"It's amazing the things you start to notice when you're on the sidelines. How every decision that Laura and your father make gets stamped CLASSIFIED. Or how her directives are starting to read like decrees, yet still get enacted without so much as a debate." Lee hauls out his briefcase and starts going through papers, distracting himself with stage business. This is the Lampkin part of governance, the part Captain Apollo can never quite swallow. "You know she won't even allow records to be kept of any of her meetings? Secrecy and control are becoming obsessions for her. I think this Demetrius business is just the tip of the iceberg." Lee Adama, who was the one to christen the Fleet a gang on the run, is willing to suggest the hypothesis that sometimes a benevolent tyrant's exactly what you need. He might not even believe it, but he's saying it. What Zarek's saying is scarier, and more true, and more touching yet. "No. A tyrant craves power for its own sake. And all Laura wants is to save us all." The most dangerous mission of all.
Lee looks up, intrigued. "Trust me," says Tom. "Better yet, trust yourself. Because that's what I'm really counting on, that you're not the kind of man who can ignore the truth when it stares you in the face." Having cocked the gun and taken the safety off, Tom Zarek can leave with a spring in his step, having dropped a CLASSIFIED dossier on the table before Lee. He doesn't touch it, afraid it might bite, afraid it might disillusion him further, so he just watches Tom go instead.
On Galactica, Cottle's looking after Cally. She asks if maybe she couldn't just have a sedative and sleep in the sickbay, and Cottle gets crusty and kind with her. "Oh, sure. We'll just turn my sickbay in an opium den so you can have a little snooze." He pulls an empty bottle of pills from her pocket and she talks about her insomnia. Ever since the Nebula, ever since something sick worked its way into her home, she's been unable to sleep. "How are things on the home front?" Cottle's eyes go wide for a moment, then narrow in sadness, while she lists how things are: "You mean other than catching my husband with another woman and having him tell me I'm imagining things?" She's talking to the air, not meeting his gaze, which means he can look at her with all the compassion and concern he could never show her directly.
"Well. The man doesn't know what he's got at home. Should have his head examined. As a matter of fact, why don't you bring him in? I'll take a look." She's touched, and says her favorite thing about Cottle is that he's only pretending to be a bastard. So say we all. "Well, while you're in the mood for tough love, maybe you are imagining things." He shakes a bottle at her. "You know, fatigue and antidepressants can make a hell of a paranoia cocktail." And they have been, after too many long nights and questions, whirling on the wall. "I felt like I needed to take something to keep from going completely crazy." He tells her she's not crazy and lights a cigarette, and now, with his permission, she begins to name the stars and moons upon the wall.