He can only see her now. When she drops the phone, all he can do is look at her. The hard glass wall of her cage doesn't block his sight, even though sometimes he wishes it could.
She turns and walks away.
"Hey! Sharon! I love you!" He pounds on the glass, shouting, trying to make her turn toward him, "And I'm not giving up this frakkin' easy! Not after everything!" But she doesn't hesitate, just stretches out on the cot and stares up at the ceiling.
He watches, hoping, praying, that she'll look at him. He wants a sign of some kind that she's still there. But she doesn't move.
For a moment, he remembers how she looked under the orange Caprican light -- beautiful and free. Even on this last trip with grief-shadowed eyes, she held his gaze. His eyes lingered on the light in her hair and how it warmed her skin. This hard bluish light of her cell makes her look pale and frosted, as if she is waiting to die.
He can't bear to see anymore and leaves, too occupied to notice the absence of the usual hostile glances, as the crew have finally found something else to talk about.
Once upon a time, he was content to look at her. He was her ECO on the Raptor and her friend -- it had been enough just to watch her in the forward chair or across the card table. But not anymore.
Not that Sharon is Boomer anyway. He accepted that some time ago, even if no one else understands that he knows 'his' Sharon is someone else. He knows who she is -- he knows what she is. It doesn't matter. Or rather, it matters, but not in the way they think it should. He wants to shake them -- Roslin and Adama and everyone else -- shove their faces in Sharon's pain and demand that they take a good look at her and see. Just because she isn't human doesn't mean she isn't alive. That she doesn't feel.
But they don't want to see it. Because then they'd have to acknowledge that the toasters can be more than machines. They are the enemy, but they are also people.
He hopes he sees Sharon more clearly than the others, that he is able to look past reflexive fear to the reality of Sharon. She helped the humans because of him and because of Hera, and what had she received back? Distrust, hatred, fear, and a baby she believed had been murdered.
For an instant, he remembers tiny Hera gripping Sharon's finger, piercing loss sweeping through him. He clutches one of the struts and has to close his eyes, trying to push the image away. The only thing that helps is remembering Sharon with her face wet with rain and glimmering in the firelight.
They can get through this together, but never alone. He needs to find a way to help her see him again, and not Hera's innocent face every time she closes her eyes.
But how, if she won't even look at him or hear what he says? How can he touch a heart so broken, when she's wrapped herself beyond his reach?
He has to find a way. For her and for himself, but most of all, for them. If they fail each other, what hope does humanity have, if there is no promise of forgiveness and peace?