"Everyone's got a family," she had to point out softly. "Except me." And, she supposed, all the other parents who cut ties to their wayward youths and didn't give a damn that they were dead, but those were few and far between.
They didn't touch each other. It wasn't an official rule, just something that was understood: they were perfectly professional, and there'd never been a need to do more then stand together with similar long-suffering looks. It was all about the job...and when it wasn't about the job, well, it still had to be them being two professionals.
So when he reached over and took hers hand in his, she felt a ghostly connection, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. But when he started to speak, just as quietly as he held her hand, she couldn't bring herself to pull her hand away. He never needed anything; he never looked sad and distant and exposed in front of her.
"I went back to Iraq," she told him quietly. "I know all about wondering if it's worth it. If whatever you do, it won't just make things worse and leave you with nothing but dead bodies and blood on your hands." Even as she looked at him, her own eyes went distant. "It goes back to the way it always was, because quick fixes don't work," she added bitterly.
His hand tightened on hers, and she needed to squeeze back, grip firm and sure, because...well, he needed her. There was no need for it to be more complicated than that. "We had a job," she repeated. "And we do our damn well best that even if we can't change everything, we make something better, somewhere," she added fiercely.