She is all knees and elbows; knobs and lines, no curves, just angles. A camouflage-pattern pack with the letters sewn into the fabric rests on her lap. Like her, it has been covered in mud and grime, dragged through the dirt, torn and repaired. Together, they display proof of their injuries. Together, they sit in silence.
Nolan cleans his gun for the sixth time, taking it apart and putting it back together - a process he has become familiar with, doing it with both lives, people and weaponry. This is the part he hates; the calm before the storm. Brewing tension, hot and tightly wound. A coil stretched too far, aching to spring back into shape. He glances at the child he's adopted in the name of justice, and she stares back at the man who saved her in the name of mercy.
It will be a long time before she comes to think of him as 'father'.
"You get used to packing your life in a bag." He breaks the silence, tapping the pack in her arms with the ammo clip in his hand. "Or a box. Whichever they give you. Call comes in, you put everything you need away and leave the rest behind."
He has no idea what he's saying; filling the silence with the buzzing of syllables and the shapes of letters, but never really making words. They play a delicate game when they speak; posed on opposing sides of the board, both hesitant to make the first move.
"Do you need me?" She asks and he nearly drops the firing pin.
She means to ask, Will I be left behind again?
"No," he says. "But you need me, so I'll stay with you as long as you want me."
He means to say, Yes. I need something good in this world. I need someone to fight for. And I will keep you safe until I die.
Beautiful (mis)communication.
This is how families are forged.
They pack the roller up, prepared to leave Defiance - for real and for good this time. Her bag is thrown beside his in the back of the car. Alaskan post cards remind them of what they left behind, and what they had to look forward to. It's humiliating how much her feet refuse to step inside the vehicle.
"Just like old times."
"Are you sure about this?"
Their positions are reversed and they stand on opposite ends of the chessboard - not for the first time, not for the last - her on black and him on white.
Black like the night when she loves the sun. Black like evening water when she loves the ground.
Dark skin, dark lips, dark eyes. He reads to her, in the mornings and the evenings. Words gentle and strong as his touch. White on black, their own game of strategy. They play each other with smiles and kisses and warmth. Warmth she's never felt and never asked for. Warmth she can no longer live without.
She grips his hand tightly in hers when those thoughts come - feels his callouses kiss hers - and banishes the little words fear whispers in her ear, in the quiet hours when he sleeps beside her:
Tommy cannot fit in her pack.
Searing pain and her legs give out.
She is afraid, she cannot move and she cannot leave.
And, quietly, in the parts of her heart where she fears to tread and fears to be touched, gratitude floods.