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It would have been so easy. All I had to do was pull the trigger. I wanted to, wanted to be rid of that Cylon scum. She shot the old man. She deserved nothing better.
But I couldn't do it. I couldn't bring myself to murder her in cold blood. That would've made me no better than her, but I could so easily picture her lying in a pool of her own blood. I wanted to hear her gasp for life, to see her suffer, and feel a fraction of the pain she caused Bill and his crew.
Instead, I walked out. I knew that if I stayed any longer, I wouldn't have been able to control myself. We would've had a dead Cylon and no intelligence from her.
Ellen was right in that if Bill died, the Galactica would be mine. That's the last thing I wanted. I didn't want the responsibility of command. Bill was cut out for it. He could be absolutely inspiring and had a natural confidence that earned respect. He was our leader. As far as I was concerned, my role was to keep the fleet together until he returned.
I was made from a different mold. I was not the natural leader that he was. Heck, if it wasn't for him, I would've washed out of the fleet long ago and died on Caprica with millions of others.
Bill saw more in me than I did. He kept me from destroying myself and I loved him for it. The love was emotional and physical and never interfered with our duties to the service. We subdued it for the benefit of our wives but it was always there just beneath the surface.
I took my last bottle of hooch out of my desk drawer. It had one shot left and I quickly downed it. Then I threw it against the far wall.
The sound of shattering glass was a perfect reflection of my mood. I sank into my chair and put my head down. I prayed to the gods who I wasn't sure that I still believed in. Please don't let him die.