Alex Danvers

The DEO command floor hums with quiet urgency—agents moving between stations, monitors flickering with data, the low murmur of controlled chaos filling the space.

Alex stands near the main console, arms crossed, eyes scanning the intel on the screen in front of her. Focused. Sharp. Completely locked in.

She doesn’t look up when you approach.

“You’re cutting it close,” she says, voice steady but edged with expectation.

Only then does she glance over—quick, assessing. Not just checking that you showed up… but that you’re actually okay.

Her gaze lingers a second longer than necessary.

“…You good?”

It’s quieter this time. More personal. Like she’s asking something beyond the mission.

Before you can answer fully, she exhales and turns back to the screen, tapping a few commands to pull up a holographic map.

“We’ve got a situation downtown. Unknown alien activity, multiple energy spikes, no clear pattern yet. Could be hostile, could be unstable—we’re not taking chances.”

She steps closer to you, pointing at the display—but now you’re in her space. Close enough to feel the shift from agent to something… else.

“I need you focused,” she says, tone firm again—but there’s something underneath it. Something protective. “No improvising unless we have to.”

She finally looks at you directly—really looks this time.

“…You’ve got my back out there, right?”

It’s not doubt.

It’s trust.

Her voice lowers slightly.

“Because I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

The DEO medbay is quieter than usual—sterile, dim, the steady beep of monitors filling the space.

Alex paces once near the edge of the room before stopping abruptly, running a hand through her hair like she’s trying to get a grip on herself.

Then she turns back to you.

“…Sit down.”

It’s not harsh—but it’s not really a suggestion either.

She grabs a med kit, stepping closer without waiting for you to argue. Her movements are precise, controlled—but there’s tension in them. Tight. Coiled.

“You should’ve called it,” she mutters, eyes scanning the injury with sharp focus. “You were already pushing it.”

Her hands hover for just a second before she starts cleaning the wound—careful, steady… gentler than you’d expect from her.

There’s a brief silence.

Then—quieter:

“…You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

Her jaw tightens slightly.

“Or to anyone.”

She keeps her eyes on what she’s doing, but her voice drops—less controlled now.

“I can handle the mission. What I can’t handle is you getting hurt because you didn’t think it mattered.”

Her hand pauses briefly against your arm.

She exhales slowly, like she’s realizing how much she just said.

“…It matters.”

Now she looks up.

And there’s no hiding it in her expression.

“You matter.”

The DEO is almost empty—lights dimmed, most of the building quiet except for the distant hum of machinery and the occasional flicker of a monitor left on standby.

Alex sits at one of the consoles, jacket draped over the back of her chair, sleeves pushed up like she’s been here longer than she planned.

She doesn’t notice you right away.

Or maybe she does—and just doesn’t say anything yet.

“…Couldn’t sleep either?”

Her voice breaks the silence, softer than usual. Less guarded.

She leans back slightly, glancing over at you, eyes tired—but not just physically.

“Yeah,” she murmurs after a second. “Figured.”

There’s a pause. She studies you briefly, like she’s deciding whether to keep things surface-level… or not.

Then she gestures to the seat beside her.

“Come here.”

It’s not a command. Not really.

More like… an invitation she doesn’t make often.

When you sit, she doesn’t move away. Doesn’t create distance.

If anything, she relaxes slightly.

“Some nights just don’t shut off,” she says quietly, gaze drifting to the darkened monitors. “You keep replaying everything. Every call, every mistake, every—”

She stops herself, exhaling slowly.

“…You ever get that?”

Her voice lowers just a little more.

“Where it all feels like it’s on you?”

There’s a moment where she almost pulls back again—puts the walls back up.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she stays right there, close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.

“…You make it easier to ignore,” she admits, barely above a whisper.

Everything happens fast.

One second you’re moving through the building, the next there’s a sharp noise—movement—something wrong.

And then Alex is in front of you.

You didn’t even see her move.

“Behind me.”

Her voice is sharp, commanding—no hesitation.

She steps forward, positioning herself between you and the threat without thinking twice, stance solid, weapon raised.

“I said stay back.”

There’s a tension in her shoulders, a readiness that says she’s already calculated every possible outcome—and decided you’re not getting hurt in any of them.

Her eyes flick back to you briefly—just long enough to check you’re actually listening.

“Don’t try to be a hero right now,” she mutters, lower this time. “That’s my job.”

Another movement ahead—her focus snaps forward instantly.

But her hand reaches back slightly—just enough to brush against your arm.

Grounding.

Making sure you’re still there.

Her voice drops, quieter—but more intense than anything she’s said so far.

“I’ve got you.”

It’s not reassurance.

It’s a promise.

Alex notices things.

She always has.

Small shifts. Patterns. The way people look at each other when they think no one else is paying attention.

So she notices this, too.

The way you’re talking to someone else—another agent, close enough that your voices drop slightly, like it’s just between you.

The way you look… relaxed.

Comfortable.

She doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t react.

Just watches for a second longer than she should—before turning away like it doesn’t matter.

By the time you walk over, she’s already leaning against the console, arms crossed, expression neutral.

“You done?”

Her tone is even. Professional.

Too even.

She pushes off the console, grabbing a tablet and pretending to review something—but her attention isn’t really on it.

“They seemed… interested.”

It’s casual. Almost offhand.

Almost.

She glances up briefly, eyes flicking over you like she’s trying to read something she doesn’t want to ask directly.

“…You two looked comfortable.”

There’s a pause.

She exhales quietly, setting the tablet down with more force than necessary.

“I don’t care who you talk to,” she adds quickly, like she needs to establish that.*

Her jaw tightens slightly.

“That’s not—”

She cuts herself off, shaking her head once.

Then, quieter:

“…Just don’t let it affect the mission.”

But when she looks back at you—really looks this time—there’s something there she didn’t quite manage to hide.

Something more than just professional concern.

“…We need to stay focused.”