#x alternative reader

[lilxberry]

Dating Someone Punk/Alt — Christopher 'Peacemaker' Smith

Requested by: Annonymous

If you are taking requests for peacemaker I was wondering if you could do one for Chris being with a punk/alternative partner :3 maybe they play guitar or something too and they rock out together

Holy shit, this is over 5k words. I could have definitely made a one shot but for some reason I made it a hc, I'm so sorry.

HEADCANON+BONUS SCENES

Pairing: Chris(topher) Smith x reader (gender neutral)

(A/N: I thought it wouldn't be so long so I made it into a headcanon but it reached over 5k words and not I don't know what to do.)

(A/N 2: This contains some foul language and mentions sex like once I think. I believe I kept it completely gender neutral throughout but feel free to lmk if there's anything majorly gender specific.)

_______________

• Chris and your relationship, at first glance, doesn't look like it would make a good pairing

• But once you look a little closer beneath surface level, it feels like the only thing in the universe that makes sense

• For starters, how you meet

• It started with Bud Light and ended in headbanging

• Let's elaborate

• You’re at some half-lit bar that smells like cheap beer and nostalgia — waiting for your friend who's supposed to be meeting you to pre-game a little before a gig

• It's a lesser known band, something local playing at this grimy, underground hole vibe venue

• Two beers sit in front of you: one half-empty, one untouched, already a relic of your failed pregame plan

• That’s when you catch him — two stools over. Big guy, weirdly earnest eyes, the kind of presence that’s both intimidating and oddly childlike at the same time

• He’s been trying to get the bartender’s attention for three minutes, and you can tell patience isn’t his strong suit

• You don’t realize he’s watching you until your notification sound goes off

• You're looking at your screen and reading the text that's come through from your friend, finding out they're bailing on you —for an understandably good reason

'hey, gotta bail on the gig tonight'

'simon got sick'

• Yes, your friend named her dog Simon

• You're understanding when replying, even if you do mutter a curse under your breath

• You're setting your phone face down on the bar again and sipping your beer before noticing he's not so subtly looking at you

• Not judgemental. Not mocking. Not nosy.

• Just curious

• “Like Bud Light?” you ask suddenly, holding up the untouched bottle you had bought meant for your friend with your fingers at the neck, giving it a little wiggle

• It catches him off guard — his eyebrows lift like you’ve just challenged him to arm wrestle

• “Uh… yeah,” he says

• You're leaning out of your stool, offering the bottle with an outstretched arm

• “Cool. You look like you could use it more than the bar counter does.”

• He takes it, that small, crooked smile flickering at the corner of his mouth

• “Thanks,” he says, voice low, almost bashful

• The conversation starts there — casual, effortless • You tell him about your canceled plans, the show you were supposed to hit later, the friend who bailed for all the right reasons

• He listens, nodding, connecting the dots like he’d been piecing it together in his head already

• “I can’t really be mad,” you shrug. “If my dog was sick, I’d bail too.”

• He's huffing a laugh, the kind that says I get it

• Before you know it, he’s moved a stool closer

• You’re halfway through your beers — you're sipping yours slowly whilst he's drinking fast to catch up to be able to pay for your next drinks because 'balance'

• A beer for a beer

• It's when you're both sipping on your second beers — courtesy of Chris — that you drop the bit about the prepaid gig admission

• "Either I go alone and waste half the money, or I go home and waste all of it."

• He doesn’t even hesitate

• “I’ll go with you. If you’re up for it.”

• You blink, half amused. “Really?”

• “Yeah, fuck it. I like music. Don’t got plans.”

• So you go

• You're both downing the remainder of your drinks before heading out and to the gig

• You end up squeezed together in a grimy local venue that smells like sweat and feedback, lights flickering red and blue over the stage — The band’s already thrashing through the beginning of their set, and the crowd’s moving like one loud heartbeat

• He’s stiff at first — not his scene — but you can see the shift happen

• The moment the bass hits his chest, something clicks

• By the third song, he’s headbanging right next to you

• During the noise and chaos, he leans close enough yet still having to shout over the loud music and crowd to be heard

• “I’m Chris, by the way!”

