Hello Thereee
This is the place where I do the hyperfixations
I find stuff the tiny dragon likes and I store them away
in the hoard of my soul.
On the back burner: SW, LoZ
Currently consuming: The Adventures of Tintin
Coruscant Underworld, Level 1313 for 5.19 To Catch a Jedi
by J.P. Balmet
We were able to work from some of the great stuff the 1313 project was producing at the time, so this was a riff on what they were doing, but reinterpreted for Clone Wars.
Before he died, Fives never could have imagined working together with Asajj Ventress. Now, given another chance by unlikely allies, revived with a strange power lighting up his veins, he has to work his way through the ranks of his brothers in the Coruscant Guard, laying a trap to kill the chancellor before the Sith lord can activate Order 66. But having only ever fought on the front lines, the culture of the Guard proves to be a bigger obstacle than he imagined, especially when Fives realizes the most important skill he has to train is the ability to lie to his brothers despite their trust. When given allies and tactics he never imagined, how much of himself is he willing to cast aside for the cause? Loyal to source material and characterizations. Starts after the Fives arc of S6 and diverges from canon.
Happy May the 4th! Thank you to those who have commented. Truly we would be so ecstatic to get comments on Ao3 or here, a reblog, or anything! It would make us so happy to know people are reading and following this!
I write a lot of Star Wars content and in this post you will find all the resources I use and great little things I've found that might help you! Enjoy and show the authors some love! May the Force be with you!
Star Wars Writing Resources provided by @nimata-beroya and this post has SO MUCH to offer if you are writing in the Star Wars universe! There are galaxy maps, calendars, holidays, date converters, media chronology (movie/game/tv show order), hyperspace travel times, several name generators, reference guides to the Jedi Order, infomration on the Clones and Mandalorians, lore, health and medicine and technology, food and drinks, languages, etc! There's a lot here!
Disabilities Exist in Star Wars by @calltomuster this is a good look into the disabilities and the culture around them in the Star Wars universe. A very helpful read with some additional sources listed!
Comprehensive Lexacon Guide for First Time SW Fic Readers by @lightasthesun Wow. What a mouthful! I cannot tell you guys how much I use this one. It's not a clock, it's a chronometer. It's not coffee, it's caf. It's not a bathroom, it's a refresher. Like I said, super helpful.
List of Battles thanks to @monako-jinn-storiesfor linking this because I never would have thought to. It links to Wookipedia but still a great piece of information.
9 Incredible Crosssections Reveal the Architecture of Star Wars by @musewrangler A great visual guide if you're looking to play with the architecture in Star Wars.
A Resource Page for all Your Clone Related Needs by @karttaylir-darasuum Everything you need to write about Clones including their weapons, cannon, terminology, stock photos, things to avoid etc.
Dex's Diner Menu @fox-trot I found this a while ago and have been meaning to add it where it belongs. If you're looking for Star Wars food and what you might expect to spend then look no furhter.
That's all I've got for now, but if you find anything for me to add feel free to tag me and lets continue this writing resource for Star Wars Fans!
So I’ve seen people saying that probably in canon Fox wouldn’t get so much flak from the other clones for killing Fives. He didn’t have context and it appeared like Fives was a danger and that he had already killed several clones, and Fox even told Fives not to shoot (though I headcanon that Fox was ordered by Palpatine to kill Fives or else dire consequences, in actual canon he was probably meant to be working with a limited understanding and doing the best he could with the terrible awful no good very bad situation he was in). Really, Fox did what any clone would have been supposed to do in a situation where a brother appeared to have lost his mind and be a present and active danger. And well, what if that’s true? What if the GAR would have shaken their heads and mourned for the situation, mourned for the brother who died as well as the vod who was forced to pull the trigger—if it had been any battalion other than a Corrie behind the blaster. If it had been anyone but Commander Fox.
Because there’s so much tension between the GAR and the Guard, so much miscommunication and so much in the way of hurt and misunderstandings. They don’t understand each other at all, their respective cultures diverged in completely opposite directions after coming off of Kamino, and to add to it all, I headcanon that Fox is very villainized within the GAR. Because for the run of the mill GAR trooper whose batchmate won’t talk to him, it’s easier and less painful to blame everything on one vod he doesn’t know than to wonder why his batchmate isn’t talking to him. Fox becomes the scapegoat for all the issues the GAR has with the Guard, and the Guard troopers are incensed when they hear GAR troopers badmouthing Fox and jump to defend him, getting into arguments and even fights which makes the overall resentment worse. And then Fox is paraded through all these award ceremonies (that he abhors) and given all the best troopers from Kamino and supposedly has a cushy posting where he doesn’t have to watch brothers die (ha) and a lot of the GAR are deep down bitterly jealous of that, and it looks to outsiders like he’s denying his men their individuality by not letting them paint their armor differently (it’s for safety, but no one knows that) and he never even goes to meet his own batchmates at 79s or lets his men go, and they blame him for fractured relationships which have actually nothing to do with him and are just a result of the miscommunication between the GAR and the Guard but also. Fox is still a brother. The Command Class knew him personally and for the most part frown on troopers talking poorly about him in their hearing, or at the least object if the griping reaches a certain level of viciousness (some of them may be feeling a bit of the resentment themselves).
But Fives’ death? That’s the boiling point for an already overflowing cauldron of resentment—essentially, the last straw for GAR and Guard relations, for the most part. It doesn’t even matter that to the eyes of the regulations, Fox did everything he could. It doesn’t matter that if it had been a GAR trooper who had taken that same shot, nobody would be up in arms at him. It only matters that a vod is dead, and Marshall Commander Fox did it.
Tech’s Datapad. Unscheduled Study Break: Complete.
