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He finds the card in the mailbox two days before their first Christmas back on Earth. He’s not sure how long it’s been sitting there; he finds it difficult to get into the habit of mundane events like brushing his teeth, checking the mailbox, taking out the trash.
But there it sits, a bright pink envelope, his name scrawled along the front in handwriting he doesn’t recognize. (His name still feels foreign, unfamiliar. The dozen-or-so specialists he’s seen tell him this will change, but he wouldn’t place any bets on it. He knows in his brain he’s Douglas F. Eiffel, but in his heart…)
He’s running late, so he doesn’t open the thing, just stuffs it in his bag along with the accumulated pile of bills and advertisements, ducking along side-streets and through crowds of people, skidding to a halt in front of the bus-shelter just as the driver pulls away. He drops onto the bench with a groan, sensing the talking-to he’s undoubtedly going to receive for being late again.
His mind whirs as he thinks of the past two weeks. Late three times, forgotten bus pass six times. Twice he hasn’t brushed his hair, and he’s lost count of how many he’s shown up dressed inappropriately. He feels like (knows) these are parts of the old Douglas Eiffel - he’s trying so desperately not to be the old Douglas Eiffel - but some things are just drilled so deeply into your core that not even a memory swipe can erase them.
Inattention to detail. It’s different from ‘not caring,’ but not everyone sees it that way. He runs one hand through too-long hair and uses the other to search for his mobile phone. Isabelle had spent many hours teaching him how to use the thing, but he rarely used it for more than making awkward phone calls like the one he was currently planning in his head. His wandering hand brushes instead along the envelope, and he pulls it out with a quizzical expression on his face. He takes a moment to remember finding it. (He has issues consolidating memories too. He wonders if any of the issues will ever end. He hates that word. ‘Issues.’ Everything about his life is just an ‘issue.’ He thinks old Eiffel probably had more ‘issues.’ Then, he also has ‘issue’ separating them, even in his own mind.)
Inside the envelope, is a card. The front is the deep darkness of space, dotted with tiny spots he supposes are stars. It’s an artist's impression, sure, but he’d recognise the intent anywhere - the one memory he wishes he could let go off, the one memory he knows he never will.
He flips it over, his eyebrows furrowing as he reads the short message inside. There are only four words, but he reads them over and over again, trying to make sense of them.
Before his brain co-operates, the next bus pulls up and he’s shuffled into a seat, still clutching envelope and card in hand.
‘Happy Birthday Officier Eiffel.’
He supposed he should’ve realised he’d have a birthday. It hadn’t seemed important. Birthdays were the kind of thing that happened when your life wasn’t falling apart. When you had friends and family and memories. Cake and presents and well wishes and fancy dinners and movies and getaway. He didn’t have time for any of that. He had processes to go through. Aliens to attempt to contact. A whole universe of knowledge buried somewhere inside of him.
Something else deep inside him aches - it always aches - but he pushes it away, like he always does. Renée and Isabelle and even Daniel had protested his involvement in anything back on Earth. Doug himself had insisted. As much as he hated Eiffel, the person he used to be, he knew how much this would have meant to him. The others had reluctantly agreed.
Isabelle and Daniel were in - and - out, but Renée had made her life near him. Along with Miranda, who was -
Doug had more important things to concern himself with. He stuffs the card inside his jacket pocket before forcing himself to forget about it.
Except he can’t. He’s five minutes late, but sits on the uncomfortable waiting room couch for fifteen minutes anyway, because they’re never organised. He doesn’t even sign in anymore, the blonde lady at the desk barely even glances at him before tapping away into her computer. His mind can’t get the words out of his mind. Happy Birthday Officer Eiffel. He wonders, and the something deep inside him continues to ache.
He doses off.
Renée is shaking him before long, murmuring his name in that soft, soothing tone she reserves only for him - it’s different to the way she used to talk to Eiffel, has heard confirmation of such from years of tapes and stories. But he likes it. Something for only them.
He’s guided by the arm, still a little dazed and sleepy towards their usual room. He’ll see any number of scientists and doctors and people who’s occupation he can’t even begin to guess at. They’ll run tests and ask him questions he doesn’t understand, before making him undergo any manner of thing that would feel like torture if he had the capacity to feel anything at all.
Except today Renée takes a sudden left, and he’s confused for a moment because the walls are a different shade of blue, and there aren’t any flashing lights or big screens or tinted windows.
And then he sees her.
Standing a little awkwardly next to a plush green couch. She’s shuffling her feet and scratching at her arm. He knows with absolute clarity that he’s never seen this person before; the shape of her eyes make him feel a strange sense of calm. Something he can’t remember feeling ever. She timidly smiles at him, and he feels that ache inside him once again.
And then she speaks.
“Happy Birthday, Officer Eiffel.”
And the card in his pocket burns, and he knows. Should’ve known. She’s the only person who calls him Officer Eiffel. The only person who -
He recognises her voice, because of the tapes. Because of the dreams. Because she’s the reason he -
He wishes he could still be “Officer Eiffel.” For her. Every single thing about Doug is better than Eiffel and yet -
He wishes she could-
“Hey Hera,” is all he can manage before his voice breaks. He bites his lip, and hopes she knows; hopes she understands the weight behind those two words. Knows she never will.
She smiles though, a little braver than before and holds out her arms, and suddenly he’s launching himself across the room and into them. He knows Eiffel wanted his more than anything - can feel part of him reaching from the past into his now, and forcing tears to dampen his face. He clings to her desperately, and shakes, everything between them left unsaid and hopes and hopes and hopes.
She’s warm, solid, taller than he is. Her hair is short and shaggy and bright pink. Her face coloured with all kinds of emotions and she -
She’s wearing a bright red sweater with a reindeer on it, and Doug can’t stop himself from staining it with tears.
He can vaguely hear Renée talking to somebody (Miranda?) at the other end of the room, but all he wants is to hear Hera say his name - Doug. Not Eiffel.
And she does. Again. And again. And again.
He knows with absolute clarity that there’s no better gift he’s ever received. Doesn’t know how to put into words what this means to him. Things have been strange, different since coming back to Earth. He knows that, even if he doesn’t really know that.
He’s not Eiffel, but he loves with that same, fierce intensity that he did. Eiffel gave up everything for them, for Hera and now. Now she’s really here. Now they can start over. They’ll never get back the things, the people they’ve lost - but they still have each other. Things haven’t been easy, but they have each other. Renée. Isabelle. Miranda. Even Daniel.
And now, Hera too. Eiffel never got the words out, but that’s not going to stop Doug.
“Hera, I-”
And finally, he gets to tell her.