The Morning After
Christopher Smith "Peacemaker" x Male Reader
Summary: Waking up next to Chris was the last thing you ever expected, especially when you don't even remember half of it.
A/N: Finally some peacemaker since I've done fics for Adrian already. Trying to get more motivated, but I've also started a new job so hopefully once I get a better routine I'll post more often again. Also might write for Rick Flag Jr and Senior.......old man yaoi ya'know how it is.
CW: Morning after - Mentions of sex - Mentions of bi reader
Words: 4.8k
Sun filtered through the cracked blinds, golden rays stretching across the apartment floors. Clothes were scattered, trailing from the bathroom into the small bedroom, where blankets and pillows lay on the ground.
You lay tangled in your bedsheets, a leg hanging off the side of the mattress. The sheets were barely covering your naked body, your back covered in angry, stinging scratches. You didn't dare to move, bracing yourself against the inevitable, pounding headache that was already beginning to throb behind your eyes.
Your phone buzzed on your nightstand—a relentless, irritating rattle against the wood—waking you completely from your shallow sleep. You reached over, haphazardly shoving stray boxers and empty water bottles aside until you grabbed the phone off the charger. The screen glared at you. It was Leota, her name lighting up with multiple texts and a few missed calls from the night prior.
Grumbling, you sat up. A wave of lightheadedness hit you, and you tasted nothing but dry cotton. The sheets pooled past your waist, barely hiding the fact that you weren't wearing anything at all. You put the phone up to your ear, the background noise of Leota's frantic voice muffled and distant. Your eyes slowly adjusted to the harsh light in the bedroom before landing on the lump beneath the sheets beside you.
Leota’s voice was a panicked buzz, but whatever she was saying was in one ear and out the other as you leaned in closer, trying to make out the shape. A tuft of dark, slightly matted hair was visible above the pillow. It wasn't the first time you'd woken up beside someone in your bed, and it most definitely wasn't the first time it was another guy. Hell, the last time you woke up next to someone it was Rick Flag Jr, and the time before that was Harley of all people. But you weren't expecting to wake up next to Chris of all people.
“Fuck,” you whispered. “Leota, I gotta call you back.” You didn't even wait for her to answer before hanging up.
You lifted the sheets, cursing under your breath when you realized Chris was, in fact, butt-ass naked in your bed. It didn't help that his neck and chest were covered in bright, messy hickeys.
You stumbled out of bed, following the trail of discarded clothes to the bathroom before standing in front of the mirror. Your hair was a mess, sticking up at odd angles. Red marks and fingerprints covered your torso and back, along with the telltale crescent-shaped marks from Chris’s nails.
The reality of the situation—waking up butt-naked next to Chris, who was equally covered in evidence—hit you like a freight train. There was no going back to sleep. There was only getting out.
You pushed off the bathroom counter, your bare feet padding silently on the cold tile floor. The adrenaline gave you a burst of focus. You peered out the doorway into the bedroom. Chris hadn't stirred. His breathing was deep and even, one arm thrown possessively over the pillow you'd just abandoned.
Moving like a cat burglar, you slipped back toward the nightstand. Every small sound felt deafening: the slight creak of the floorboards beneath your weight, the whoosh of air as you retrieved your phone, the soft scrape of the charger plug as you pulled it free. You avoided looking directly at Chris, instead focusing on the pile of scattered clothes closest to the foot of the bed. You grabbed the first recognizable items—a pair of faded, gray boxers and a dark, worn T-shirt—and balled them up, clutching the fabric along with your phone.
You didn't breathe a sigh of relief until you were back in the relative safety of the small bathroom, the door shut firmly behind you. You leaned against the sink, quickly dialing Leota’s number.
She picked up on the first ring, her voice tight with immediate concern. "You hung up on me! What is going on? Are you okay? Where were you last night? Wait, did you just call me from the bathroom?"
"I need you to meet me," you interrupted, your voice a low, urgent murmur. You kept your eyes on the door, half-expecting it to swing open.
"Meet you where? I'm already out—"
"The diner. The one by the bridge. Give me twenty minutes. I’ll tell you everything there, I promise." You kept your tone flat, giving her no room for argument or questions.
