In what had been the Captain's quarters back when things were simpler, he took off her jacket and said, "I don't usually say this, but I was wrong."
"Excuse me?" It was hard to pay attention to what his hands were doing and what he was saying.
"For a while I thought war would always be the woman I loved most."
"That's not a very good way to live," she said, "and war isn't a woman."
"Well," he said, "I can't hold her, anyway."
"Am I supposed to ask if you can hold me?"
He smiled at her. "Would you?"
In the cockpit of her Gundam, she straddled him and shoved a gun in his mouth. He mumbled something helplessly around it.
"Don't tell me it's too big," she said, but she pulled it out to let him speak.
"Are you sure that thing isn't loaded?" he asked, staring at the gunmetal he'd been tasting just a second ago.
She considered this for a long moment while he twitched and tried to look like he wasn't enjoying himself beneath her.
Then she shoved the gun back into his mouth. "No! Now take off your pants!"
He swallowed hard and obeyed.
The first time he flew a fighter jet, people clapped, even cheered.
The first time they promoted him, they said he was made for war. They added that he should consider it a compliment. It hadn't occurred to him to think otherwise.
It wasn't until later, after a battle (hands dry on the controls but sweat laying roads down his neck--his body was conditioned to the pilot's seat), that he realized he wasn't made for war, just addicted to it.
He didn't mind. If he could protect people by killing others, then all he could do was smile afterwards.