I’m calling this one complete-ish. Armed with a 3.5” TFT, an Arduino Mega Pro, five LED’s and four decorative (and a seemingly infinite number of functional) wires, Tech’s datapad is ready for service.
The inside looks like a hot mess, but objectively I think the outside looks pretty cool.
Here’s a sample of the 11 different screens it can display. Of course the inhibitor chip one had to make the cut.
authors note: okay maybe i am being crazy but i fee like this art is the best one so far... i added another brush to my usage (now I use graphite for backgrounds, Monet mixer for coloring, and blake pen for lineart) and I think that helped. however, I don't love the way i have chosen to draw Tech for this challenge. maybe after the event I will do a redraw. also as far as their story goes... Seris is confessing something else, rather than her feelings to him. sorry! I can't let you guys have all the juicy stuff before writing the full fic!
Seris watched as Tech paced by the window, feverously tapping at his datapad as his brows knitted together. He had not said a word to her since they left the Senate.
There were starkly different textures of Tech's quiet. There was the working quiet, hands moving, mind elsewhere, which Seris perceived as being comfortable from many late nights they spent together progressing on various tasks. Then there was the thoughtful quiet, slower, something turning over behind his eyes that he would eventually share when he had finished forming it.
This version of quiet was neither of those.
He had moved her through the Senate corridors with his body between her and every open sightline, one hand at her back. She had seen his eyes through the chaos of the scene, sharp and narrow in a way she had never seen on him before. Tech's eyes were usually wide and quick, moving across everything with the easy appetite of someone who found the world perpetually interesting. In that corridor they had been something else entirely, and they still have not returned to their usual shape.
He had come through her apartment door behind her, swept the room with a single practiced look, and tore his helmet off.
He was already pulling his datapad free, fingers moving across it in quick, precise strokes, and she watched him pace the length of her sitting room once, twice, the city burning pink and grey behind the windows at his back, the last of the day going out of the sky while he ran whatever numbers he was running and said nothing.
Seris folded her hands in her lap and waited, and watched the tension in his shoulders that had not loosened since the moment on the corridor floor when he had pulled her sideways and the shot had gone wide, and she thought about all the things she had not told him.
"Tech?"
He did not look up. "I am calculating the origin vector of the—"
"Tech."
He looked up.
She held his gaze for a moment. Then she said, "There is something I should have told you. Some time ago."
The datapad stilled in his hands.
She told him about the messages. The never-ending stream that started three days after she introduced the bill. They were penetrating: anonymous, untraceable, and specific. Specific in the way that meant whoever sent them knew exactly where she lived and how she moved and what she valued. She kept her voice level because it was the only thing she knew how to do with difficult information.
When she finished, the room was quiet. He looked at her for a long moment. Then he crossed the room and sat down beside her on the settee, and she reached over and took both his hands before she had consciously decided to do it, folding her fingers around his, feeling the solid warmth of him.
"You told no one," he said.
"No."
"Not Rex."
"No."
A pause. "You did not tell me."
There it was. The one that landed differently. Seris kept her eyes on her hands. "I did not want anyone to use it as a reason to stop me."
A long pause. When Tech spoke again, his voice had not changed in pitch or pace, but there was something underneath it, something she could feel more than hear. "I would not have tried to stop you," he said. "I would have prepared more thoroughly."
Seris became lost in this thought of having his support dispite the danger, his only desire being to portect her more throughy. It was inturreupted by Tech once more.
"I require you to give me your datapad tonight. I will find the origin point."
"Yes," she said quietly. "I will."
"It is a matter of time and sufficient data, and I now have motivation to be considerably faster than usual."
A sound escaped her that was almost a laugh. "Is that your way of telling me you were worried?"
Tech considered this with what appeared to be genuine seriousness. "It is my way of telling you that I intend to ensure this does not happen again." A pause, shorter than his usual ones. "And yes. I was worried."
The pink had gone entirely from the sky. The room had gone soft and dim around them, and the city outside lit itself up the way it always did, indifferent and relentless, and Tech did not pull his hands away.
After a while, she said, "I should have told you."
"Yes," Tech said. "You should have."
No softening of it. No reassurance that it was fine, because he did not say things he did not mean. But his thumb moved once across her knuckles, and she thought that was probably as close as he would get tonight to telling her that she was forgiven.
The Bad Batch Holiday Exchange - for @wife-to-ct9904
✨ Crosshair + The Batch
✨ Word count: 3.6k
Plot Summary: On snow-covered Pabu, Crosshair grapples with grief, guilt, and the lingering scars of Tantiss as the Batch attempts to build a new kind of holiday tradition without Tech. Through crooked trees, icy lakes, and Omega’s unshakable faith, Crosshair learns that healing doesn’t mean forgetting and he belongs with his family after all.
Warnings: light angst, healing, found family, post-tantiss, post-season 3, amputation and phantom limb mentions, grief/mourning Tech, soft crosshair, domestic fluff, Christmas on Pabu, not proof read (im sorry)
The snow had been falling for hours by the time Crosshair retreated to the back porch of their house on Pabu. The cold bit at his skin, but he welcomed it. Pain he understood. Pain made sense.
Inside, he could hear them. Omega's laughter rang out like bells, followed by Wrecker's booming voice and Hunter's quieter chuckle. They were creating some kind of chaos in the living room, the sounds of home and family drifting out to where he stood alone in the cold.
Crosshair flexed what remained of his right arm. The phantom sensations were barely noticeable now, but he felt them. Always felt them. The ghost of fingers that no longer existed, reaching for triggers he could no longer pull. A constant reminder etched into his nerves, a souvenir from Tantiss and CX-2 that wouldn't fade no matter how many months passed.
He didn't deserve this. The warmth inside. The family waiting for him. The second chance he'd been given when so many others hadn't received one.