"But—"
"Twenty minutes, Leota. See you there." You didn't wait for her consent, ending the call with a quick tap. You couldn't spare the energy for negotiation.
You tossed the phone onto the closed toilet lid and turned toward the shower. The goal was speed and silence. You twisted the knob just enough for a trickle of lukewarm water, avoiding the noisy rush of full pressure. You kept the bathroom door closed and the curtain pulled tightly, hoping the slight noise wouldn't carry into the bedroom.
The water was too cold, but the shock helped clear the last of the grogginess and the heavy perfume of the night before. You scrubbed quickly, trying to ignore the sting of the scratches on your back as the soap ran over them. The entire process—wash, rinse, towel-dry—took less than five minutes. You pulled on the wrinkled clothes you had grabbed: the familiar, soft fabric felt like an armor of normalcy.
Before opening the door, you listened. Still only the sound of Chris's steady, unconscious breathing from the bedroom.
You cracked the bathroom door open a sliver, peering into the sun-drenched silence of the bedroom. The only movement was the lazy shift of dust motes in the gold light. Chris still hadn't moved; he was exactly where you'd left him, a prominent lump under the sheets.
The fear of waking him was a tight knot in your stomach, but you needed to get out. You tiptoed back into the room. Your eyes scanned the floor for essentials, bypassing the trail of evidence. Near the door, you spotted your sneakers, thrown haphazardly against the wall. You scooped them up, along with your keys and your slightly battered leather wallet from the top of the dresser. The metallic clink of the keys against the plastic of your phone in your hand felt deafeningly loud.
You paused by the apartment door, your hand hovering over the deadbolt. You took one last look around the mess—the scattered clothes, the rumpled bed, the ghost of cologne in the air that wasn't your own. You didn't leave a note. You didn't even risk closing the bedroom door. You just hoped, with a desperate, self-serving clarity, that when Chris finally did wake up, he would be equally eager to forget the entire night and simply vanish on his own.
With a soft, deliberate twist, you turned the doorknob, slipped out, and pulled the door shut behind you, barely hearing the quiet click of the lock engaging. You didn’t breathe again until you were jogging down the three flights of stairs, hitting the pavement, and heading toward the bridge.
The diner smelled exactly as it always did: a comforting, heavy mix of burnt coffee, sizzling bacon grease, and industrial-strength cleaner. You slid into the booth across from Leota, sinking down onto the cracked vinyl seat. You felt instantly exposed, your wrinkled clothes a contrast to the handful of early-morning regulars with their crisp collars and newspapers.
Leota was already nursing a mug of black coffee, her expression a mix of weary concern and resigned amusement. She didn't wait for you to order or even catch your breath.
"You look like you wrestled a dumpster fire and lost," she said, cutting right to the chase as she always did. She gestured vaguely at your disheveled hair and your neck. "No, wait. You look like you woke up next to a dumpster fire and decided to wrestle it before getting a shower."
You waved a frantic hand at the waitress hovering nearby, mumbling an order for a coffee and a pile of hash browns before the woman could retreat.
Leota leaned forward, resting her elbows on the sticky tabletop. Her dark eyes, usually bright and full of energy, were leveled at you with a familiar, nonjudgmental weariness. "What'd you do this time?"
The question was rhetorical. It wasn't about if you'd gotten into trouble, but the severity and nature of it. It was the only way she knew how to open this conversation.
You sighed, rubbing the sleep and panic from your eyes. You could lie, but Leota would see right through it. She always did.
"I woke up," you began, your voice still low, "and there was a guy in my bed."
Leota raised an eyebrow. "Okay, standard Tuesday. Get to the twist."
"The twist is that I didn't remember inviting him over. The real twist is who it was." You took a long, rattling breath and finally forced the name out. "It was Chris."
Leota's amused expression instantly evaporated, replaced by wide-eyed disbelief. She slowly set her coffee mug down, the ceramic hitting the saucer with a sharp, echoing clack. "Not... not the Chris. Like, Christopher Smith Chris?”