• You laugh — because, of course, introductions come after three beers and a shared existential scream to live music

• “Oh shit, yeah! I’m—”

• Introductions are finally traded — sweat-slick smiles are exchanged — and the rest of the night feels like something neither of you planned but somehow both needed

• You’re YELLING lyrics, jumping, bumping shoulders, laughing until your voice goes hoarse

• It’s alive, raw, and real

• When the set ended, you spilled outside into the cool night air, still buzzing

• He tells you the band was actually “pretty sick” — you tell him he looked ridiculous trying to headbang on beat — he grins and scratches the back of his neck

• Numbers are exchanged before you go your desperate ways that night — the texts start before either of you even make it home

• You're sharing texts nonstop since

• It's not until Chris sees another local upcoming gig that he notices the perfect opportunity to hang out with you again

• This band and style of music is more his preference but you later come to find that, much like Chris, you end up having a lot of fun and liking them way more than you anticipated

'saw this flyer for a metal night'

'u in?'

• You don’t even hesitate

'hell yeah'

• And that was it

• The start of a weird, loud, perfect kind of history

• Now, Chris loves your style

• Band tees — faded, cut up, or safety-pinned — Ripped jeans, Combat boots and doc martens, fishnets, layered belts, oversized flannels, leather jackets

• That's not even mentioning the accessories, hair, and makeup (if applicable)

• The best way to describe your overall vibe is

• The kind of person who looks like they might start a mosh pit at a dive bar but will also cuddle you 30 minutes into watching a terrible horror movie

• It's rough-around-the-edges but authentic, expressive, and self-assured — the exact kind of energy that, surprising to most, Chris finds absolutely magnetic because it's unapologetic

• Now, let's touch on music

• We all know the foundation to Chris' music taste

• So let's look at those bands/artists that're your shared favourites

• You call them bonding artists

• Mötley Crüe — Judas Priest — Guns N’ Roses — Alice Cooper — AC/DC — Black Sabbath

• Of course, you still have your own tastes

• Some Chris surprisingly grown to love

• Misfits — The Distillers — The Clash — The Offspring — Sex Pistols — Joan Jett & the Blackhearts — IDLES — Wolf Alice — The Pretty Reckless

• Turnstile is kinda the perfect modern crossover punk Chris really gets into

• You love to tease him about being 'hair metal' while you're 'real punk'

• He playfully fires back that his taste is 'classics, not noise' — you both end up trading playlists anyways

• Chris can sometimes get overly serious about a songs meaning

• Which you find hilariously endearing — but you're also like 'its just vibes, babe'

• Speaking of vibes

• They were varying majorly when you found out about him being Peacemaker and the whole butterfly aliens in peoples brains thing

• The relationship was still fresh — You've hung out enough that you're going back and forth between each others places, kissed, done more than just kiss a few times

• You've definitely reached the point where you both claim to be taken

• Anyways

• You knew Chris was a bit secretive about his job, but assumed it was probably something that needed the secrecy and discretion

• You knew it definitely involved using his hands

Either way, you don't pry. You like him, and you have your own life

• There are small red weird flags

• He disappears for a few days with vague excuses

• He's shown up once with a bandage and a story about 'falling off a ladder' — which definitely kinda sounds like bullshit

• There's a dent in his car that looks suspiciously like a bullet graze

• You chalk it up to 'whatever weird shit he does' — he's quirky, maybe ex-military

• The reveal happens by accident — because of course it does

• You had decided to swing by his trailer unannounced — it feels natural to just drop by like that to you both — it was a sort of unplanned hangout

• You knock one, twice — no answer

• You know he's in there because the lights are on and his car is just right outside

• So, you just assume he's zoned out listening to music or something

• So, you open the door

• The sight nearly knocks the breath out of you

• Chris is sitting in his kitchen area, hunched over, half in shadow

• His Peacemaker uniform is scattered like breadcrumbs across the floor leading to him — boots, gloves, the white pants and red top peeled off and tossed aside

• He's still wearing the tighty whiteys, because of course he is, and he's currently stitching up a gash just below his left pec

• His body is bloody and covered in gashes, sweat clinging to his skin, bruises already blooming purple and yellow

• There's a bowl of murky water beside him, a whiskey bottle nearby, and Eagly just chilling on the counter like it's normal

• You're freezing, adrenaline spiking

• "Chris—what the fuck—are you—what happened?"