The door opened behind him. Crosshair didn't turn.
"You're going to freeze out here." Hunter's voice was steady, neither pushing nor retreating.
"I'm fine."
"Crosshair."
"I said I'm fine."
A pause. Then Hunter stepped beside him, leaning against the railing. His brother didn't speak, just stood there in the falling snow, breath forming clouds in the frigid air. The silence stretched between them.
"Omega wants to decorate," Hunter finally said. "She found a whole box of something called 'Christmas ornaments' in the market. Apparently it's some old tradition that's made its way here."
Crosshair said nothing.
"She wants you there."
"She doesn't need me for that."
Hunter turned to look at him fully now. Crosshair felt the weight of his gaze but kept his eyes fixed on the snow covered landscape before them.
"Maybe she doesn't need you," Hunter said quietly. "But she wants you. There's a difference."
The door burst open before Crosshair could respond. Omega bounded out, completely undeterred by the cold despite her bare feet.
"There you are! Come on, we're about to start." She grabbed his left hand and pulled. "You have to help me put the star on top. Wrecker says he'll lift me, but I want you to hand it to me."
"Omega, I don't think..."
"Please?" Those wide eyes looked up at him with such unguarded hope that something in his chest constricted painfully.
He glanced at Hunter, who merely raised an eyebrow. No help there.
"Fine," Crosshair muttered. "Five minutes."
Omega's grin could have lit the entire island.
"Five minutes," she agreed, tugging harder on his hand. "That's all I need."
She dragged him inside where warmth enveloped him immediately. The living room looked exactly as it had when he'd fled to the porch twenty minutes ago: chaotic, colorful, overwhelming. Wrecker had somehow procured an enormous tree that took up nearly a quarter of the space, its branches heavy with needles that smelled sharp and alive. Boxes of decorations were still scattered across every surface, though he noticed they'd made some progress. A few ornaments already hung on the lower branches, catching the light from the windows.
But now Omega had reinforcements, and she clearly had no intention of letting his five minutes be just five minutes.
Crosshair paused in the doorway, taking it all in. There was an empty space in the room, an absence that pressed against his awareness. He could almost hear what should have been there: a detailed analysis of optimal ornament distribution, commentary on the cultural origins of decorative traditions, the particular way Tech would have approached this with scientific precision and unexpected enthusiasm.
But Tech wasn't there. He would never-
"Here!" Wrecker thrust a box into his arm before he could retreat or finish his thought. "You can hang these on the high branches. You've got better reach than Omega."
Crosshair stared down at the delicate glass spheres, each one painted with intricate designs. His left hand wasn't as steady as his right had been. Nothing about him was as steady as he'd once been.
"I'll just watch."
"No way!" Omega appeared at his elbow again. "Everyone has to participate. That's what makes it special. Come on, I'll show you."
She selected an ornament, a simple blue one that caught the light, and reached up to hang it on a branch. Then she took another and held it out to him expectantly.
The rest of them had gone suspiciously quiet. Crosshair could feel their eyes on him, though they were all pretending to be busy with their own tasks. Waiting. Not pushing, but hoping.
He took the ornament with his left hand. The glass was cool against his palm, fragile. Everything about this moment felt fragile.
He reached up and hung it on a branch.
Omega beamed. "Perfect! See? Now pick another one."
And somehow, one ornament became another. Became a dozen. Crosshair found himself drawn into the rhythm of it, the steady process of taking something plain and making it beautiful. It became very clear that Omegas agreement to five minutes was a lie. She chattered constantly, telling him stories about each ornament, making up histories for the ones they didn't know. Wrecker started a competition to see who could hang decorations the fastest, which ended predictably when he knocked an entire branch down.
Hunter moved through it all like a conductor, saying little but somehow keeping them all in harmony. Every so often, Crosshair caught his brother watching him with an expression that was hard to name. Something soft. Something that looked almost like relief.
When the tree was finally complete, they all stepped back to admire it. Lights twinkled among the branches, ornaments caught and reflected the glow, and at the very top, Omega's star shone brightest of all.
"It's perfect," she whispered, "so green."
"Tech would have spent an hour explaining the science behind why pine trees retain their needles in winter." Wrecker said somewhat quietly, a smile in his voice despite the sadness.
The name hung in the air. Crosshair's chest tightened. He'd never gotten to see Tech after he chose to stay behind on Kamino. Never gotten to apologize, to explain, to try to bridge the gap his choices had created.
"He would have loved this," Hunter said softly. "All of it. He'd have researched every tradition, traced their origins."
"And we'd have pretended to be annoyed but actually liked listening," Omega added, her voice thick.
Crosshair said nothing, but something in his chest had cracked open. The tree was crooked. The ornaments were distributed unevenly. It was chaotic and messy and nothing like the precise, orderly Empire decorations he vaguely remembered from some distant past.
Tech would have analyzed it, improved it, and somehow made it more special in the process.
"He'd want us to keep going," Wrecker said. "Keep doing this. Being together."
"Yeah," Hunter agreed. "He would."
The moment stretched, heavy before Omega took a breath and straightened her shoulders.
"Tomorrow we're going ice skating," she announced to the room, but mostly to Crosshair as she settled onto the couch. "The lake froze over and everyone's going."
Crosshair's momentary peace evaporated. "I don't ice skate."
"None of us do," Hunter pointed out. "That's the point."
Crosshair opened his mouth-
"Please?" Omega interjected. "All of us together?"
"It's barely dawn."
"The ice is best in the morning before it gets all scratched up!"
Crosshair seriously doubted the quality of ice was going to make any difference to his inevitable humiliation, but he allowed himself to be herded outside where the rest of the batch waited.