You simply nodded, confirming the absurdity of the situation. Your stomach twisted into a tighter knot as Leota’s shock gave way to a sudden, explosive burst of suppressed amusement. Her face crumpled, her hand flying up to cover her mouth, but the sound was already out.
She started laughing at you. It wasn't a sympathetic chuckle; it was a loud, uncontainable, open-mouthed roar that drew the immediate, annoyed attention of the few patrons nearby. She didn't care. Tears were already starting to bead in the corners of her eyes, and she was shaking the entire booth with the force of her mirth.
"Oh my god," she wheezed, struggling to speak between gasps for air. She lowered her hand, her eyes shining with pure, chaotic delight. "You fu— You fucked Peacemaker!" she all but shouted, throwing her hands up in bewildered victory.
You sank lower in the seat, feeling your cheeks flush a hot, painful red. "Keep your voice down!" you hissed, glancing quickly around the diner. You could practically feel the judgment emanating from the elderly man reading the paper two booths over.
Leota ignored you entirely, still riding the wave of hysterics. "No, wait. I thought Flag and Quinn were a new low for you, but Chris? Seriously? The guy who wears a toilet bowl on his head and sings the most terrible yacht rock at three in the morning?"
She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice only slightly. "Did he try to make you take an oath? Did he talk about liberty and peace the whole time? Was there an eagle involved?"
You let out a quiet, painful groan that resonated deep in your chest and clamped both hands over your head, pressing your palms against your temples as if you could hold your skull together. The memories of the scratches, the hickeys, and the complete lack of clothes flashed through your mind, painting a vivid picture of absolute failure.
"Stop," you muttered into your hands. "Just stop. I can't even remember half of the party. It was a blur of bad karaoke and worse decisions. All I know is I woke up with my back looking like I was attacked by a particularly vicious bobcat, and I am fairly certain that 'Peacemaker' is currently butt-ass naked and sleeping off a regrettable hangover in my bed."
You slowly lowered your hands and met Leota’s still-giggling gaze. The reality, delivered by your own mouth, sounded impossibly stupid. "God, I'm an idiot."
Leota finally managed to compose herself, taking a deep, ragged breath. Her amusement softened into pity—the kind of pity a parent gives a truly hopeless child. "You are," she agreed, "but you are my idiot. Now. Did he at least look embarrassed when you left, or did he leave you some kind of star-spangled note?”
You leaned back, the sticky, cracked vinyl of the booth pressing against your back. You took a long sip of your soda, the fizz doing nothing to quell the internal burn of mortification.
“He wasn’t awake yet,” you explained, your voice dropping back to a quiet, conspiratorial murmur. “When I left, he was still out cold. Dead to the world. And that is where my new, highly irresponsible plan comes in.”
Leota raised a challenging eyebrow, her expression now a mixture of concern and anticipation. “Go on. Tell me you didn’t just leave him the keys and a note that says ‘Call me never.’”
“Worse,” you whispered, leaning so far forward your forehead almost touched the salt shaker. “I just… left. I grabbed my phone, keys, and some random clothes, and then I abandoned him in my own bed.”
You let out a shaky breath. “I’m kinda hoping he wakes up, realizes the horrifying mistake, and simply performs a quiet tactical retreat before I have to face him.” You paused, rubbing the bridge of your nose. “I hope he thinks I already went to work. I hope he thinks it was all a dream. I hope he simply evaporates.”
Leota stared at you, her mouth slightly agape. “You left Peacemaker unsupervised in your apartment? That’s not a tactical retreat, that’s a hostage situation waiting to happen. He’s going to start organizing your spice rack according to the principles of freedom.”
You just shook your head, the despair too heavy to articulate. “Look, I know it’s cowardly. I know I’ll have to deal with it eventually. But right now, this is truly a new rock bottom, Leota. I’m telling you, I would have rather woken up next to Adrian’s mom of all people than face Chris right now.”
The sheer magnitude of that statement hung in the air, momentarily silencing even Leota’s usual snappy retort. You closed your eyes, picturing the scenario—the aggressive patriotism, the eagles, the sheer awkwardness—and knew your despair was genuine.