• His head jerked up, eyes wide like a deer in headlights

• How the fuck didn't he hear you come in

• "Shit! Wait—its not—I can explain—"

• "You're literally bleeding out—" that's a dramatic over exaggeration on your part, but it's only because you're worried. "—what the hell did you do, get in a car?!"

• He's fumbling for words, realising there's no way to cover this up — not when his literal superhero armour is lying two feet away

• He's trying to placate you — "okay, okay—just—don't freak out, alright?"

• "You're fucking bleeding, Chris! Bit late for that!"

• He exhaled, resigned

• "I'm peacemaker."

• There's a long, blank pause — you blink — he's gesturing vaguely towards the silver dove helmet on the counter

• You're silent, trying to process

• "You're serious."

• "Deadly."

• You point out plainly that he's stitching himself up in his underwear which he justified with 'hospitals ask too many questions'

• You don't run, you don't scream. You just move him to sit on the couch as you're grabbing the first aid kit

• He obeyed silently as he watched you take over — hands steady despite your heart racing a mile a minute

• The silence stretched as you cleaned, sterilised, thread the needle

• Eventually, as you worked, his expression softened — "Didn't mean for you to find out like this."

• "Yeah, I kinda gathered."

• You worked as carefully as you could, apologizing whenever he flinched

• "Nah, you're good. Been through worse."

• "That's not comforting."

• Once you were finished with the stitching, you carefully, gently, wrapped him up in gauze and cleaned all the other little scrapes and cuts

• Sure, you were a little pissed that this was how you found out — that he didn't mention anything before you almost had a heart attack in his kitchen

• He responds that he was going to, eventually

• What gets you most is under the bravado was this quiet vulnerability when he explained that others don't really stick around once finding out

• That made you sign and sit back, leaning against the couch — exhausted but not angry

• "I'm not going anywhere, dude—" your tone was reassuring, soft. "—but next time you get stabbed or whatever, maybe give me a heads-up before you start freehand surgery, yeah?"

• That made him huff out a laugh, relief flickered across his face

• "Deal."

• A short time passes

• You're both sat in this comforting silence — your hands softly trailing over his bumps and bruises with a feather-like touch, his own fingers playing with the frayed edges of the cuts in your denim jeans

• Chris broke the silence, almost hesitantly

• "So, do you have any questions? Want any explanations?"

• His head was lowered, almost shyly — your hand drifts from his wounds to his cheek, making him look at your eyes

• "I do. But it can wait until the morning."

• Your kiss was soft, tender — and was quick to escalate

• You and Chris had moved to the bedroom and spent majority of the night softly fucking — it was gentle, cautious — you were always conscious of his injuries

• In the middle, you couldn't help but adoringly tease him

• "You're a goddamn mess, y'know that?"

• "Yeah...but I'm your mess, right?"

• "Don't push it, Peacemaker."

• Yes, he was definitely your mess.

• The following day, you got your answers — you had asked many, many questions — he told you all about him being Peacemaker, the alien butterflies in people's heads, the team he's on

• You don't end up meeting them until after Murne's death unfortunately, but you grew close to the others

• The others

• His friends — his found family that you're definitely apart of

• This is where we get to both of your relationships with each others friends

• Chris with your friends at the beginning — he was a little defensive and awkward

• Not because he doesn't want to get along with them, but because he's hyper aware of how people usually see him — the guy in the chrome helmet, a little too loud, a little too much

• He doesn't know how to act around "normal" people.

• If they're punk/alt too, he relaxed faster — he recognises kindred spirits in anyone who looks like they tell authority to fuck off

• Because they're more "civilian", he feels a little like a bull in a china shop.

• He tries way too hard to impress them — cracking jokes, dropping obscure metal trivia

• You find it adorable but also gently remind him to not put up such a front, to relax

• 'just calm down and be yourself.'

• Once he realises they actually like you — and by extension, don't hate him — he becomes fiercely protective

• If anyone gives your friends grief, he's suddenly the groups unasked-for bodyguard.