The lake stretched out before them, a sheet of white surrounded by snow heavy trees. Already, a few early risers from the village were gliding across the surface with enviable ease. Shep waved from the opposite shore where he was helping his daughter lace up her skates.
"The appropriate footwear has been procured," Hunter said, holding up what looked like torture devices disguised as boots with blades attached.
Wrecker sat down heavily and began strapping on the largest pair Crosshair had ever seen. "How hard can it be? We've done way more dangerous stuff than this."
Famous last words.
Ten minutes later, Wrecker was flat on his back for the third time, his laughter echoing across the ice. Hunter was moving forward with careful determination, his enhanced senses apparently not helping much with balance. Omega had taken to it naturally, spinning and sliding with the fearlessness of youth.
Crosshair hadn't moved from the shore. He watched as Omega appeared beside him, skating backward with show off ease. "Are you scared?"
"I'm not scared."
"Then prove it." She held out her hand.
It was a challenge. Crosshair had never been able to resist a challenge, especially not from her. With a muttered curse, he stepped onto the ice and his feet immediately shot out from under him. Only Omega's grip on his hand kept him marginally upright.
"I've got you," she said. "Just small steps. Push and glide."
Push and glide. Simple in theory. In practice, his legs seemed to have forgotten how to coordinate. He felt ridiculous, like a newly decanted cadet trying to learn basic motor functions. His balance was off, his center of gravity wrong without the weight of his right hand to counterbalance.
"You're doing great!" Omega encouraged.
He was objectively not doing great. He was barely staying vertical.
But Omega kept hold of his hand, patient and steady, and slowly, painfully, he began to figure out the rhythm of it. Push and glide. Push and glide. His missing hand didn't matter out here. There was nothing to aim at, no shot to miss, no trigger to pull. Just ice and movement and his sister's unwavering grip.
"See? I knew you could do it!"
Wrecker zoomed by, arms windmilling wildly. "This is awesome!"
Hunter circled around them, keeping pace but giving Crosshair space. Keeping watch, the way he always did.
And somehow, impossibly, Crosshair found himself almost enjoying it. The cold air in his lungs. The challenge of something new. The way Omega looked at him like he'd accomplished something worth celebrating, even though all he'd done was not fall on his face.
They skated until the sun was high and the ice began to roughen with use. By the time they returned to shore, Crosshair's legs ached and his pride was thoroughly battered, but something else had shifted. Something he didn't have words for.
"Tomorrow we're getting a tree," Omega announced as they walked back toward the house. "A real one from the forest. Hunter says we can cut it down ourselves!"
"We already have a tree."
"That's for inside. This is for outside, for the front of the house! It's another tradition!"
Crosshair looked at Hunter, who shrugged with an expression that clearly said pick your battles. This was not a battle he was going to win.
"Fine."
"And we're all wearing matching sweaters for the photo!"
"Absolutely not."
"Crosshair..."
"No."
"Please?"
He looked down at her upturned face, at the hope and excitement and absolute certainty that he belonged in this family portrait. His throat tightened.
"We'll discuss it," he managed.
Omega's smile suggested she knew she'd already won.
The forest was quiet except for the crunch of their boots in the snow. Hunter had insisted on bringing several tools to ensure they could actually cut down a tree. Wrecker had brought enthusiasm and very little else. Omega darted between trees, considering and rejecting each one with the seriousness of a military operation.
Crosshair found himself legging behind again, his left hand shoved in his pocket, watching his family debate the relative merits of various conifers as if it actually mattered.
"This one!" Omega finally declared, stopping before a tree that looked identical to every other tree they'd passed. "This is perfect!"
"Looks good to me," Hunter agreed, examining the branches.
"Let's do it!" Wrecker pulled out a vibroblade that was absolutely overkill for the job.
"Wait!" Omega ran back to Crosshair and grabbed his hand. "You have to help pick the spot to cut."
"Omega, I don't..."
"Please? I want us all to do it together."
Together. This whole weekend all Omega talked about was being together. Crosshair has become used to "together" meaning his thrown-together squad for the Empire, or the group of captured clones on Tantiss. He'd been part of something, but he'd never belonged. Not really.
Crosshair watched his sister look at him like his opinion mattered, like his presence made things complete. In this forest, together meant something different.
He knelt beside her, examining the trunk. "Here," he said, indicating a spot. "Straight cut, minimal damage to the surrounding growth."
Omega beamed. "Perfect!"
They took turns with the cut. Even Crosshair, when Omega insisted and he managed the blade one handed with more difficulty than he'd ever admit. The tree fell with a soft whump into the snow, and Wrecker hoisted it onto his shoulders with ease.
The walk back was slower, filled with the comfortable silence of a task completed. Snowflakes began to fall again, catching in Omega's hair, settling on Hunter's shoulders.
Omega tilted her head back, breathing out deliberately, watching the cloud of her breath rise and disappear into the falling snow. She did it twice more before catching Crosshair watching her again.
"It's just... cool," she said, somewhat defensively. "You can see it."
Crosshair tilted his head back and let the snowflakes land on his face, cold and clean. "Yeah," he said quietly. "It is."
Hunter glanced at them both, and something in his expression softened. "Remember when Tech tried to improve the Marauder's heating system?"
Wrecker laughed, "Ended up making it so cold we could see our breath inside the ship!"
Hunter huffed a laugh. "He fixed it in under an hour, but we never let him forget it."
Crosshair's throat felt tight. "He never let himself forget it either. Kept a log of every modification failure. Said it was 'data for future reference.'"
The words came out before he could stop them, rough and unpracticed. The others went quiet, and he wondered if he'd said too much. If he'd broken some unspoken rule about who got to reminisce about Tech.
But then Omega squeezed his hand. "I didn't know that."
