She hates fate.

Call it chance, details, little things, the stitch that ends up unraveling your shirt; the best laid plans gone awry. Call it what you will, she hates them all.

She hates them because they are the odd ends; the lucky strike, something tugging at you; something that feels small and unimportant, but that is there none the less; like a rip in her shirt, or a neck bone itching to be cracked. And just like that it starts to get bigger and bigger, and then it swallows her whole.

And in accordance to Murphy's Law this happens at the worst possible time, and there is no one to blame, nowhere to hide.

She is standing here for him to see, and there is no shrill scream or "pervert" no full blown rant, not even an act of god (Technically an angel) that will save her now.

Because she's just been found out with her hand in the cookie jar.

"Sohryu…why are you slipping that letter it into Ikari's locker?"

She's embarrassed, and still hopes that in the next couple of seconds her phone and Rei's start ringing, followed by the blare of the sirens of Tokyo 3.

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She loves facts.

For her gifted brain, her unequalled intellectual capabilities, facts are the foundation of the things she believes in; Fact are simple truths, they are easy to understand.

You can't argue with cold hard logic, with unemotional numbers: if herscore is 82, then, guess what? it'll still be 82 (not 81 ¾ ) And if his score was 78 (or 78.47822150 and a whole lot more numbers) then guess what? it'll still be 78.

And in the grand scale of things to be measures, 82 is above 78; so she is above him.

She loves the fact that she comes on top, but she also loves the simplicity behind it all.

She has the best synch-score, therefore she is the best pilot.

She is the best pilot, ergo she is number one.

It's simple, absolute truths like this the ones that make her life valid, worth living, worthwhile.

And as they both walk to the locker rooms to take a shower and rinse out the LCL, she can see him rolling his eyes good naturedly as she boast and gloats, until at last she tires him with her incessant talk.

So he pushes her against the lockers and forcefully silences her with his mouth, and as the kiss deepens and the feelings flare, and he finally, finally (dammit!) relinquish his hold on her lips, she has a mischievous smile, and a tall-tale twinkle in her eyes.

She loves him. He loves her. Simple; easy to understand.

Absolute.