"Yeah, okay," Leota finally conceded, tapping her fingers lightly on her mug. "That is a truly depressing indictment of your life choices, even for you. Fine. You bought yourself a few hours of avoidance. So what’s the next move? Do we call the Watchmen to extract the body, or do you wait until he texts you for your laundry detergent brand?”
You shrugged, the movement tight and minimal, as you pushed the empty soda glass away. "Guess I'll just ignore him until I don't have a choice."
Leota raised an eyebrow, not bothering to hide her skepticism. "Ignoring Peacemaker is usually a prelude to an international incident, not a sustainable life choice. But fine. You've established the immediate plan. What about the long game?"
You sighed, the weight of the inevitable pressing down on you. "The long game is worse," you muttered, leaning in again. "We work together, Leota. Like, closely. We're on the same team."
The silence that followed was thick, only broken by the clatter of silverware in the kitchen. Leota’s eyes went wide as the full horror of the situation dawned on her.
"Oh," she said, her voice small. "Oh, no. You can’t just ghost a teammate. Is he going to try and kill you in the field for disrespecting American purity with your slutty ways?"
"He'll probably try to give me a lecture about the importance of using protection for the sake of national security," you corrected, rubbing your eyes. "But yeah. This is going to be a problem. A really, really big problem."
You finished your hash browns, the familiar comfort of the food a weak anchor in the sea of your mounting dread. You and Leota strategized for a few more futile minutes—the consensus being that you were still an idiot, but at least now you were a fed idiot. Finally, you paid the bill, thanked Leota for being your emergency confessor, and resolved to go home only when you were reasonably certain Chris had cleared out.
Your hope of avoidance was, surprisingly, granted—at least initially. When you finally slunk back into your apartment that evening, the bed was stripped, the dishes were done, and the smell of patriotic cologne was gone. The only sign that Peacemaker had ever been there was a single, perfectly folded towel left on your bedroom dresser. No note. No texts. No angry calls demanding you respect the sanctity of a shared hangover.
The silent treatment extended seamlessly into your professional life.
Over the next few days, you avoided Chris with the surgical precision of a highly trained operative. You developed a sixth sense for his location: the distinctive clink of his armored boots, the humming of his horrible helmet, the distant, muffled sound of a questionable 80s ballad.
You managed to attend briefings where you were on opposite sides of the conference table, your eyes firmly fixed on the wall map. You communicated only through clipped, technical phrases delivered to the group, never directly to him. If you were forced to walk down the same corridor, you became deeply fascinated by the architecture of the ceiling tiles, walking faster until you rounded a corner.
The surprising part was that Chris seemed to be doing the exact same thing.
He wasn't avoiding the mission or the work, but he was completely sidestepping you. His usually loud, declarative voice would drop to an inaudible murmur when you were near. He would busy himself adjusting his harness or arguing with anyone else on the team—rather than acknowledge your existence.
It was, in its own disastrous way, the best possible outcome. No awkward conversations, no terrible confessions, and no forced apologies. You got to treat the whole thing like a highly classified event that never happened.
But the silence was also thick, heavier than any argument could have been. It meant the incident wasn't forgotten; it was suspended, waiting. Every missed glance, every avoided hallway confrontation, was just a coil tightening the spring of inevitable disaster. You knew, with a sinking certainty, that this strategy couldn't last. A team as small and dysfunctional as yours was bound to collide violently, and the quiet tension was quickly becoming a bigger danger than a screaming fight.
The avoidance strategy, predictably, imploded during a messy job that involved three too many demolition charges and a collapse that had left both of you scratched, bruised, and bleeding. Now, instead of being safely across the hall, you were sharing the newly established, temporary safe house—a dilapidated, isolated house—with only the sound of rain against the corrugated metal roof for company.
You sat on the sagging couch, the cheap, floral fabric scratchy beneath your bare legs. Your suit and armor pieces were scattered on the floor, discarded in a rush. You were down to just your boxers, exhausted and gritty with dust and dried blood.