"He had logs for everything," Crosshair continued, surprised at himself. "Successful missions, failed ones. Every adaptation we made in the field. He said information was only useful if it was recorded and analyzed."
Out of the corner of his eye he saw his brothers nodding in agreement. He found himself continuing almost absentmindedly. "He tried to explain it to me once. On Kamino. Why we could see our breath in the simulation rooms but not in the barracks."
But then Hunter's hand settled briefly on his shoulder, solid and steady. "What did he say?"
"Something about relative humidity and dew point." Crosshair stared at the snow covered path ahead. "I told him I didn't care about the science. Just wanted to know if the sim room needed fixing."
"What did he say to that?" Omega asked.
Despite everything, despite the ache in his chest and the phantom pain in his missing hand, Crosshair felt his mouth twitch. "He said understanding the cause was essential to determining if intervention was necessary. Then spent ten more minutes explaining it anyway."
Wrecker's laugh echoed through the trees. "That's Tech."
"He never could resist a teaching moment," Hunter agreed. His voice warm and present with the gentle acknowledgment that Crosshair's memories of Tech mattered too, even after everything.
Family. The word had changed meaning. Once, it had been the Batch, his squad, his brothers in arms. Then it had been broken, shattered by his own choices and the Empire's manipulation. Now it was being rebuilt into something new, something that included Omega and second chances and Christmas trees in the snow. Something that bore the permanent absence of Tech but carried his memory forward.
Something that included him, even when he wasn't sure he deserved inclusion.
Back at the house, they decorated the outdoor tree with lights that Shep had helped them procure. As darkness fell, they illuminated it, and the glow reflected off the snow in a way that made everything seem softer, gentler.
"Beautiful," Omega breathed, her exhale forming a small cloud that drifted past the glowing lights.
It was.
"Now for the photo!" She disappeared inside and returned with an armful of fabric in an alarming shade of red. "I got one for everyone!"
The sweaters were objectively hideous. Bright red with white snowflakes and something that might have been meant to be a tree but looked more like a green blob. Wrecker immediately pulled his on with delight. Hunter sighed but didn't protest.
Crosshair held his at arm's length. "No."
"Crosshair, please?" Omega had already pulled hers on and looked up at him with those devastating eyes. "It won't be the same without you."
"That's the point."
"Come on, Cross," Wrecker said. "Don't be a spoilsport."
Crosshair glared at them all and, with an audible groan, wrestled the sweater over his head.
"Fine," he ground out. "But I'm not smiling."
"You don't have to smile," Omega said. Her grin suggested she'd take what she could get as she immediately positioned them all in front of the tree, fussing with their placement until she was satisfied. She set up the holoprojector with a timer and rushed to take her place in the center.
"Everyone together!" she called.
Wrecker threw an arm around Hunter's shoulders. Hunter stood steady and calm. Omega grabbed Crosshair's left hand and squeezed as he became increasingly aware of how the sweater was itchy and too warm and made him look ridiculous.
The projector flashed.
In the resulting image, they would be captured forever: three soldiers and one girl who'd become something more, wearing ridiculous sweaters and standing in the snow, as family rebuilt from broken pieces.
The fireplace crackled with warmth, orange light dancing across the walls. Outside, snow continued to fall, blanketing Pabu in white silence. Inside, the house smelled like the hot chocolate Wrecker had insisted on making, following some recipe he'd charmed out of a local vendor.
They'd arranged themselves in the living room without discussion, falling into comfortable positions. Wrecker sprawled on the floor, too large for any chair. Hunter sat in the armchair, relaxed in a way he never was on missions.
And somehow, Crosshair had ended up in the center of it all.
He hadn't meant to. He'd intended to take his usual position at the edges, maintaining his distance. But Omega had pulled him down beside her on the couch, and Wrecker had shifted to give him a better view of the fire, and Hunter had handed him a mug and a look that clearly said don't even think about moving.
So he stayed.
The hot chocolate was too sweet, but the warmth spread through him in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. They weren't talking about missions or strategy or survival. Omega was telling some rambling story about the other day, something involving a mishap in the market and a runaway fruit cart. Wrecker was laughing. Hunter was listening with half a smile.
Normal. This was what normal looked like. What families did when they weren't fighting for their lives.
Crosshair's hand wrapped around his mug. Omega noticed him staring at the fire, she always noticed, and shifted closer until her shoulder pressed against his. Not drawing attention to it, just offering silent support. Anchoring him.
"He never stopped believing you'd come back," Omega said softly. "Even when it seemed impossible."
"Tech was right about most things," Crosshair heard himself say. His voice came out rougher than intended. "I should have listened to him more."
"We all should have," Hunter agreed.
Then Omega squeezed Crosshair's arm. "He'd be happy you're here now. That we're all together."
They sat with that for a moment, the fire crackling, the snow falling outside, the weight of absence and presence intermingled.
"I'm trying," he said finally, "To be… better. To deserve this."
"You already deserve it," Hunter said. "You just have to believe that."
"Belief is not my specialty."
"Then let us believe it for you," Omega said, "until you can believe it yourself."
Such a simple offer. Such an impossible gift.
Crosshair looked around the room at these people who had every right to hate him and chose love instead. Wrecker's open smile. Hunter's steady presence. Omega's unwavering faith.
His left hand was steady around his mug now, and for once, he didn't mourn what was gone. The missing hand was there, permanent, a reminder of everything he'd survived and everything he'd lost. But sitting here, surrounded by warmth and family and the soft glow of firelight, he realized something:
Maybe the loss wasn't a weakness. Maybe it was proof that he was alive. That he'd survived. That he'd made it home. That he'd made the shot that mattered when it counted most.
"Merry Christmas, Crosshair," Omega said softly.
