They have a favorite spot. It's a park close to home, with a lake. He likes to watch the water, read a book, sketch a flower.
She likes to climb the trees, race from tree to tree, and order (overpriced) boat rides.
"Bet I can climb higher than you!" she says.
"I'll bet you can," he says, amused. She pouts in a strange way.
"I'll race you to that big tree over there!" she says, a while later.
"I don't like racing," he says, and he can't tell if she's smiling or frowning.
"Please do the paddleboat with me?" she asks, her hands clasped together, "It takes two people to steer."
"Okay," he says, even though he doesn't care for boats. She seems surprised.
They get in. Her feet are too fast. He pushes too hard. It's a mess and the boat just keeps going in circles one way or another.
He's flustered and upset. She seems pleased.
It's not really his favorite spot, anymore, after that. But he goes there with her anyway.
They're getting dressed for the Christmas card. They're a pair of angels, with feathery wings and pipe-cleaner halos and everything.
She hates her costume, hates it for a reason she can't quite articulate. The white. It's all the same white.
All the same as his white.
All the same as any white.
She's the same as anybody else.
He tells her to hurry up and put it on. He corrects her (purposely) lopsided halo, fluffs her (purposely) stiff wings, smooths her (purposely) wrinkled tunic.
They're in their shared room together. The two of them. The twins. He likes the state of together.
"I'm gonna dye my hair." He looks at her. It was unexpected. Her hair was cute, all blonde and stuff. It matched his perfectly. It made them a pair of identical angels on their Christmas cards.
"Really," he says, his voice the perfect picture of neutrality.
"I dunno. I wanna, like, stand out, you know?"
He wonders why. Why would she want to stand out?
He knows better than to ask that. Those sorts of questions are the ones that make her scowl.
Instead, he asks, "What are you thinking for a color?"
"Maybe like a red?"
"Like a natural red? Or firetruck?"
"I guess natural?"
"Good."
"What do you mean, good?"
"Honestly, I think girls look weird with fake hair colors. It's like they're trying too hard, you know?"
"Trying too hard?" There's an edge. He wonders why.
"Yeah. Like they're trying to shove themselves in peoples' faces."
She leaves the room without a word.
In the end, she goes with purple hair. To his surprise, it looks good on her. He tells her so.
"I'm glad you approve," she says, and he hears her sarcasm, for once. He still doesn't understand it.
She dyes the blonde roots whenever they get half an inch long, maintaining the color.
He considers dying his hair. He decides against it.
They're in their room again. She feels claustrophobic. She's looking at a few different outfits.
"I don't think you should go out with Eric," he says. She rolls her eyes.
"Why not?" she says, picking on a cute green top and skinny jeans, "I like Eric."
"Eric likes going to parties."
"I like going to parties."
"Not those kinds of parties."
"Yes, those kinds of parties. Parties with alcohol, and loud music, and some people doing drugs, and making out on a couch, and neighbors calling the cops."
She looks between a few lipsticks. Carnation or cherry red?
She thinks about bright colors, and 'shoving herself into peoples' faces.' She picks the red.
He looks at her, frustrated, and says, "You shouldn't fake being into that kind of stuff because you like him."
She laughs emptily, applying some mascara. "Oh, I get it," she says, "Instead, I should fake disinterest in that stuff because I like you."
"Oh, come on! That's not who you are! I'm pretty sure I know you."
She scowls, and how can he not understand?
She picks up her purse and heads for the door to their room. She looks behind herself at him and says, "Yeah, you know me. Know me better than I know my own fucking self."
It doesn't work out with Eric. He doesn't say he told her so.
"I'm leaving," she says, and he doesn't believe her. But he sees her bags are packed and there's a honk in front of the house.
"Where are you going?" he asks, trying to sound considerate, but the patronizing, eye-rolling, 'here we go again' quality of speech is present.
"I'm not telling you," she says.
"Why?"
"You would follow me."
"Why shouldn't I follow you?"
She stares at him. She looks incredulous as she says, with wonder, "You have never understood me, have you?"
"I'm trying," he says, and the reality sinks in as a hint of desperation grows in his voice.
There's another honk. "That's my cab. Goodbye."
And she's gone.
And then she gets to the military facility. Does the tests. Passes them.
She's alone.
She's the happiest she's ever been in her life.
Then she's about to be assigned her position and she sees him.
She feels her eyes sting as she marches over to him. "Why the fuck are you here?" she half-screams.
"Same reason you are," he says, and, she swears to god, she can't tell if he's trying to calm her or if he's just that oblivious.
"Yeah, I doubt that," she says.
"There's a war and Earth needs to be saved."
"This is an elite force! You don't even like fighting!"
"I pulled a few favors. I thought you'd be glad to see me. You know I'll always be with you."
She turns away from him, letting tears prick the corners of her eyes. "Yeah, I know," she says calmly.
Loud enough for him to hear her, she mumbles, "If I didn't know that before, then I sure as fuck know it now."
They've been assigned a bunk bed together. He always used to take the top, when they were younger. He sets the top up for himself, and she doesn't argue.
He notes to himself that she hasn't re-dyed her roots for a while. And the purple is starting to fade.
"There's a reason I didn't tell you where I was going," she says. He inhales slightly.
"And I think it was a stupid reason. I'm always going to be here for you."
"Whether I like it or not, huh?"
He's perplexed. Why wouldn't she like it? Couldn't she sense the comfort, the peace in a 'together forever?'
He changes the subject instead of asking. "You see our code names?" He says, smiling softly with amusement.
She scowls. "Yeah. Aren't we just a pair?"
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
She's silent.
He frowns.
He's not very good at reading her. Was he ever?
They're assigned missions a lot. "The Dakotas," they're called. She adjusts. She does her best to treat him like any other soldier, but he doesn't return the favor, so she gets used to syncing with him.
She longs for the days they were on different wavelengths. The days they struggled to operate a simple paddleboat.
He's glad he's there, because she keeps putting herself in danger. Keeps needing him.
When he's above her on the leaderboard, he reminds her that it's because of her recklessness, not her skill level. He says that he's not trying to impress anybody.
It doesn't seem to comfort her.
Later, he says that having an AI is a hassle, that it gives him a headache, that it takes a kind of care that she'd be annoyed by.
That doesn't seem to comfort her, either.
He says that she should just work toward the mission, remember their goal. Remember that they are a team.
She looks like she's ready to punch him. Instead, she goes to the director and requests that she receive a different bunkmate.
After he dies, she dreams.
She dreams he's in front of her, but he's towering over her like a colossus, like something she could never be.
"Do you love me?" he asks, his voice gentle yet booming.
It should be an easy question to answer.
"Do you think I love you?"
That one should be even easier. Should be obvious.
"Blood is thicker than water, you know."
She thinks the cliched 'blood of the covenant' spiel, but it doesn't work for her and him. They've been on the battlefield together, so they share both the blood in their veins and the blood of the battlefield. They spend their time together, so they share both the water of friendship and the water of the womb.
"Do you even feel things like love anymore?"
She chuckles. It's such a funny question, she can't even be scared. She can answer this one.
"I don't believe in love."
"You could have just accepted it. We could have been a pair. The two blonde-haired angels on Christmas cards. You could have let me protect you."
"You wanted to own me! You couldn't accept that I was my own person!"
"And now you get to be your own person. Are things better now?"
No answer.
She doesn't have an answer.