On the coffee table in front of you sat a makeshift medical kit: sterilized needles, heavy-duty thread, and a shallow bowl of murky, disinfectant-smelling water. You had propped an old makeup mirror—a garish gold compact—on the table, angling it to give you a shaky view of the deep, jagged cut running across your left pec. It was an ugly thing, a souvenir from a piece of shrapnel, and it definitely needed more than butterfly closures.
Your hands shook, not entirely from exhaustion, as you brought the needle and thread up to your chest. Your brow furrowed in concentration, focusing on lining up the tissue. You were so absorbed in the grim task that you didn't even notice the change in the atmosphere—the sudden shift in the quality of the air in the small room.
You didn't see Chris until he was practically on top of you.
He was in just as bad a state, shirtless, his own torso a roadmap of fresh scrapes and old scars. His breathing was heavy, and a low, irritated sound rumbled in his throat. He reached out and, without a word, firmly grabbed the needle and thread from your trembling fingers.
"Stop," he said, his voice a gravelly, low register you hadn't heard in days. He pushed the mirror slightly, settling into the space right next to you on the couch. The sudden proximity was suffocating, a wave of heat and adrenaline.
He snatched up an alcohol wipe and applied it to your cut with professional brutality. You hissed, pulling back instinctively, but his free hand clamped onto your shoulder, pinning you in place.
As he threaded the needle, his eyes were locked on his work. "I'm not gay," he grumbled.
You blinked, the pain from the stitching momentarily forgotten in the face of the sheer, absurd tension of the moment. You couldn't help the dry, surprised noise that escaped you. You cocked an eyebrow and leaned back into the worn cushion, relaxing your body slightly to give him better access.
"Neither am I," you hummed.
You watched his face carefully. It wasn't a secret on the team that you weren't straight; your dating history was a messy, public ledger that included mostly men, but it also wasn't a secret that you'd occasionally take a woman to bed, either. Chris, however, was a completely different story. You honestly weren't sure if he was embarrassed to be bisexual, or simply didn’t care enough about labels to think about it.
He tied off the first suture, pulling the knot tight with a practiced movement. "Then why did you run?" he asked, not looking up. His voice was neutral, but the needle was moving with an aggressive speed that spoke volumes.
You winced as the thread bit into your skin. "I thought you ran," you countered. "You were gone when I got back."
"I took a cold shower, cleaned up your apartment, folded your towel, and left," he said, focusing on the second stitch. "Which is the opposite of 'running.' It's called being a decent human being after a catastrophic failure of judgment."
"Right. You're so decent you've been avoiding my sightlines for three days," you challenged.
He finished the line of stitches, ripping the thread with his teeth before applying a sterile pad. He finally looked up, his eyes a cold, clear blue that betrayed no emotion. The proximity was electric.
"I haven't been avoiding you. I've been giving you the space to pretend that night never happened," he corrected, his voice flat. "But seeing as we're now bleeding together in a shack, I think we both know that's not going to work anymore.”
You didn't say anything, because there was no point. He was right. Arguing with Chris was as futile as trying to argue with a concrete wall about the merits of democracy—you’d just end up bruised and exhausted.
The small cabin was filled with the rhythmic scratch of the needle pulling the thread through your skin, the occasional quiet sucking in of your breath when the suture bit too deep, and the steady drumming of the rain outside. His focus was absolute; his breathing was the only thing you could hear besides your own nervous pulse.
Finally, when the pressure of the unsaid became unbearable, you let out a ragged breath.
"Look, I ran because... I don't exactly have the best track record when it comes to sex," you explained, your voice low and laced with resignation. You shifted slightly, trying to ignore the sting of the disinfectant. "It usually ends up being some kind of disastrous, regrettable emotional fallout. I thought fucking Rick Flag Jr and Harley Quinn was some of the stupidest decisions I’d ever make."
You paused, meeting his gaze as he tied off a loop. "Waking up next to you, with zero memory of how it happened and a whole list of reasons why it shouldn't have, just felt like… like a new, record-breaking low."
Chris looked up at you, his eyebrow raised high enough to disappear beneath his sweaty hairline. The intensity in his eyes remained, but a shadow of something else—something almost like amusement—flickered there.
