and she'd laugh at them; she'd tell him her dreams and he'd sigh.
Felix stands behind her, finally relenting. He points at a picture pinned to the inside door of her locker: a little girl on a bicycle, staring into the future. "Look at that," he says, connecting her to the little girl. "Little Ana's got her smile back!" Finally. A long time coming, that. She looks like Hera, that little girl. She looks like Anastasia, tonight more than she has in a long time. "Sometimes I don't even remember that's me. It's so long ago." Anastasia looks at the little girl in the photograph, drinks her in, in love with her. "She has no frakkin' idea what's ahead of her."