She smiles at him, with a smile that's just for him, and lays her hand on the crook of his arm, fingers fisting in the loose fabric. Her hand trembles ever so slightly. They are scared, (both of them) but their faces can't quite manage any expression that's not brave, that is not keen, or steady, or, perhaps, full of rage, though it's been a long time...

Sometimes he wonders what it will take to set him off again, he wonders that he could really change from that spiteful boy full of hate, hate, hate, and he wonders if somewhere, deep down, hell has its fingers wrapped tightly around his heart, and if it will only take some small, silly provocation for his anger to win. Over the years it has lessened and weakened, but he can still taste it on his tongue, sometimes, bitter and metallic, when he sees his reflection, and the hate of generations burned into his skin.

But when she lays her lips against his scar, he fells it fade. She is so bright that evil thoughts dry up and scatter in the wind. So he does not let the fear control him, (the fear of death and pain and loss, and all the other spoils of war) but looks into her eyes, unending pools of darkened earth, and breaths deeply.

She says his name, in the voice that's just for him, and he wants to tell her that she should be afraid, she should be cowering and crying, but that he knows she won't. She, they, are long past fear. They have lived to much to die young, and... only the good die young. Perhaps he should say tell her that one, she would laugh, her high, strong laugh, and her cheeks would stain red, and she would look at him through lowered lashes, and ask him if he thought she were such a bad girl, and a hand would find itself on his knee and slowly work its way upwards...

But he has never been one for eloquence, so he gives her a look that makes her eyes crinkle, the one where he has so many words, and nothing to say.

Yes they are still afraid. They are afraid of being off with other people who they hardly know, fighting for their lives in some unknown place. They are afraid they will die alone, with no hand to grip their own, and no salty tears to paint their skin. But surely they will see each other again. Surely it cannot end this way.

And that is the only insurance they can get.

He wraps his fingers around her shoulder, and squeezes gently. And she thinks of the next time they meet (how he will say something witty, in his sarcastic monotone, and she will laugh and blush, and retort, with everything but seriousness in her tone, and a hand will mysteriously appear on his knee, and slowly works it's way higher and higher...).

And god, god, god please let it be so. Please let it be so.

So they part, brave faced, and terrified, with hope and little else.

.

.

.

...But sometimes hope is enough.