Christmas. This strange tradition they'd adopted, this celebration of light in the darkness and love in the cold. A week ago, he would have dismissed it as meaningless sentiment.
Now, sitting in the center of his family with hot chocolate warming his hand and snow falling outside and their tree glowing in the corner, he understood.
"Merry Christmas," he echoed, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, the words felt true.
The fire crackled. Outside, snow continued to fall. Crosshair sat surrounded by his family and let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he deserved this after all.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges. The phantom pains wouldn't disappear. The memories of Tantiss wouldn't fade overnight. The work of becoming the person he wanted to be would continue. Tech's absence would always be felt.
But tonight, in this moment, he was exactly where he needed to be.
⛅️ Written for @the-tech-turn and @gar-romance-month with the prompt Late Night and Sunrise
Warnings: SFW, Tech POV, fluff alert, the tiniest slightest against, Tech carries a huge mental load on his shoulders, he is a nervous boy as usual 🤭
Author’s Note/Prompt: Hey @the-tech-turn!!! So so sorry it took me forever and a day to write this for you. I super hope you enjoy it! You sent in such a great prompt idea! My tumblr is glitching out so it wouldn’t let me reply directly to your post, so for those wondering, they requested the following: Okay, HEAR ME OUT, a Tech x reader fic where it's late at night, after a mission, and tech is staying up in the cockpit(as usual) and was there with him just decompressing from the day. Like we've been starting to silently spend time with him at night, but today you guys actually spoke. Ask about what maybe a show we used to like and want to watch with Tech or our life before joining the batch. Both? I think that would be cute! Romantic please!!
The Marauder’s cockpit was quiet except for the soft hum of idle systems and the occasional beep from Tech’s datapad.
Tech had been staring at the same sensor data for the past eleven minutes, his eyes tracking the numbers without actually processing them. He was waiting, though he would never admit that to himself. Waiting implied expectation, and expectation implied hope, and hope was a variable Tech preferred not to factor into his calculations.
Except you had come to the cockpit every night for the past six nights. The pattern was established. The data was clear.
The probability of your arrival sat cleanly at eighty-nine percent.
Then he heard your footsteps in the corridor. Right on schedule. You were as predictable as orbital mechanics, and Tech found that reassuring in ways he could not quite quantify.
The cockpit door slid open.
You stepped inside without a word, moving to the co-pilot’s seat like you had done this a hundred times instead of just six. You settled in with a quiet exhale, drawing your knees up and wrapping your arms around them.
Tech did not look at you directly. That was the agreement the two of you had developed without ever discussing it: silence, no expectations, just existing in the same space while the rest of the ship slept. His datapad glowed in the dim lighting, casting blue across his face.
You shifted in your seat, and Tech’s awareness zeroed in on the sound despite his best efforts to focus on his screen. Usually the silence was immediate and total, but tonight felt different, charged somehow, like the air before a lightning strike.
Tech’s thumb hovered over his datapad, not quite touching the screen. He could feel you looking at him, and his heart rate increased about twelve percent.
“Tech?” Your voice was soft, careful, like you were testing the weight of breaking your established pattern.
Tech’s hand tightened on the datapad. “Yes?”
He still did not look at you, could not look at you, because if he did he would see whatever expression you were wearing, and that expression might undo every carefully constructed defense he had built around these quiet nights together.
“Can I ask you something?”
Tech’s throat went dry. This was new territory. You had never initiated conversation during these sessions, never asked questions. The silence had been safe and easy, but now you were changing the parameters and Tech had no data for how to proceed.
“Of course,” he said, aiming for calm and landing slightly strained.
Silence stretched between you. Tech counted his heartbeats. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.
“What are you working on?” you finally asked.
Tech blinked. That was your question? Not why he spent every night alone in the cockpit or why he never joined the others in the hold or any of the hundred more invasive questions you could have asked? Relief and disappointment warred in his chest.
“Maintenance protocols,” he said, which was true in the most technical sense. “Reviewing system efficiency reports.”
“At twenty-three hundred hours?”
“The time of day is irrelevant to data analysis.”
He heard rather than saw your small smile. Something in the quality of your breathing changed. Perhaps a slight laugh.
“You do this every night,” you observed.
Tech’s fingers stilled on the datapad. “The Marauder requires consistent monitoring.”
“Hunter doesn’t monitor it every night.”
“Hunter has different priorities.”
“And yours are…?”
Sitting here hoping you will show up so I can pretend I am not completely alone with my thoughts. Making sure everyone survives another day. Trying not to think about all the ways today’s mission could have gone wrong. Memorizing the sound of your footsteps so I know when you are near.
“Ensuring optimal ship performance,” Tech said instead.
Another pause. Then: “Can I see what you are looking at?”
His hands moved before his mind could catch up, angling the datapad toward you.
You leaned forward to look, and suddenly you were closer. Much closer. Close enough that Tech could see the faint shadows under your eyes and smell whatever soap you used and feel the warmth radiating from your shoulder nearly touching his.
“These are power consumption rates?” you asked, pointing at a column of numbers.
“Yes. Each system’s energy draw over the past forty-eight hours. I am identifying areas where we can improve efficiency.”
“This one here,” your finger traced a line on the screen, “The environmental controls. They are using more power than the others.”
“Correct.” Tech pulled up a secondary screen from the ship’s console, trying to focus on data instead of the fact that you were right there and actually seemed interested in power consumption analytics. “The starboard crew quarters has a faulty seal. The system is compensating by working harder to maintain temperature.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Yes. It requires approximately thirty minutes and standard tools.”
You hummed thoughtfully, still studying the screen. “You notice everything, don’t you?”
Tech’s chest tightened. It was not a question, not really, but it felt like one, like you were asking something deeper than whether he noticed power fluctuations.
