Fight
She'll fight with him; on the days when she isn't afraid to say what's on her mind, when she'd rather voice her anger than let it all slip away like it doesn't mean anything, when she feels she really has to.
Sometimes she fights herself – fights to not say anything, fights to keep her anger in check, fights to not wrap him up in cotton wool and forbid him from entering a war zone or a prison or anywhere where he might get shot or stabbed or god knows what else.
She's been fighting something else, too, but that's been happening for so long it's become second nature by now. In fact, she's not even sure it's still an issue. Sometimes it's hard to tell.
Mostly she feels like she fights to protect them; him, her, the company, their friendship. They all blur into one some days, and it's hard to distinguish where one thing ends and another begins.
A lot of the time, though, she isn't sure why she does it anymore; isn't sure what the point is, of why she carries on, of how long she will carry on before it all becomes too much and she just walks away.
She fights, but knows there is little point when you're fighting a losing battle.