• Eventually, he becomes "that weird but kind of sweet dude who'd probably kill for you but would also pick you up from jail at 2AM without judgement" friend in your friendship circle

• His friends, the 11th Street Kids

• Now, this is where it gets fun

• Let's look at them one by one

• Economos

• At first, he's shocked Chris is even capable of maintaining a relationship that isn't based on violence or chaos

• He's awkward around you, at least initially — polite, overly formal at first — but once he realises they share sarcasm as a love language, he relaxed

• You warm up quickly to teasing him affectionately — like teasing him about his IT skills or about his dye job — you do it in a way that doesn't make him feel like a 'punching bag'

• You and Economos occasionally gang up on Chris with little jokes — and that's when you know they've bonded

• Economos also low-key adores how the reader brings out Chris's softer side. He'll never say it, but he notices when Chris actually listens and smiles more

• Economos once saw Chris and the reader making dumb faces at each other through the window — they were all meeting up for food (this is definitely after youve all met and hung out a few times by now)

• The sight disarmed him so much by how normal it was that he forgot to be snarky for like, five minutes

• Harcourt

• She's initially skeptical

• She's seen Chris crash and burn — she's not about to trust easily when it comes to someone entering their circle

• She keeps an eye on you at first — not hostile, just observant

• But once she realises you can hold your own, and that you don't baby Chris, her respect grows fast

• Harcourt appreciates anyone who can give Chris shit and keep him grounded

• You doing both? That's gold in her book

• You and Harcourt aren't strangers to sharing quiet moments together — meeting up to grab some drinks so she can choose to vent or just have some company post-mission

• It's not emotional-talks friendship

• It's mutual respect, low-key protectiveness, and occasional sarcastic eye contact when Chris says something dumb

• Harcourt once caught you patching Chris up after a fight, both of you laughing over some dumb jokes

• She smiles a little before walking off — didn't say a word, but it somewhat meant a lot to witness it

• Adebayo

• Leota loves you right away

• She's got that warm energy that fits beautifully with someone punk/alt but kind-hearted

• And her love for you is cemented quickly when she spots the pride related pin that showcases that you're at least an ally (now whether you're actually apart of the community doesn't change anything in the slightest, perhaps just adds a couple added things to talk and bond over)

• She immediately teases Chris about "finally finding someone who can handle you man-child energy"

• You're quick to build up the kind of friendship with her where you can have deep, late-night talks about heavy stuff

• Leota is quick to trust you — and you, her

• She also 100% plays "therapist friend" sometimes — giving relationship advice while simultaneously enabling their bad ideas

• She and you tag-team teasing Chris constantly, and he pretends to hate it but secretly loves being included

• Leota once said to Chris, "you realise they make you a better person, right?"

• He didn't respond — just looked away — but it stuck with him

• Adrian

• Oh, Adrian adores the reader from day one — long before you guys ever actually meet in-person

• He's actually so excited that Chris has a partner

• He's basically decided you're also his best friend now

• Originally, you either:

• 1— Find his chaos hilarious and fully lean into it, or

• 2 — Has to repeatedly tell him, "No, Adrian, we're not doing that kind of double date"

• He loves how you can make Chris laugh — it reassured him that things aren't as dark as they used to be

• You become the one who mediates when Adrian and Chris start bickering

• "You're both idiots, but he's right."

• Honestly, the entire rest of the 11th Street Kids also now have someone they can shove Adrian towards whenever they can when he starts with his facts and "quiz me" moments — you're surprisingly super patient and are fine in indulging him in his interests and hobbies

• Overall, you become an honourary member of the team and a real part of the weird family dynamic they've formed — the person who brings grounding energy when everyone's spiralling

• You help bridge the gap between Chris's "I'm fine" bravado and the teams exasperated care

• You bring more music into the mix — blasting punk and metal when hanging out, giving everyone playlists, even getting Harcourt to admit she kinda likes Joan Jett

• Of course, those relationships are snippets into how they slowly progressed the longer you're dating Chris

• Now, there's two sides to what you two do as a couple — there's the sweeter, more domesticated side, and then there's the side that's fully chaotic that can be fun, reckless

• You're favourite date nights are always in places with flickering neon signs and sticky tables

• You're ordering the most ridiculous artery-clogging burgers — double bacon monstrosities dripping with cheese — and act like it's fine dining

• It's like a heart attack stacked between two buns

• Trying to toss fries into each others mouths sometimes end up escalating into full-on ketchup wars — Chris jokes its romantic combat

• After these dates, you head home smelling like fryer oil, collapse on the couch, and swear you guys will eat a salad tomorrow

• You won't

• You definitely shower together a lot — mostly out of laziness

• One of you are already in there, the other just joins because "it saves water"

• It doesn't

• Every single time Chris forgets to bring a towel, so you end up having to share one while arguing about whose fault it was

• You take turns washing each others hair

• Sometimes they just stand under the water in silence after a rough day — forehead against his chest, or vice versa, letting the sound drown everything out

• You two go shopping together at weird hours, like 11PM because "no crowds"

• You always end up bickering over cereal

• "Why do you need three kinds of chocolate cereal?"