“It is necessary,” he said quietly. “Small problems compound. A faulty seal becomes a system failure. A system failure becomes a mission compromise.”
If I do not notice, people die. If I do not pay attention to every detail, I lose the people I care about. If I am not hypervigilant every moment, something will slip through and it will be my fault.
“That sounds exhausting,” you said softly.
Tech’s jaw tightened. “It is simply how my mind works.”
“I know.” Your voice carried something warm. “I wasn’t criticizing. I was just… observing.”
You pulled back slightly, and Tech’s shoulder felt cold where your warmth had been.
“I like watching you work,” you continued, and Tech’s entire thought process derailed. “You get this focused expression. Like nothing else in the galaxy exists except whatever problem you are solving.”
Tech stared at his datapad. You liked watching him work. You had been observing him enough to notice his expressions, and you were telling him this at twenty-three hundred hours in the quiet of the cockpit like it was a casual piece of information and not something that would replay in his mind for the next several weeks.
“I…” His voice failed him. Start over. Organize your thoughts. Respond like a functional human being.
“Thank you,” he managed. “That is… I am pleased that my work ethic is noticeable.”
You laughed quietly, and the sound did something devastating to his cardiovascular system.
“Your work ethic,” you repeated, and there was something teasing in your tone. “Sure. That’s what I meant.”
Tech had no idea what you actually meant, and his brain was too busy malfunctioning to calculate the possibilities. He pulled his datapad back and pulled up another screen just to have something to do with his hands.
“Why do you come here?” The question escaped before he could stop it. “Every night. To the cockpit.”
Silence filled the space between you, and Tech immediately regretted asking. He had broken the unspoken rule, questioned the pattern instead of simply accepting it, and now you would realize how pathetic it was that he noticed, that he counted the minutes until you arrived, that your presence had become the only thing that made the late hours bearable.
“Because you’re here,” you said simply.
Tech’s hands froze on the datapad.
His mind raced through possible interpretations. You came because he was here. Because you wanted to be where he was. Because his presence was somehow desirable rather than merely tolerable.
The data did not make sense.
“I am here every night,” he said carefully. “It would be more logical to spend your rest hours sleeping.”
“Probably,” you agreed. “But I like it here.”
Here. With me. You like being here with me.
Tech’s throat felt tight.
“The cockpit does provide optimal solitude,” he managed.
“That’s not why I like it.”
His heart was doing something arrhythmic and entirely outside standard protocol. Not that he and his brothers usually followed standard protocol anyways.
“Then why?” The question came out quieter than he intended.
You were silent for a long moment, and Tech risked a glance at your face.
You were already looking at him, your expression soft in the blue glow of the instruments. Something in your eyes made his breath catch.
“Because it’s peaceful,” you said. “And because you don’t expect me to be anything other than what I am. I can just… exist. Without speaking…. or performing, or explaining or trying to fit.”
Tech understood that feeling more than he could articulate.
“I find your presence similarly comfortable,” he managed, but knew it was an insurmountable understatement.
I find these nights with you are the only time my mind quiets.
Your smile was small and genuine.
“Good,” you said. “Because I’ve been worried I was bothering you.”
“Bothering me?” Tech’s voice came out sharper than intended. “No. You are not… you could not…”
He trailed off, struggling to find words adequate for the magnitude of how wrong that assumption was.
“You are welcome here,” he said finally, firmly. “Always.”
The word hung between you. Always. Infinite. Absolute. Your expression softened into something that made Tech’s chest ache.
You settled back into your seat, pulling your knees up again, and Tech tried to remember what he had been doing before this conversation rewrote his entire neural pathway. Right. Maintenance logs. Power consumption. Things that made sense.
Except now he could not focus on any of it because you were still here and you had said you liked being here with him and his mind was entirely occupied with processing that information.
Minutes passed in comfortable quiet. Tech pulled up his sensor calibration data, the same screen he had been staring at for the past hour, and made a valiant effort to actually read it this time.
“Tech?”
His attention snapped to you immediately. “Yes?”
“Can I ask you something else?”
His pulse spiked. “Of course.”
You shifted slightly, and there was something nervous in the movement that put Tech on high alert.
“Before you left the Empire,” you started slowly, “before all of this… what was your life like?”
Tech’s entire body went still.
Of all the questions. Of all the topics. You had chosen the one that required him to excavate parts of himself he preferred to keep buried under layers of technical specifications and tactical analysis.
“I…” He paused, buying time by adjusting his goggles even though they did not need adjusting. “Clone Force 99 has been my unit since creation. We were designated experimental. Desirable genetic mutations enhanced our combat ability beyond what was required for standard deployment.”
He kept his voice clinical. Detached. Like he was reciting someone else’s history.
“We trained separately from the regs on Kamino. We were never integrated with the regular clone forces.” He kept his eyes trained on the screen, drowning in blue light as his throat tightened. “It was adequate for our purposes.”
It was isolating. Even among my brothers I was the strange one. Too technical. Too literal. Too much of… everything.
“Adequate,” you echoed, and there was something knowing in your voice.
“Our unit functioned with high efficiency,” Tech clarified. “We had a 100% sucess rate. That was sufficient.”
“But what about when you weren’t on missions? What did you do?”
Tech frowned. “I studied. Maintained equipment. Expanded my technical knowledge base. Standard activities.”
“For fun?”
“The activities were enjoyable.”
“But were they fun? Did you do things just because you wanted to? Not because they were useful or necessary?”
Tech opened his mouth. Closed it.
The honest answer formed in his mind but felt too vulnerable to speak aloud: I never learned how to want things that did not serve a tactical purpose.
Your expression shifted into something that looked uncomfortably like sympathy.
“Tech, those are still work.”
“They were informative.”
