“hi, baby.” he greets, pressing a kiss to the child’s temple as she grabs at his face. he peppers kisses along her cheek, making sure not to rub his stubble against her skin. “i missed you.”

the child babbles in reply, nuzzling her face into his shoulder. he's about to ask her where her mother is when a head pokes out from the living room, a soft smile on your face as you glance at the father and daughter. at your husband. you step out into the entryway, eyes glistening with unshed tears, and chris' chest tightens with a feeling he can't quite name. it washes over him. shoulders loosening as he lays down a weight he hadn't known he was carrying. an aching mixture of desperation and relief at seeing you again. at having found his way back to you.

“welcome home.” you smile, hands clasped in front of you, nervousness held at bay.

he sets your daughter down, making sure she’s settled securely before straightening back up to face you. and you take that as your cue, feet padding towards him as your arms find their place around his neck. he holds you close, breathing you in and letting the soft animal of his body mold itself around you once again. and for a second he doesn’t move, too focused on memorizing the way you feel against him. on making up for all the days spent away from you. he squeezes you one last time before pulling away, a hand coming to rest at your hip as the other pushes your hair behind your ear. his eyes move over your face, thumb caressing your cheek. as if trying to convince himself that you’re real. that you’re here. and it is only then that he presses his lips against yours, the ghost of longing pouring out of him.

“i’m back.” he whispers, voice shaky with contentment. he rests his forehead against yours, your breath warm against his own as you let out a small laugh, fingers caressing the nape of his neck. but the moment is shortlived, your daughter growing impatient as she pulls on your pants, calling for you to pick her up. chris chuckles at her antics, shaking his head as he reaches out to scoop her into his arms once more. happy to be held again, the child busies herself with pulling at his collar, pushing her hand into his shirt, trying her best to bring the fabric into her mouth to chew on. pulling her small hands away, his eyes flick back to you over her shoulder, warmth lingering in them as his smile softens.

he's home. and all is right in the world.

charlie finds him in the basement of a house they had cleared out, the foundation crumbling after a bad explosion topside. wading through the rubble, he makes to call out for the man, to tell him they have to leave now, when he stops dead in his tracks. chris is sitting against the far wall, half buried beneath a pile of broken beams and dust, head tipped slightly forward as if he’d simply paused to catch his breath. canine's voice wavers as he calls out to the captain, voice echoing in the dreary silence. he steps closer, afraid to confirm what he already knows in the back of his mind, afraid to make it true. he tries again. calls out a name the squad has grown to rely on. but he's already noticed the unnatural stillness to his body, the dark stain soaking through his shirt, slowly pooling beneath him, the way his hand hangs limp beside him.

he’s quick to drop to his knee, fingers checking for a pulse that isn't there, hands reaching for the captain to shake his shoulder, like that might be enough to wake him. but chris’s head only lolls to the side with the motion, lifeless in a way more terrifying than the zombies the squad just wiped. charlie's radio crackles faintly at his shoulder, the sound snapping him back into place. he reaches for it with stiff fingers, about to call for umber eyes, when something glints in the corner of his eye. a smartphone, sticking halfway out from the captain's pocket. flashing bright with notifications despite the cracked screen. text messages from the looks of it. he picks it up, wiping away the dust only to find that the name on the screen is too familiar, the contents of the message a cruel joke.

still unread.