Chapter Text
You and Christina were coworkers, best friends, and maybe something more. Neither of you could ever really put a name to it. You both just knew that when everything else drifted away, you were the only ones who stayed.
Until the mission. Three years of your life were riding on that launch, and you refused to let a few degrees of freezing temperature sideline it. You pushed. You insisted. Christina—ever so gentle and just and always looking out for the human cost—had been the one to lead the disapproval. For the safety of the crew, she stopped you.
The silence of the Science Institute was a deliberate choice. After the fallout—after the frost-damaged sensors and the stubborn pride that nearly cost NASA a crew—you traded the roar of rocket engines for the scratch of a pen and the hum of the archives.
You were at peace.
That's what you keep telling yourself.
Until the bell rang.
When you saw Victor and the rest of the crew, your heart performed a maneuver it hadn’t practiced in years. Victor was there, looking as tired as you felt. But then there was Christina. She stood there with that same quiet, humane gravity that had always made her the moral North Star of the Astronaut Office. The same steady, grounding expression that used to be the only thing that made sense to you when the world was spinning too fast. She looked at you, without the judgment of a former colleague who had seen you crash and burn, with something older, deeper—something that felt like home.
“I am already at peace here,” You said, voice flat, looking toward Victor but feeling only her. “What are you guys doing trying to disturb it again?”
Christina didn't flinch. She stepped forward, ignoring Victor’s presence entirely. "Something’s happened," she said softly, "that we’re having trouble understanding."
You gestured them inside your office, the resentment warring with the muscle memory of you and your former crew being a team. Everyone settled into the sitting area, the space you had meticulously crafted for "intentional living," now invaded by the chaos of your past.
Starting with coffee, the conversation strained, filled with the debris of your history. The dialogue felt like a dance that wasn’t performed in years.
The crew shifted, the air thick with the weight of three years of silence. Christine stepped forward, her eyes warm and dangerously genuine. "I need to talk to her. Alone," she told the others.
Watching her walk into your space was like watching a ghost reclaim its home. You two sat by the table with unfinished paperwork. Looking into her eyes made you think of everything you’d lost—the dreams, the career, and whatever happened between you two. It was nostalgic and you hated it. Living in the past felt like drowning, but you were still so thirsty for her.
She looked like she really needed that coffee.
“Something’s happened that we’re having trouble understanding,” she repeated, her eyes locked on yours.
“And you think I can help?” You asked, keeping your gaze on the coffee service. You paused, the bitterness flavoring your words. “Something happened related to the Space Flight Center?”
“Something like that.” Christina stood and started pacing, her energy restless.
“Or,” You offered, a little sharper, “there was a problem with conducting science, maintenance, and spacewalks? Are we calling it something else now to make the failure sound like a feature?”
You lifted your eyes to hers. “Something at NASA? Or,” You added with a bitter edge, “is there a problem with the National-Always-Stalling-Administration? Is the science too hard for them now?”
She winced. “Please tell me you don’t call it that.”
You glared at her. “You’re really going to argue linguistics with me now?”
“Why not? I thought,” Christina’s voice was dangerously soft, “that your job was mainly numbers.”
You turned and went to the area where the crew retreated and retrieved a coffee for yourself before sitting across from her. You set the mug down with a sharp click. “It took more time to finish this cup,” you remarked, “than for us to start fighting again.”
Years ago, your colleagues would have rolled their eyes in appreciation of this camaraderie; now even Jeremy and Reid, who were giggly and full of lightheartedness, now just watches. Jeremy who was the crew’s resident "big guy with a big heart"—remains a silent observer. He sits there, his large frame looking almost awkward in the stillness, like a Great Dane trying to fit into a tiny chair. They both still has that sweet, blank-stare kindness in his eyes, but the giggly, lighthearted clumsiness has been replaced by a polite, muted nod. You found yourself deeply disliking their professionalism. It made you realize just how much you missed the messy version of your old life.