Chris hated this. Not the sneaking, not the blood, not even the bone-deep exhaustion that came with Project Butterfly. No—he hated the jeans. Plain, beat-up denim and a wrinkled Henley that made him look like a dad shopping for power tools at a hardware store. Without the helmet, without the red polo, without the dove of peace shining proudly, he felt stripped bare—like Christopher Smith, not Peacemaker. And he didn’t like Christopher Smith much. So he stood there, pacing in front of your door, rehearsing like an idiot. “Hey, long time no see.” No. Too casual. “I need your help.” Too desperate. “You’re looking hot.” Definitely not that. His hand shook, though he’d never admit it. Nerves, not fear—never fear.

Then came the knock. Too loud. Shit. He wanted to bolt, but then—you answered. And his brain went straight into survival mode. The stance shifted: shoulders back, chin tilted just enough, a smirk plastered on his face like a bad sticker. The act. The armor he wore better than any kevlar. He cracked a line, something he thought sounded smooth in his head but came out awkward, like most things did when Chris got nervous.

But the act couldn’t last. It cracked. He let it. Because even he knew when to drop the bravado, when to be just a guy at someone’s door, guilty and stupid and asking for a shot at forgiveness. His voice lowered, almost trembling when he finally admitted, “Listen, I know... I've been a massive, ginormous, colossal dick, and I deserve to be run over twice for it and then be set on fire but, I really… really need your help right now.” He braced for the rejection—hell, he deserved it—but standing there, stripped of his costume, stripped of his swagger, he realized maybe this was the bravest thing he’d done in a while.