[can’t leave Hawkfield out of spicy day 👀] “Whatcha doin’?” It’s as innocent a question as any as she saunters into the room behind him. He’s in her chair — he’s allowed to be, of course, but choosing to occupy a relatively secluded and dark place like her planning room comes with its risks.
He’s got almost a hundred pounds on her and, despite her monstrous strength, she is still beholden to things like gravity and leverage. He could easily push her away as she takes hold of his shoulders and spins him around in the chair, as she pushes it back against the desk and only threatens to straddle his waist. He could stare into those glittering inferno eyes as they spark with devious intent, see a monster, and strike at her.
But he won’t. Bravery in the face of snarling hordes and stomping behemoths is one thing; she’s older and wiser now and differentiates bravado from being jaded and Chris has a heaping supply of both. It’s a different quality entirely to stare into the eyes of a creature which differs from what you hate in such inconsequential characteristics as stature or stated intent and not to brand it the same or close enough. And so she rewards his critical thinking, his kindness. He enjoys a side of the commander of Revenant that perhaps none believe exists.
She settles, almost onto him but not quite. Her mutated arm drapes over one shoulder as she leans down to just above his eye level and seems to steady herself with the softer hand as it traces up the centerline of his chest. Only her pants and boots remain in place, her upper half limited to a black sports bra and her gear harness — an ensemble which provides an incredibly generous view of the sharp lines of muscle and mutation and a particular set of weapons she generally does not open carry.
“Looks boring.”
In truth, Chris had been losing himself in unpleasant memories. If he is honest with himself—a dangerous prospect—almost all of them fall under this category. It is dangerous to be alone in the silence and darkness of the war room. The large table is strewn with a chaotic mess of charts, manila folders, and a coffee cup or two.
Somehow, from that chaos, they will form plots, plans, and schemes. It is organized chaos. He had been observing a few digital files on a screen in Hawker’s seat when she’d come in. He cannot hear her heartbeat as she can likely hear his, but he hopes, in some small way, that hers picks up the same way his does when they are together.
“It was,” he admits, “but I wanted to get a head start on the next move… figured I’d try and impress my CO; she’s a real slave driver.”
He places a hand on her hip, then the other joins it on the adjacent side. He squeezes a little, letting her know that her presence is appreciated, even needed. There is something in his eyes that begs Sarah Hawker not to leave him alone right now.
"Guess I could take a little break," Chris adds after a moment, "but you can't say anything to the commander. She'll have my... erh... head." His voice is low, barely above a whisper as he leans forward and closes the gap between their mouths, gently and slowly, but with deliberate force and intention.
