Sometimes it makes her wonder just what she is to him. Over the years they've known eachother, the strings of fate between them have shifted continuously into new patterns, each change tangling the threads even more tightly than the last.
She's been his best friend, the one always by his side and ready to listen to whatever thoughts were twisting his mind into knots at the moments. Anything worrying him, anything he needs to get off his chest - he can trust her to keep it secret, keep him sane.
He sighs, rests his head in his hands. "This is all just so sudden."
"You should have expected it, sir." Ever the voice of reason, she sits across from him, collected as usual.
"I suppose you're right. Well," he says, suddenly back to business and sitting up straight again, "Good luck in Central. Call me when you get there."
She watches him for a split second before standing and heading for the door. He's set down a stack of paperwork and picked up his pen. "I'll make sure to, sir- first thing."
She's been his - well, she doesn't want to say "lover," as it conjures up images of mistresses and strictly physical relationships - but all the same, she's been his lover, if the word must be used. Oh, not publically - though it's suspected by those who know them - relationships in the military are pretty much taboo, and she refuses to let him risk that, especially with the threat that's been looming lately - but she still finds herself falling asleep half-clothed in his bed.
Barely still awake, she mumbles in his ear, "What do you think they'd say if they knew?"
"They? You mean Fuery, Breda, all of them?"
"Mn-hm..."
Silence as they both mull it over.
"Actually, don't answer that. I don't want to know."
She's been the one who protects him, his companion in battle. There are jokes to be made about the gunpowder than enables her to fight, the flames that he wields, but she just thinks of it in simple terms: if he dies, she doesn't know what she'll live for - so it's her job to make sure he makes it.
"Get down!" she yells, grabbing him by his arm and dragging him to the ground as a hail of bullets fly right where their heads would have been a second before. As quickly as possible, she raises her gun, a determined set to her jaw as she glares through the sights. Three loud bangs and the enemy soldier falls to the ground lifeless.
"You've got to be more careful, sir," she reprimands him, helping him to his feet. Even in a situation this dire, she still finds herself shivering when his hand lingers on hers longer than it needs to after she's pulled him back to standing.
She's all of these things, in her mind, for him. Some combination. A friend who defends him because she loves him, perhaps. Or maybe she loves him because he's her friend.
But even in every summarization she thinks up, she knows she can't express exactly what he means to her. There's definitely love there, or at least something more than simply passion, but he's never labelled it with an official term for her - they've never gone out on a date, as far as she can remember, and their relationship is too professional to be considered friends when they work together.
So what is she to him, really? He, too, finds himself mulling it over.
She's everything, he thinks. She's the one who keeps him from driving himself mad. She's the thing most like home he's ever felt. She's the past he can't run away from, even if he wanted to - and one day, he knows, she'll realize her mistake, and find someone who's better for her, who won't someday leave her burned beyond repair in the dust of retreat like everything else.