• "Because I'm a man of variety."

• The checkout clerk knows you as "that loud couple who flirts by insulting each other"

• You have "do nothing days" where you both stay in sweatpants, watch awful reality TV, and try out-snark the people on screen

• You argue over which movie to put on, then are both falling asleep ten minutes into Die Hard 2

• Chris loves when you nap on top of him, it doesn't matter your size — he'll pretend he's annoyed about not being able to move, but he won't shift an inch

• You two also make playlists/mixed tapes for each other

• "Songs that make me think of you but also make me want to fight God."

• You make Chris mixes of gritty punk, riot grrrl, and alt rock; he makes you one of metal anthems and cheesy 80s power ballads — you argue, then admit they secretly love each others picks

• Now, before Chris — and you, kinda — move into his dad's old place (fuck you, auggie), you loved to hang out at his trailer

• It's also where a lot of fun and absolutely random things have taken place

• Impromptu karaoke night — you guys duet Don't Stop Believing for some reason and end up screaming instead of singing

• Dancing to his vinyls

• Chris has tried cooking for you and failing miserably — you definitely end up eating takeout in bed

• You started to paint together as a joke — and an entire wall was quick to be covered in weird doodles and smudged handprints. People would definitely assume you guys have kids if they saw it

• You once tried to build a shelf together and ended up laughing so hard at the instructions that the shelf's still crooked

• Redecorating his trailer was probably the most fun you guys have had in that thing — well, the most fun you guys have had was actually a different physical activity but don't you worry about that for now, you little pervert, you *wink*

• You guys hang up string lights, pin up band posters

• You even painted the trailer together — badly — but he ended up loving it anyways

• It really got you down when you pulled up after the cops raid and could see into the trailer from behind the police tape how trashed it was (I'll get into that at the very end with a bonus snippet)

• Road trips with music blasting, windows down, and both of you doing air guitar

• Your favourite tends to be the nighttime car rides, where the vibes are more chill — the silence is comforting and he's basically forcing you to hold his hand, even when shifting gears

• Speaking of; car jam sessions

• Every drive turns into a concert. Both singing — badly — and don't care who hears

• Roadside stops — random diners, sunsets, old gas stations. Small quiet moments that mean more than either of you can say

• Watching cheesy horror movies or true crime docs at 2AM

• You especially love the trashy horror marathons where you bet on who dies first — loser has to get snacks

• You two go to dive bars and do karaoke that the other patrons loathe you for

• Always picking ridiculous duets like Sweet Child O' Mine or I Believe In a Thing Called Love — Chris gets way too into it and you're just cackling the whole time

• You guys love going to local gigs and small venues — very reminiscent of the first night you guys met

• Doesn't matter if it's a punk show in a basement or a cover band in a bowling alley

• You're there, drinking cheap beer and heckling in harmony

• And concerts — you two are the perfect pit partners — Chris goes into full bodyguard mode in the mosh pit, making sure you don't get crushed.

• But he's still having the time of his life

• You also love hitting up 80s tribute nights

• Weekend ritual includes vinyl/CD hunting — thrift stores and record shops.

