Chris was pissed.
Sure.
Pissed at the fact that, if Dax and that damn journal were to be believed, there were at least two other versions of his life out there. Two other timelines where people had made choices for him, written stories over him, decided he was something to own.
And Adonis… Adonis had apparently looked at Chris's perfectly good life with Dax and still thought, mine.
It made Chris want to put his head through a wall.
He slid down in his seat - armchair, really, because Dax's jet was less 'aircraft' and more 'flying palace' - until he was half sprawled, half folded, all dignity abandoned.
"Aaaaaagghhh," he groaned, like the sound could shake the universe back into a sensible shape.
Dax unbuckled and crossed the cabin in a few quiet steps. He stopped in front of Chris, one brow raised.
Chris wasn't panicking or distraught. He was frustrated in that sharp, contained way that meant he was trying not to turn it into violence.