"Are you serious?" he chuckled, the sound a low, rusty rumble. He didn't sound insulted; he sounded genuinely surprised.
He clipped the end of the thread, leaned back to admire his handiwork for a moment, and then settled his clear blue gaze back on you. "You have to be batshit crazy to fuck Quinn." He said it casually, like he was joking about the weather, but the humor was meant to diffuse the tension—and it worked.
You offered a wry, tired smile. "Yeah," you murmured, giving a slight shrug that pulled at the new stitches. "I guess I am." You knew he was most definitely right about you being batshit crazy, but at least the admission felt honest.
Chris nodded, gathering the used supplies and dropping them into the disinfectant bowl. "Well, for what it's worth, I wasn't running either," he repeated, his tone more subdued now. "I was just trying to avoid making my own bad decisions worse by talking about it with a raging hangover. It felt like the patriotic thing to do."
He stood up, towering over you for a moment before moving over to the small, rusted sink to wash the blood off his hands. The silence had completely changed: it was no longer heavy with avoidance, but lightened by the unexpected, shared confession of mutual stupidity.
"So," he said, turning back around, drying his hands on a rough paper towel. "If we're both batshit crazy and terrible at life decisions, does that mean we're done avoiding it now, or do we start avoiding the stitches, too?”
You couldn't help the dry, relieved chuckle that escaped you. You settled back into the couch, the pain from your newly stitched wound still sharp, but now less distracting than the panic that had consumed you all week.
Chris finished drying his hands and came back to the couch. Instead of sitting across from you or even at the far edge, he settled right back into the spot next to you. It was a close, familiar proximity—the kind of position a medic takes when tending a wounded teammate, but in this isolated context, it felt like an acknowledgment of the intimacy they were trying to normalize. He leaned back against the cushions just as you had, letting out a weary, deep sigh.
You didn't look at him. Instead, you held out your pinky finger between the two of you, a silent, low-stakes gesture that was part promise, part joke.
He understood instantly. With a faint click, he instantly hooked his own pinky with yours. The simple contact was solid and warm.
"This doesn't change anything between us," you murmured, keeping your gaze fixed on the dancing reflections of the interior light on the rain-streaked window. You squeezed your pinky gently. "We're still the same messed-up team we were before the party. And if it were to happen again," you added, meeting his eyes with a wry smirk, "it better not be when neither of us can hardly remember it."
A genuine, full-throated laugh burst out of Chris. It was the first time you’d heard him laugh freely since the night of the party—a loud, slightly boisterous sound that was completely free of his usual bravado. He squeezed your hand in return. "Deal," he said, shaking your pinky gently. "I draw the line at total amnesia."
It was quiet after that, save for the rain. The pinkies unhooked, but the contact lingered. You were simply two injured people, sitting side-by-side, too tired and relieved to move.
Then, Chris started laughing again, quieter this time, and looked over at you, his eyes twinkling with a renewed spark of mischief.
"I still can't get over it, though," he said, shaking his head. "Flag. Quinn. Me. Man, you have a really specific, terrible type. Are you trying to sleep your way through the entire Suicide Squad roster, or is it just the people who are constitutionally incapable of a healthy, long-term relationship?"
He elbowed you lightly in the side, carefully avoiding your stitches. "You're a man-whore, man. A total disaster. You know, when I get drunk, I usually just end up debating foreign policy with a raccoon. But you—you wake up next to the people who are most likely to actively try and kill you the next morning."
You couldn't help it; the pure, ridiculous absurdity of his judgment made you laugh, a deep, chesty sound that jostled your injury. You punched him softly back on the shoulder.
"Oh, shut up, Chris," you said, grinning. "You're simply jealous that I have better stories than you do."
Chris just grinned back, that genuine, relieved grin that made his whole face look younger. "Maybe," he admitted, shrugging, "but at least I can remember mine."
The moment hung there—a new, fragile foundation built not on romance or regret, but on shared trauma, mutual absurdity, and a firm, unspoken agreement to move on. The silence that fell after that was comfortable, no longer needing to be filled with nervous chatter or apologies. The situation was fixed, for now, by stitches, shared stupidity, and a silent pinky promise.