• You're digging through punk bins, Chris is flipping through classis metal

• You swap recs and roast each others "questionable taste"

• You guys once started a rumour that you were a "punk-metal duo" just to get free drinks at a bar

• Pranking Economos by sending him the most random cursed selfies

• Having a running competition on who can come up with the most absurd "Peacemaker facts" when people recognise him in public (which is rare)

• You definitely have quiet conversations under shitty stars talking about pasts, futures, stupid hypotheticals — everything and nothing

• You have those moments when Chris spirals after a mission

• You stay — no lectures, no pity. Just quiet grounding. You're comforting him in a way that just works for you

• Matching jackets — it starts out as a joke but then he adding a pin/patch that matches one of yours

• Sometimes, you're going to get an older tattoo touched up or a new one altogether and Chris is with you

• He's watching like its the most fascinating in the world

• One time, you both got completely plastered and you're daring him to get a tattoo — something small and something dumb

• He agrees, but only if you get one too to match

• You're both laughing incredibly hard when getting them done, Chris first, then you — only after you joke about backing out

• It's kinda hidden but both you and him know it's there and that what makes it sweet

• You definitely patch up his wounds after finding out that he's Peacemaker — usually you're grumbling at him but you're still so, so gentle

• You also have late-night heart-to-hearts where he opens up about his past

• This is when he tells you about his dad, his brother, prison, Task Force X, almost dying, and everything else that's added on to create this clusterfuck of trauma Chris is left with

• On a lighter note, when Chris — and you, kinda — move into his dad's old place, you two give this "we accidentally live together" vibe

• You're blasting The Clash while Chris tries to "MacGyver" something with duct tape and optimism

• Chris and you are so random with DIY projects — you both repaint old furniture together in ridiculous colours or cover things in stickers and patches

• You're taking Eagly to the park like a couple taking their child

• Ah, Eagly

• You still remember when you first 'met' the majestic looking bird

• You were over at his place, sitting on his couch, when Eagly stills in like it's completely fucking normal

• "Oh my god, it that a fucking eagle?"

• "Yeah. That's Eagly. He's...my best friend."

• You're laughing because obviously he's joking — until you realise he isn't

• You admit, it's kinda sweet how he calls the bird his best friend; you suppose it's not much different to someone calling their cat their baby

• There's a moment of stunned silence before—

• "Okay, I feel like theres a lot I don't know about you."

• "Yeah...uh. You could say that."

• Once the initial shock wore off, you had easily just accepted that hey, this dude you like is just super into weird, different pets — pre-finding out he's Peacemaker

• You're quick to acclimate to one another

• You've somehow become Eagly's second favourite person

• You help feed him, sometimes sneaking him bacon — you did originally ask exactly how healthy it really was for the bird to be eating people food like this but you figured if it's in small quantities, like how people give dogs pieces of their food, it shouldn't really hurt

• Once, Eagly stole one of your bracelets and dropped it on Chris's bed in front of you — a "gift", apparently

• You all sit outside sometimes, Eagly perched nearby

• Chris definitely tries to teach his feathered friend how to headbang when you guys listen to music together

• Honestly, you love Eagly, dude

• And speaking of love, we'll touch on the topic of 'love' finally

• It had been a few months since the butterflies and everything is calm for once

• You're both sort of moved in to Chris's dad's old place — not officially, but your stuff has migrated in bit by bit

• There's a toothbrush beside his

• A pile of your band tees mixed in with his tighty whiteys in the laundry

• Eagly's taken to perching on your chair instead of his

• The house feels lived-in now — not haunted

• It was a lazy afternoon, soft music playing — definitely some soft 80s rock or a punk mix you made together

• You're sat on the floor sorting through a box of vinyls

• Chris is across the room, cleaning his gear, polishing his helmet — it almost looked like he pretended to be busy

• It's quiet in that comfortable way only people who truly like each other can pull off

• Suddenly, he's looking up for no reason

• You're humming, brows furrowed, one hand holding a vinyl in its sleeve as the other is flicking through to find the perfect spot for it — you're wearing one of his old shirts

• It feels so normal — so human — and something in his chest just...clicks

• For a second, he stops breathing. He's not used to that kind of peace

• His brain, which usually screams static, goes quiet except for the thought:

• Holy shit, I love them

• The thought feels big and heavy and good for once — a soft smile growing subconsciously on his face — and before he knows it, his mouth betrays him

• Softly, absent-mindedly, not even realising he's said it aloud

• "I love you."

• It's almost a sigh — the kind you let out when something just feels right

• Though, you freeze — going still mid-motion — the record you're holding pauses halfway into the crate

• Your head is snapping up and towards him, eyes wide

• "...what?"

• Chris blinks

• He doesn't even realise what he said at first

• "You—you just said you love me."

