He's seen her at her best and he's seen her at her worst. He knows the things she'll stoop to and the lengths she'll go to, and he still respects her, even though she's shattered every illusion more than once. He held her hand while she was dying and he held her hand while she lived and he's not sure when she was stronger.

They joke behind his back that he idolizes her or wants her or he's frakking her, but he ignores all the comments, snide and otherwise. Power corrupts, and as strong as she is, she's just as corruptible as the rest of them. It's his job to keep her in line and human. It doesn't take being a Cylon to forget how to be that.

He closes the schedule and holds the leather folder against his lips, watching her as she bends her head over reports and problems and propaganda. She runs her hand through her hair and he smiles at the gesture, at the movement, and at the tangled, flyaway mess it leaves behind.