Day Dreamer

AN: Story was inspired by a prompt from Jeremy/endingrepose on tumblr. He's fantastic and also loves the Birkins, which makes him even more fantastic.

It occurs to Sherry, that for two people who don't share a whole lot in common aside from a mutual tragedy, she and Chris sure spend a lot of time together.

Well, they share one tragedy and a coffee shop.

She decided on a career path change after the business in China. As much as she realized the fear was irrational, her old office gave her the creeps, knowing Simmons had been there. The BSAA seemed like a good enough fit, and she got to work with Chris, who was a "family friend," in the loosest sense of the term.

The coffee shop is a quiet sort of establishment, tucked into an oak tree lined backstreet of an expensive DC suburb. There's a steady stream of regulars, but it never gets terribly crowded. Going there every night means getting off the train two stops ahead of home, and then walking fifteen minutes, but it's worth it. There's a million Starbucks within a five minute walk of the BSAA headquarters, but a place like that would make Chris nervous: too many people, too much noise.

She could say that it's "their" place, but it's a phrase which she's hesitant to use, because it implies romance, and she feels as romantically about Chris as she does her toaster. He's too old to be a lover, too young to be a father figure. So, to her, he's just Chris. Sometimes she wonders what the baristas think their relationship is; two people who come together almost every single day, at roughly the same time, order the same thing, and sit down at the same table. Chris likes an americano with three packets of sugar and no cream, Sherry goes for the vanilla latte with soy milk.

They've got a seat in the corner, because Chris needs to be able to see all the doors. She doesn't complain. It seems rational enough—maybe if she does this for another twenty years, she'll be the same way.

She shudders at the thought.

They don't talk too much to each other, just a few sentences here and there.

"How's Claire doing?"

"She's fine; she asks about you all the time."

And then Sherry will nod, and not press further, because "fine" is a loaded word, and she's not entirely sure what it means, especially not with Chris.

"Is Jake staying out of trouble?"

"Define 'trouble,' Chris."

And they'll share a smile, or a chuckle on a good day, and go back to nursing their drinks, staring out the window, nodding heads and tapping feet to whatever weak acoustic ballad is playing over the tinny speakers. Chris is an agreeable companion; he's remarkably kind and soft spoken for his reputation as a hardass, no nonsense captain. It's nice to spend time with someone who understands that you don't need to speak. It's okay to just be. Neither of them want to spend their nights alone.

She thinks Chris might be lonely, now that Piers is gone.

And as for herself, well she's been a little lonely for a while now.

It makes her feel kind of crazy, but sometimes she thinks about the kinds of conversations they might have if Piers was there.

"Is Jake staying out of trouble?" Chris would ask, and Piers would scowl, waiting for someone to acknowledge his expression.

"Define 'trouble," Chris."

And even though she asked Chris, Piers would chime in, arms crossed over his chest.

"Do you think he even knows how to stay out of trouble?"

And even though it would have been meant as an affront to the man she thinks she might love, Sherry would laugh anyway, because Piers always looked ridiculous when he was angry. Like a little dog someone just tripped over.

"I dunno, Piers. I couldn't tell you."

And then Chris would shake his head and knock Piers' shoulder affectionately.

"Jake Muller isn't any of our concern, Piers."

And Piers would mumble a, "yeah, yeah, alright," but secretly he would be placated, because he was always happy when Chris paid attention to him. That was the kind of guy Piers was. Simple things made him happy. Little acts of affection: the brushing of hands under a table, a sly smile after a clever remark.

And maybe she's extrapolating too much from the few hours she spent with the man, but Sherry recognized the looks that Chris and Piers gave each other, she saw them on the faces of her parents, long before she knew anything about bioterrorism or war or any of that. Sitting at the dinner table, her dad's hand over her mom's knee, the little smile that says, I'm happy here—those moments she can look back upon and assure herself that her parents must have had some humanity buried under the wreck they made of their lives.

And sometimes she wonders what it would be like if her parents were still alive too.

They liked coffee.

"Seriously? Your arm started emitting an electromagnetic pulse? What sort of viral mutation... honey, do you have some paper with you? I need to draw this out..." Her dad would be fascinated by Piers and speak too loudly, getting the attention of anyone else who might happen to be there.

"Oh God, Dad. You can't just ask people about stuff like this..." she would hiss at him, mortified, and kicking his leg under the table.

"Sherry! What was that for?" her mom would snap, and she would have realized it was her mother she had kicked by mistake.

"Mom, make dad stop!"

"It's fine, Sherry. I'm sure there's some way the BSAA can benefit from this knowledge," Piers would say, nonplussed by her dad's awkward questions, because the BSAA was always his top concern. And hell, if her parents were alive in this fantasy, then they could work for the BSAA too.

"So, the membrane of the infected tissue must have depolarized at an outstanding rate..." Her dad would write down notes on the little notepad her mom would have produced from her massive leather pocketbook, and Piers would patiently explain just what the virus had done to him, leaving out the part about his untimely death, because it never happened.

And her mom would keep one hand on her dad's shoulder and the other clenched around her espresso, because no one separated Annette Birkin from her coffee. Chris and Piers would shoot each other little lover's glances every now and then, maybe they'd even hold hands under the table if they felt comfortable with it.

And Sherry would drink her latte and just let their presence wash over her.

"You okay, Sherry?" Chris asks, back in the real world. He waves a hand in front of her face, like he's trying to wake her up.

"Oh, huh... yeah. Sorry. Just thinking," she manages to cover, though the words are rushed and awkward.

Chris nods toward the window, where the streetlamps are beginning to flicker on.

"It's getting real late, you wanna head out?"

"Yeah, sounds good."

"So, what were you thinking about?" he asks. It's unlike Chris. He's not usually one for questions.

"Oh, uh... I was thinking about Piers and my parents. If they were here. Stupid, I know."

Chris shakes his head.

"Nah. It's not stupid. I think about it too sometimes."

Sherry grabs her bag off the table and stands up. Chris smiles at her, something simple and understanding. He knows exactly how she feels.

"At least we haven't lost each other, yeah?" he says.

Sherry bites down on her tongue to keep her eyes from welling up. She'd give Chris a hug, but he's not really the type, so she just nods with red bleary eyes, and he gets it.

As they leave, Sherry decides that she and Chris have more in common that she might have thought.

"You know that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always love you. That's where I'll be waiting."- J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan.