After repeated viewings of Home, Pt. 1 and 2, this finally nagged enough to get written. It's Adama's POV on how he came to the decision to return to Kobol - at least, my take on it.

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"People have been divided."

"I said, that's enough."

"Children are separated from their parents."

At that, Adama had looked up at Dee, communicating his anger through his eyes. He hadn't needed to say another word. She looked at him, instantly knowing a line had been crossed, regret tinging her features. But she hadn't dropped her eyes. Finally, Bill had tossed his paintbrush on the table and walked out of the room.

"Children are separated from their parents."

He had almost reached out then, his already-curled fist ready to strike her in the face. But when he met her eyes and saw that she would not flinch, the message was clear. Perhaps he had been the one to request the meeting, but Dee - and his crew - were the ones who needed to talk.

He was simply the one that needed to listen. He walked the halls aimlessly, trying to reconcile his emotions with logic. His anger, directed at so many - Lee, President Roslin, Kara, even Burch and his ineptitude. His fear - of the Cylons, of the future, of what he and the other wold have to face. He knew both emotions, and had dealt with them every day of his command. They had shaped him - his life, his stance, his way of living. They were legitimate now, especially now, having seen the dark abyss he had skated to so closely - and barely escaped.

But one more emotion overrode them all. Simple, unadulterated sadness.

"I don't think the problem is that you've been betrayed. You feel helpless."

So many events that he could have shaped, and did not. So many actions that were not his. So many actions that were - and in retrospect seemed so very wrong. Lee, forced to mutiny in order to stop bloodshed that would have fallen on his father's hands. Kara, fleeing to a decimated world in search of a piece of myth that might not even exist.

One simple lie, now twisted beyond belief so that hope had become cynacism.

Where had he failed? And in the space of an instant, the answer became clear. Not just in Dee's words, but in words he had spoken to his own son.

"If it were you, we'd never leave."

The words had been easily spoken, fueled as they were by grief and pain. He had lost one child then, and couldn't bear the thought of the other thinking he would be less valued. His reaction had been instantaneous, unremarkable in its tone, simple and true.

He would not abandon his son. He could not.

And yet, he had.

Bill slowed his pace in the middle of the hall, undone by his own words and memories. In his pocket, he could feel the weight of a small, squarish frame of metal that accompanied him everywhere. Briefly, it had followed the path of his son, in another gesture with similar words meant to inspire and calm.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because you're my son."

Hours later, his son had reveled on the deck with the other crew, looking as unencumbered and as free as his father had ever seen him. Two days later, that freedom was gone.

Two weeks ago now. A lifetime ago. An eternity. A space of time now lost forever, with its own set of regrets and fears.

This time, Bill came to a complete stop. For the first time, he heard - really heard - something Dee had said. At the time, it had felt like another stinging retort. Now, though...

"It doesn't matter what the President did, or even what Lee did, because every day we remain apart is a day you have broken your promise."

He knew now that he had. Dee had meant to crew, or perhaps even herself. But what she had brought home unintentionally was the true meaning of her message.

He had broken an oath to his son, and it was time to repair that mistake.