Love. It's why we build bars. Cottle (Hi!) bitches at Tigh, Roslin, and Adama about their shitty sleep deprivation plan, noting that "psychosis can make a man do strange things," even men who didn't start out shit-hot nuts in the first place. He also mentions Baltar's "little hunger strike." These people, you guys. "The bastard wants to die that bad, I say let him," says Tigh. I kind of agree, but Roslin is not into basic freedoms right now: "Bottom line, we need Baltar to talk. If the other Cylon saw the same symbols that we saw, they could be on their way to Earth, they could be setting up an ambush by now. I'm betting that after tonight, he'll be more willing. Doc, wait an hour or two. I want him cogent. I also don't want him to starve." He asks what the hell she wants him to do about that; he already knows. "I expect you to make sure he eats," she says, like she's offering him another helping of tiramisu. Tigh heads out to get some security cameras into the cell, lest Gaius and Chip Six try something else; Gaeta tries to follow him out, but Roslin stops him.
"What exactly were you doing going to see Dr. Baltar in the middle of the night?" Adama and Roslin look at him intently as he makes a sneaky face. "I...couldn't sleep?" Roslin nods; she knows about that. "And I guess...I thought he might be willing to talk to me?" Adama says kindly, "We understand. Just...leave his interrogation to us." Felix is Latin for a particularly innocent happiness: it connotes a luck in life, as in a felicitous coincidence. Gaeta leaves with a sad "of course," and alone, Adama and Roslin have a whole conversation without talking about how nobody ever understood the relationship between Felix and Gaius before, but they're not about to look under that rock now.
Lee comes home drunk, slamming the hatch behind him; Dualla's doing paperwork by the midnight oil. He tells her the Chief said hi, and she asks if he's one of Lee's new drinking buddies. So that's new, then. The drinking. Lee complains drunkenly that he'd invite her if she hadn't been clear about her disinterest. "Not what I'm asking," she says, using enjambment in her everyday life. What he's saying is that he has nothing to hide; what she's saying is that's just a technicality. He lies down, whining that he's got a briefing at 0500, and she asks if they're still having dinner tomorrow; she cleared her schedule for a date. Some of his thoughts are hanging out all unsightly: he sighs aloud, "Dammit," then reassures her in an outside voice that they're on. "It'd be nice for a husband and wife to occasionally..." He begins to snore; she says, "Forget it," to an empty room. As long as she's got him caged she wants him comfortable; as long as he's harboring secrets she might as well have the last word. "Forget it," she says, like he doesn't know the door's open: there's no cage at all. She's been waiting for this; the door's always been open.