((Editor's note: Chpt. 1 was revised with some content added. It is worth your time and effort to go back and read it again. Thank you -- Management))

"This ... is bad."

Coming from the Commander of a battlestar, it was an understatement, of course. Critical supply shortages were going to become a way of life. They were going to have to find supplies of food to feed 50,000 people, and medical supplies to keep them healthy. Then there were the fuel and ship parts to keep 50-some odd ships running -- and their military escort and the ships aboard her flying for protection.

But it didn't solve the problem of what lay before him. Commander William Adama contemplated the problem sitting on the table, then grimaced and pushed it away.

"Tell me we're not rationing coffee yet."

Across the table in the near-empty wardroom, Colonel Paul Tigh looked at him in disbelief and shook his head.

"I don't believe it. You're worrying about the coffee?" Tigh shook his head, and then looked at Adama skeptically. "You're not really ... are you?"

Adama contemplated the situation for a minute, and then leaned back in his chair.

"It's nice to have something so small to complain about." Though, as he thought about it, he needed his cup of coffee in the morning. He half shrugged, and then waved a hand at the papers on the table in front of him. "Wouldn't you say?"

Tigh grunted, probably as much in bemusement as agreement. Adama found his time-hardened features crooking upwards into a grin in spite of themselves, and he realized that for the first time in ten days, he felt almost relaxed. Almost in control. Given what the past ten days had presented him with, that was something approaching a miracle.

Following the red-line jump, there had more issues than the personnel to assign to them. They'd had to inventory the ships and the supplies that they carried. At President Roslin's urging, they'd also begun a hasty registration program, gathering basic information from everyone still alive in their rag-tag fleet. Sadly, even the last jump had cost them people, as two ships had been glanced by Cylon ordinance before they'd been able to jump. In light of the billions of lives lost, the numbers had been almost inconsequential. In light of the few people remaining alive, their loss had galled both Adama and the president.

Every basic problem came down to supply, demand and organization. Behind it lay the paranoia that only himself, his XO and the President shared, along with the knowledge of the new Cylon models. The safety of the fleet would only be assured once their population was free of any and all of the infiltrators.

And so, the most careful and complete of security checks had begun. Using the guise of safety and security inspections, the military had searched every ship from top to bottom. Bunks and lockers, to the mild displeasure of their owners, had been tossed. Background checks had been started. Down to the last person alive in the fleet, biological samples had been taken and carefully tagged. It would take them weeks to test all the samples, maybe months. But in the meantime, they were as safe and secure as they could manage.

Now, Adama could safely say he didn't feel the weight of the Lords of Kobol on his shoulders anymore. He and President Roslin had been handed a difficult task, but with their dedication and those working with them, they would see that task completed. He could count on it.

"So, what's the latest from the combat patrol?" He and Tigh were near the end of their morning briefing, a necessary task with all the information coming in from the night shift. Almost immediately after the jump, Adama had sat down and set up as formal a shift schedule as he could. He and Lieutenant Gaeta had remained on the day shift, with Captain Kelly and Colonel Tigh working the night. The rest of command and control was split into the standard three shifts, but he wanted his officers presented and accounted for over the shift changes.

So far, they had responded, though he hadn't really had any doubt that they would. His pride in his crew had been unequaled before the war. Now, he truly knew he had the best people in the business. They had proven their worth beyond all expectations.

"Well, aside from the fact we have more pilots than ships…" Tigh shuffled through the papers and heaved a sigh. "Your son…" He stopped and shot Adama a grin. "Excuse me. 'Captain Apollo' has them flying as tight a schedule as we can manage. Chief's saying we need to find him parts for his ships, though, and he's probably right."

"That's all, though?" Adama was pleasantly surprised.

"It's quiet. The same as it has been for the last 10 days." Tigh lifted up a short pile of flimsies. "We've got the normal amount of complaints from just about everyone about everything. Other than that…"

"Other than that." From him, it became a statement. Adama didn't really need to finish the sentence. Tigh knew the situation as well as he did. They had all the problems of a recently begun colony coupled with wartime conditions. The fact they were still flying and functioning encouraged them all. They were managing.

"So…what's next?" Tigh leaned back comfortably in his own chair, sipping slowly on his own cup of coffee. He grimaced much like Adama had. Wisely, though, his XO didn't comment.

"I have a meeting with President Roslin in an hour to discuss the inspection tour on the Hephaestus tomorrow." Adama pushed at his spectacles. "The ship's captain seems to think all eight of the shuttles can be converted. I suppose we'll find out tomorrow when Lee and Tyrol have gotten a look at them."

Tigh paused, and Adama saw a flicker of hesitation rise on his XO's face. Adama wondered just what was on his mind, and was about to ask when Paul tentatively tossed out an unexpected question.

"Have you spoken to him at all?" Adama raised an eyebrow, questioning his XO without a word. He knew exactly what Paul meant, but he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of jumping in with an answer.

"Don't give me that." Tigh snorted. "You know I mean Lee."

"I assume you don't mean as CAG." Another evasion, neatly sidestepping the issue. Somehow, they'd managed to slip off the topics of the morning briefing and into the personal issues Adama had been trying to avoid for nearly a week. His XO was a patient man, but only so far. Now that he had an opening - and no pressing business to attend to - Adama would pay a price.

"No, I don't." Tigh stopped short of rolling his eyes, but Adama felt the impatience rolling off his XO in waves. "Oh, it's not like anyone can complain about favoritism, given you two aren't talking to each other."

"We're talking to each other." Adama kept his tone measured and even, peering over the top edge of his glasses. "In fact, I spend more time with him than I did with Spencer. Lee's doing an excellent job."

