Chris sits in his room, legs dangling off the end of his bed as he stares up at his cieling. Chel is on her date, Daws is... who the hell knows where Daws is, really. Not for the first time Chris is struck by how lonely he actually is.
It's a ridiculous notion, honestly. He's got Chel and always will, and he's got Daws. But Chel also has Jack taking up her time, and it's not the same with Dawson when Chris is actively keeping secrets. It feels more like he's digging himself a hole than anything else.
It's not that easy. I don't know when I'm doing it.
Chris sighs and covers his face with his hands. He's wrong. He's not alone. He's got Chel, Daws, Abbi, ******** he's even got Jack, if he's being honest. He may not want the b*****d, but he gets him anyways. He's got people around him and he's got a ******** purpose and he's not the best Moon but he's damn good anyways. He has no reason to wallow in a false sense of isolation.
And yet.
That's not true.
I'm doing better.
Chris groans and rolls onto his side, holding a pillow over his ears. It can't stop Ava's voice, but it's a little satisfying anyways. He hates that she's always ******** right. She's directly tapped into his brain, watching every ******** up he makes and judging it. Like a loud,, obnoxious, second conscience.
Chris frowns and pulls at his hair a little. He likes his hair.
He doesn't have an argument for any of it, honestly. He knows he won't feel better, but he's not doing anything sitting here. He's defected enough for a while. So as hard as it is, he forces himself out of bed and into his clothes. "Do your job. Do your job. Do your job," he repeats to himself like a mantra.
He's just pulled on his shoes when the text from Pamela comes. His shoulders drop, dread filling him. Do your job.
He grabs his coat and heads to the portals.