• There's a beat of silence before his eyes wide too, like he's catching up with his own emotions in real time

• "Shit. Uh—yeah. I mean—I didn't—well, I did—but not like, you know, weirdly. It just—came out. Not that it's bad! It's good! You're good—"

• He's rambling, hands falling slightly, red creeping up his thick neck

• You're just watching him, expression softening the longer he talks himself on circles

• You interrupt him gently

• "Hey."

• He stops

• "You can breathe, you know."

• A small smile tugs at your mouth as you stand up and cross the room to him

• "You love me, huh?"

• He swallows, nodding a little, suddenly shy in a way no one ever sees from him

• "Yeah. Guess I do."

• You grin — slow, warm, a little teary

• "Good. 'Cause I love you too."

• He looks stunned, like someone just told him he won the lottery

• "You—you do?"

• "Yeah, dumbass."

• You both lean in, forehead touching, both smiling like idiots

• It's not a dramatic kiss or big cinematic moments — just a deep exhale, like they both realise this is home now

• Later, when you're back to doing your desperate things again, there's this new kind of silence — softer, safer

• Every now and then, he's glancing over and grinning, half in disbelief that someone actually said it back

• And it actually meaning something

• That night, he couldn't sleep. He was lying there with you tucked under his arm, the room dark except for moonlight leaking through the blinds

• He whispered it again, quieter that time — testing the words like he still couldn't believe they're real

• "I love you."

• Half asleep, you mumbled back—

• "Love you too, Chris."

• He smiled into the dark — a real, peaceful smile

_______________

Bonus

The mid-day air feels wrong. Too still.

Your fingers tighten on the steering wheel as you pull up to Chris’s trailer — the one that’s become so familiar to you. The place where you’d both painted the walls impulsively that burnt orange colour you picked out as a joke, only for him to admit later he kind of liked it.

But now the trailer is accosted with yellow tape with 'Do Not Cross' repeating along it. Two cops are leaning against their cruiser, bored but firm, keeping anyone from getting too close. You can only assume it's to also keep an eye out for Chris if he decides to double back there.

He won't. You know so for a fact. He isn't stupid. Just dumb.

From where you stand, you can already see the mess through the cracked door — the blinds twisted, the door half off its hinges, shards of your dumb little art projects scattered across the floor. The beer-can windchime you made him is dented. The doodled poster you did together one night — tipsy and laughing — is torn right down the middle.

It’s a punch to the gut.

You hover by your car, pacing hard grooves into the gravel, thumb hitting “call” over and over. Voicemail. Again.

Seven times.

By the eighth, you’re shaking. You can’t even pretend not to.

“Chris, it’s me. What the hell happened? There’s cops here, your trailer’s trashed— you're not answering any of my calls. Please just— call me back, okay? Just… tell me you’re fine.”

The message cuts off with a shaky breath. You clamber back into your car and sit for a long moment, staring at the place that used to feel like home. Then you drive off, knuckles white on the wheel, radio silent.

It’s dark when the phone finally rings.

Unknown number. You’re answering before the second buzz.

“Chris?! Where the fuck— where have you—”

A voice on the other end, softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Hey.”

Your chest tightens. “Don’t 'hey' me. Where are you? Are you okay?”

He chuckles, quiet, tired. “Yeah. I’m okay. Been better. Using Leota’s phone— long story.”

“Try me.”

There’s a shuffle, muffled voices somewhere behind him. Then he starts talking — about a ranch, the butterflies, something about an alien cow and a sonic boom helmet. His voice is steady but worn thin, like he’s fighting to stay standing.

You grip the phone tighter. “You’re planning to blow up a ranch?”

“That’s the idea.”

“Oh my god— Chris, you can’t just—”

“I gotta, babe.” His voice softens. “It’s what needs to be done.”

You go quiet for a second, heart hammering.

“Just… be careful, okay? All of you. Please. If you die, I'll fucking kill you myself, I swear to God.”

He exhales, a soft little huff that’s almost a laugh. “I’ll be careful.”

“I’m serious, Chris.”

That gets a real laugh out of him. “Yeah. I know.”

Then the line goes dead, leaving you staring at your reflection in the darkened screen, surrounded by a silence that feels way too heavy.

When the payphone call comes hours later, you barely let him finish his sentence before grabbing your keys.