This time, Tigh did roll his eyes, and his tone got testy.

"We're not talking about his job, or yours, Will." Tigh pushed away from the table, slapping at one of the piles of flimsies. "We're talking about your son. You know, the one you hadn't spoken to in two years before last week?"

Adama let out a deep, slow breath, trying to keep his own emotions under control.

"Ten days. It's been ten days. And we're doing just fine." Adama knew he sounded rankled, and that he was bandying semantics. He didn't care. What had been brewing between himself and his son had taken two years to develop. He wanted time to gain control of the situation, and he would be damned if he let anyone push him into some sort of rushed and inappropriate solution.

"That's bull, and you know it." Tigh's gaze locked with his own. There was a challenge there, though not out of anger and not without caring. That knowledge tempered Adama's response.

"I know everything that happens on my ship, Saul." He squared his shoulders, and evened his gaze. "And this, like everything else, will get resolved in time." Adama managed a small smile, knowing the irony of his next words. "He's my son, and I know how to handle him."

Tigh scoffed, but didn't say a word. He didn't have to. In light of the events preceding this conversation, Adama knew exactly what his XO was thinking. Still...

"I'm letting him come to me." Adama evaded the issue, knowing without a doubt handling his son was not among his best skills. He had shown that time and again. But for now, waiting out his son seemed to be the only course of action. Time, unlike their other resources at the moment, was in abundance. Time he could afford to grant himself, and his son.

Adama rose from his seat, signaling the conversation was at an end. He would permit it to go no further. "That should pretty much wrap things up, yes?"

Tigh's face locked up in a mask of frustration. His XO was a patient man - not to mention his friend - but Adama knew the answers he had provided were vague and purposely so. But beyond what he had said, there was little else to add.

His XO pushed his chair away from the wardroom table, and stood up. He stopped, looking like he would walk away from the argument, and then he leaned forward, putting his hands down on the table.

"You two are going to take this to your graves, Will, unless one of you bends enough to allow the other in." The words - and the tone in which they were delivered - caught him completely off guard. His friend was angry, but there was something else. Friendship. Regret. A touch of grief. Abruptly, Adama remembered Paul's wife, and the gap that had existed between them.

"We've … we're not…" Adama searched for the words, but couldn't find the way to say what he meant to. What had started off as a jest, a friendly prod, had become something more. In the days since the attacks, Paul had said his goodbyes. Adama knew he didn't need to reach out to comfort his friend, but the vein of the conversation now had a slightly different focus. The grief and pain that he'd felt lessen earlier had returned to rest squarely on his shoulders.

Before Adama could even begin to contemplate the weight of those feelings, and the complexity of the issues in front of him, Paul plowed forward.

"You two need to find a way, Will." His XO's voice was quiet, and calm. If he'd been a betting man, Adama would've put money on the fact Tigh had planned out almost this entire conversation. With the exception of this last part. Now, it had become personal. "Otherwise you're going to regret it the rest of your lives."

With that, Tigh was finished. He scooped up the papers, and wrapped his fingers around his mug. And without another word, he was gone, leaving William Adama, father and commander, with a day's worth of problems ahead, and two years worth of problems following behind.

The absurd turn of the conversation left Adama sitting at the table, staring over the top of his glasses. His thoughts reeling, he folded his hands together and let out a long sigh.

Of the problems that were sitting in front of him, those with his son were the most bothersome. He couldn't be happier at the way things were working out with his son as CAG. Personal issues set aside, they worked well together. Adama often found his son anticipating his commands, and that extra level of understanding only tightened the efficiency level.

And as a father, he felt nothing but deep pride. There had been some questions raised in the aftermath of jump, mainly crew members trying to figure out who this unfamiliar captain was, and what he was doing in charge of the remaining flight squadron. But with the backing of Starbuck, and a good head for military decisions, no problems had really cropped up that his son couldn't handle.

Adama had always worked well with their previous CAG, and he both missed and grieved the man. But the man had his flaws. Captain Jackson Spencer had let disagreements stew, as evidenced by some of the issues between Tigh and Lt. Thrace. He had also tended to work by the spirit of the law, rather than the letter, and the spirit was determined by his own set of morals, not necessarily with the best interests of the squadron in mind. Adama had never questioned Spencer, but on the same hand, he was fully aware of the man's flaws. The same awareness existed with his son, but so far, Lee had handled himself with good grace and an instinctive touch for the position. It bode well for the future.

In light of the professional situation, he'd almost managed to forget that since the night of the jump, the two hadn't spoken outside of formalities and command-level discussions. There was no animosity, no anger. For the first time in two years, he could be within arms' length of his son and not feel the anger radiating from him. That in itself was a victory.

It was also a stumbling block. With this sudden peace, Adama had no idea how to proceed. Lee had reached out to him, awkwardly, the night of the jump, and Adama had stopped him. The pain in his son's voice was almost too much to bear, and he hadn't the courage to face what his son might have said. So he had called for a halt that so far hadn't been challenged. Adama didn't want to challenge it, yet. He would settle for the fragile peace and having his son's presence near.

Yet he couldn't help wonder what would come next. Adama closed his eyes, and slowly pulled his glasses off his face. Setting them lightly down on the table with one hand, he rubbed his eyes with the other. Two years ago, his elder son had hurled words and accusations that had burned him to the core. What had followed had horrified Adama, and wounded him. For two years, he had struggled with his son's words and actions and wondered how, if ever, he could bridge the gap.

Now, two years and a war zone distant, Adama still struggled. And he wondered if the answers would ever come.