Bill Adama was losing everything all at once. He tried to deny it to himself, but it was true. He was losing both of his women. And there wasn't much holding them together, keeping them with him. Laura was being held together by little more than prayers, his love, and her seemingly unbreakable spirit. The Galactica was held together by sticky tape and that red cylon substance of which Bill didn't have the patience to understand the composition.
As always, his wife, as he liked to think of her even if he hadn't worked up the nerve to ask her yet, was right. She could understand everything that was happening to him from that bed in sick bay. He shouldn't have been surprised by that fact. Since they'd met, Laura's understanding of seemingly everything was uncanny. In the beginning, he felt threatened by her ability to read every situation and act accordingly. It seemed she could do both of their jobs with ease, superseding any importance the obstinate Commander may have had to the fleet. But that was never her intention. If anything, she sought to ensure his place in the fleet, choosing him to take her place in leading the fleet after her demise. But Laura lived, and their friendship grew.
He found himself seeking her council more and more. Although, sometimes it was just an excuse to talk to her. Over time, Bill realized he got more out of conversations with Laura than he had with Saul, Lee, or Kara. Not that his best friend and family weren't important to him, but they couldn't give him what he needed, not the way Laura could. She was the one who understood him, understood the pressure and responsibility of leadership. Plus, she was smarter than everyone else. Once they'd become friends, their sparring sessions were wonderfully pleasing and intellectually stimulating. Just when he thought he had her, she brought out the big guns, disarming him completely. Much like she was doing from her bed in sick bay.
She'd said to him once, "You know I'm right; you just don't want to face it." That applied to nearly every discussion they'd ever had. She was always ready to face the things that frightened him. When Bill wanted to run and hide, Laura was always right there on the frontline. Her strength gave him strength.
His President was like a chameleon: Laura became whatever the fleet needed her to be. When they were dealing with Cain, Laura became a fighter, ordering her assassination, when Bill still wanted to believe diplomacy was the best strategy. When luck turned in their favor, Laura was pleased he was able to escape without blood on his hands. She knew that would weigh heavily on his conscience, that he'd rather die honorably than commit a murder-even if it was what was necessary for the fleet. That was the difference between the two leaders. Laura would do anything for the fleet, when Bill preferred to do the honorable thing.
That difference probably should have kept them apart, but instead it brought them together. They were perfect for each other, really. They shared their strength, responsibilities, books. They balanced each other. But he was losing his lynchpin.
He knew that when he lost his women, he'd have nothing. He was prepared to pass the mantles to his son and Saul: He just wouldn't be able to do it anymore.