The air at the bar was thick with the smell of stale beer, fried food, and victory. Someone had put a classic rock playlist on the jukebox, and the 11th Street Kids were riding a wave of post-mission euphoria. Chris was at the epicenter, of course. He’d started with beer, graduated to whiskey shots that Adebayo kept egging him on to do, and was now in that loud, sloppy, and deeply sentimental stage of drunkenness that was both endearing and a little alarming. He’d just tried to arm-wrestle a very confused Leota and was now attempting to explain the nuanced political philosophy of hair metal to a wall-mounted deer head.

“He’s gonna be a problem,” John muttered, nodding toward Chris as he nearly toppled off his barstool.

“I’ve got him,” you said, already sliding off your seat. “You make sure Adebayo doesn’t try to steal that deer.”

Getting Chris out of the bar was a production. He was a solid weight, all muscle and leather, slinging a heavy arm over your shoulders. “My buddy!” he slurred into your hair, his breath a fog of Jack Daniels. “My bestest buddy. You’re the best. Better’n Eagly. Don’t tell him I said that.”

The night air was cool and a relief. You half-walked, half-dragged him to your car, his boots scraping on the asphalt. He sang a very off-key, very explicit version of a Warrant song the whole way to his trailer. The familiar sight of the beat-up mobile home, nestled in its patch of weeds, felt strangely intimate in the dark.

You got the door open, and the unique scent of Chris’s life hit you—old leather, gun cleaner, and that faint, musky smell of eagle. Eagly, hearing the commotion, let out a soft skree from his perch.

“Hey, handsome,” you cooed, unlocking his cage. The majestic bird hopped out, nudging your hand affectionately before turning a judgmental eye on his drunken human. “Go on, do your business. Your dad’s a mess.”

Eagly flapped outside into the night as you maneuvered the dead weight that was Chris toward his bed. It was like trying to move a sack of very affectionate, very talkative bricks. You finally got him onto the mattress, his helmet—which he’d refused to take off until you threatened him with a permanent marker mustache—clattering to the floor.

You were pulling a blanket over him, thinking your job was done, when his rambling took a sharp turn.

“He’d hate this, y’know,” Chris mumbled, his eyes closed, face pressed into the pillow. His voice had lost its boisterous edge, becoming small and gravelly. “A fucking mess. Can’t hold your liquor. Can’t… can’t be a man.”

You froze, your hand still on the blanket. “Who, Chris?”

“My old man,” he choked out, and the sound was so raw it made your chest ache. “Said feelings were… were for pussies. Said love was a weakness. A fucking… tactical error.”

The air left the room. You’d heard stories, of course. Whispers about Auggie Smith. But hearing it from Chris, like this, broken and stripped bare, was different. It was a gut-punch. This wasn't the goofball who made dumb jokes; this was the little boy who’d been taught that his heart was a flaw.

“Chris, he was wrong,” you said softly, your voice thick.

He shook his head, a frantic, miserable motion. A tear tracked through the grime on his cheek, gleaming in the low light. You made to stand up, to give him the dignity he thought he needed, but his hand shot out from under the blanket, his fingers closing around your wrist with a surprising, desperate strength. He pulled your hand, clumsy and urgent, until it was pressed against his chest, right over his frantically beating heart.

“I like you,” he blurted out, the words tripping over each other, soaked in whiskey and fear. “Like, like you like you. Not… not in a buddy way. In a… fuck, I don’t know the right words. The ones that aren’t weak.” He was crying in earnest now, silent tears that he made no effort to hide. “I wanna hold your hand and shit. And it scares the hell out of me. ‘Cause he’s in here,” he tapped his own temple with his free hand, “and he’s always telling me I’m doing it wrong.”