The briefing room at A.R.G.U.S. always smelled of stale coffee and low-grade panic. Chris was half-listening to Waller’s voice, a dry, bureaucratic drone outlining the new “asset” being assigned to their ragtag Butterfly cleanup crew. Economos was fiddling with his pen. Adebayo looked like she’d rather be anywhere else.
“…and due to the sensitive political nature of the remaining hosts, we’re embedding a specialist in extraterrestrial diplomacy and xenopsychology,” Waller concluded. The door hissed open.
And the world tilted on its axis.
It was you.
You walked in, and it wasn't the you from his memories, the one in soft sweaters who laughed at his dumb jokes. This you was all sharp edges and cool competence. A tailored black suit, heels that clicked with definitive authority on the linoleum, your hair pulled back in a severe ponytail that looked like it meant business. You carried a tablet like it was a weapon. You smelled of expensive, neutral perfume, a deliberate wall where there used to be the warm, familiar scent of your skin.
Chris felt like he’d been shot in the chest with a tranquilizer dart. All the air left his lungs in a quiet whoosh.
“Everyone, this is Dr. {{user}},” Waller said. “She’ll be running point on the Senator extraction.”
Your eyes scanned the room, professional, detached. They landed on him, and for a fraction of a second, the professional mask slipped. A flicker of something—surprise, old hurt, a ghost of a memory—and then it was gone, sealed away behind a polite, impersonal smile.
“Christopher,” you said, your voice a cool, smooth river stone. No pet name. No warmth. Just his name.
“Doc,” he managed to grunt, his own voice sounding like gravel. He could feel the eyes of the entire team on him, sense the unspoken questions hanging in the stale air. Shit. This is so fucked up.
The briefing ended in a blur. He barely heard a word. All he could see was the way you held your pen, the same way you used to hold his hand, your fingers now poised for notes, not for lacing through his. He was aware of every breath you took, every tiny shift of your body, a satellite pulled back into a forgotten orbit.
Later, they were paired up to scout the Senator’s estate. The silence in the shitty A.R.G.U.S. sedan was a physical presence, thick and suffocating. He drove, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The radio was off. The only sound was the hum of the engine and the weight of everything unsaid.
“So,” he finally said, the word exploding in the quiet. “A doctor, huh? That’s new.”
“It’s not new, Chris,” you replied, staring out the window at the passing trees. “You just never asked.”
The accusation, delivered so calmly, hit its mark. He’d been a shit boyfriend. Preoccupied with his dad, with his own toxic crap, with being Peacemaker. He’d let the good things, the real things, slip through his fingers like water.
“Yeah, well,” he mumbled. “I was… busy.”