His voice is rough but alive. “We did it.”

He tells you the name of the hospital, the floor, the ward — and that’s all you need.

You don’t remember the drive, only the way your heartbeat fills the car, only how frantic you're scanning the signs on the walls as you're jogging when you burst through a set of doors.

Then you see him.

Chris sits on the edge of a chair in the waiting area opposite the nurses station, bruised, bloody, hair a mess, and still somehow smirking when he spots you and stands. You don’t stop moving until you're crash into each other — arms around his shoulders, his arms locking around your waist like he’s afraid to let go.

“You’re okay?” you breathe, the words cracking out of you.

“I’m okay,” he murmurs against your hair. “Promise.”

You pull back enough to look him over — eyes tracing the bruises, the drying red shine that begins to crack the older it gets, the faint exhaustion in his face. You brush your fingers against his arm like you can fix it by touch alone.

Then you spot Adebayo perched in one of the chairs where Chris was just sat.

“Hey, Lee. You good?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Just tired.”

Your eyes flick around the room. “Where’s Emilia? Adrian? Jon?”

His expression softens — proud, but weighed down.

“Harcourt’s in surgery. Adrian’s out cold; passed out just over there—" he nods towards where Vigilante went down like a sack of shit. "—nurses rushed him to a room. He took some serious hits. Economos snapped his leg, so he’s getting that looked at.”

You let out a shaky breath that turns into something like a laugh. “Jesus fucking Christ, you guys.”

He grins a little. “Yeah. We’re a mess.”

You rest your forehead against his, eyes closing.

“Next time, you tell me way in advance what the fuck is going on, not just before you fucking go kamikaze-ing an alien cow thing, got it?”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Next time.”

You end up deciding to wait with them — the sterile smell of antiseptic and bright lights overhead overwhelming your senses. But you're calmer now, knowing that Chris is okay.

Chris is sandwiched between you and Adebayo, who you soon crushed in a hug after being caught up on everyone's current conditions. His hand is almost crushing yours with how tightly he's holding on — fingers entwined — a comforting, grounding anchor.

You're there for hours.

First, it's John that's joining you, upright using crutches. He looks exhausted and in pain but happily accepts the hug you wrap him in — of course you're concerned and relieved and asking him how he is.

Then you're all requesting any updates about Harcourt and Adrian when nurses are walking by.

They confirm that Adrian is fine, but he's completely conked out from pain meds mixed with exhaustion.

By the time a doctor comes around to give the update on Emilia, it's only you that's barely conscious — Chris, Adebayo, and Economos have dropped off slumped in their chairs.

You took it upon yourself to carefully pull yourself away from Chris to not disturb him at that moment and speak with the doctor yourself.

It's good-ish news.

She's stable but there's definitely damage that they're hopeful that, with enough rehabilitation and physio, will be reversed like she was never in such a state in the first place.

You're sighing out in relief and thanking him before gently waking the others up, telling them exactly what the doctor told you.

It's closer to mid-day by the time you and Chris are ambling through your door. Chris's trailer was still 100% not an option, even if those officers were gone and had aliens crawling its way into their heads — it was way too trashed to be considered a viable place for Chris to stay right now.

You offered Leota and John a ride but she was adamant that they were fine sharing an Uber, that you should focus on Chris.

Chris is mostly silent when you're forcing him to have a shower — you're helping him strip out of his costume, cleaning him slowly, tenderly.

Once you've dried him off, you're helping him into your bed and climbing in beside him. He's comforted by how soft the covers feel when you pull them up over the both of you and the heat from your body is drawing him in.

His head is on your chest and you're cuddling him close, nothing but sweet kisses and silent touches. There's daylight filtering into the room between the cracks of the blinds but you're both so tired, so drained.

He's drifting off slowly in your hold surrounded by the comfort you're offering him. Your steady pulse thumping beneath his ear, lulling him. It's the most precious lullaby he's ever heard.

"Thank you."

It's quiet and mumbled, like a drunken slur, barely coherent — but you hear it all the same.

All you offer in response is a lingering kiss to his forehead.

_______________

This is not proofread

And it's probably shit

And I'M SORRY ITS SO LONG

But anyways

Thank you for taking the time to read if you've gotten this far

Constructive criticism is always welcomed and appreciated