“That’s not what I meant.” You leaned forward slightly. “Did you ever just… watch something because it was entertaining? Because it made you happy?”
Happy. The word sat strangely in Tech’s mind.
“I did not prioritize entertainment,” he said carefully. “There were always more pressing concerns.”
You were quiet for a long moment, watching him with those eyes that saw too much.
“What about now?” you asked softly. “Do you do things just because they make you happy?”
Tech’s fingers tightened on his datapad.
Did he? He maintained the ship because it was necessary. He studied because knowledge was survival. He came to the cockpit every night because…
Because you were here.
Because somewhere in the past few nights, sitting in silence with you had stopped being about decompression and started being about something he could not quite name but desperately wanted to keep.
“I am… learning to,” he said quietly.
Your smile was soft and warm and made something in his chest crack open.
“Good,” you said. “You deserve to have things that make you happy.”
Tech had no response to that. The concept felt foreign. Revolutionary. Like you had just suggested that gravity was optional.
“What about you?” he asked, redirecting before his defenses crumbled completely. “What was your life like before joining us?”
Your demeanor shifted, brightness creeping over your expression.
“Oh, completely different. I wasn’t military. I worked in Republic Intelligence, data analysis mostly. Very boring compared to this.”
“Data analysis is not boring,” Tech protested immediately.
Your laugh was quiet but genuine. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”
Tech’s face warmed.
“But outside of work,” you continued, “I had a pretty normal life. An apartment, friends, routines. I used to watch holovids on my days off, go to markets, just… normal civilian things.”
Tech tried to imagine it. You in an apartment somewhere, living a life that did not involve firefights and narrow escapes. You watching holovids without worrying about Imperial patrols. You being safe.
His chest tightened.
“Do you miss it?” he asked quietly.
You considered the question with visible thought.
“Sometimes,” you admitted. “I miss the stability. The predictability. Knowing I’d wake up in the same place every day.” You paused. “But I don’t regret leaving. This… what we do now. It matters. And the people I’ve met…”
You trailed off, but you were looking at him again, and Tech’s heart once again struggled to maintain a steady rhythm.
“The people make it worth it,” you finished softly.
Tech swallowed hard.
“I am glad you are here,” he managed, but continued, “Your tactical analysis has proven invaluable. Your ability to remain calm under pressure has contributed significantly to mission success rates.”
You make everything better. You make me feel less alone. I wait here every night because it means I get to sit here with you and pretend that this is normal, that people like me- that clones, get to have things like this.
“Just my tactical analysis?” you asked, and there was something teasing in your tone but also something else. Something hopeful.
Tech’s mind went blank.
Was that a leading question? Was he supposed to read subtext? He was terrible at subtext. Give him an encrypted Imperial transmission and he could break it in minutes- no, seconds! But this?
“No,” he said carefully. “Not just your tactical analysis.”
“What else?”
Tech’s mouth went dry.
“You…” He struggled to organize thoughts and they all felt too large for words. “You listen when I explain things. You ask questions that indicate genuine interest rather than polite tolerance. You make me feel…”
He paused, searching for the right word.
Seen. Valued. Like maybe all the parts of me that other people find excessive or annoying are actually acceptable.
“…less alone,” he finished quietly.
The cockpit felt very small suddenly. Very quiet. Just you and him and the hum of instruments and all the things Tech was not saying hanging in the air between you.
“You make me feel less alone too,” you said softly.
You shifted closer, just slightly, and Tech’s awareness narrowed to the diminishing space between you.
“Can I tell you something?” you asked.
Tech nodded, not trusting his voice.
“There was this show I used to watch,” you said. “And there is a point to me saying this, I promise!”
Tech studied her quietly, slightly off kilter by the sudden topic shift.
“It was before the fall of the Republic. Before all this… called Galactic Frontiers. It was about explorers charting unknown space. Completely ridiculous from a scientific standpoint, but I loved it anyway.”
Tech’s brain latched onto the familiar topic like a lifeline.
“I am familiar with that program,” he said, and there was definitely too much interest in his voice but he could not help it. He paused, adjusting his goggles. “Actually, I had forgotten about it until you mentioned it. The scientific inaccuracies were egregious, but the character dynamics were compelling. I suppose it did not occur to me to mention it earlier because my partaking in Galactic Frontiers was an anomaly.”
Your face lit up like he had just given you the galaxy.
“You’ve seen it?”
“I watched several episodes during downtime on Kamino. The atmospheric consistency alone was statistically impossible. Every planet had identical gravity and breathable air.”
“Right?” You leaned forward eagerly. “And the faster than light travel made no sense. They just… jumped to hyperspace instantly with no calculations or nav computer.”
“Entirely fictional,” Tech agreed, and he could feel enthusiasm creeping into his voice. “Real hyperspace travel requires extensive mathematical modeling and multiple safety protocols.”
“I know! But I loved it anyway. Something about the adventure of it, the discovery. Finding new worlds, meeting new species.” You paused, your expression softening. “Well, my point is… I always wanted to rewatch it with someone who would appreciate how absurd it was while still enjoying it.”
Tech’s heart performed an acrobatic maneuver that would have concerned a medical droid.
With someone. You wanted to watch it with someone. You were telling him this while looking at him with those eyes and, despite the subtext, he knew what that implied, what you were offering.
“I would be interested in that,” he said, trying to sound calm and failing spectacularly. “Watching it. With you. If you wanted to.”
Your smile could have powered the entire Republic fleet.
“Really? You’d want to watch a completely scientifically inaccurate show just to make fun of it with me?”
“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation. “I would find that… enjoyable.”
I would find any activity enjoyable if it involved spending time with you. I would watch the most tedious programming in existence if it meant I got to hear your laugh and see your smile and exist in your proximity for a few hours.
“There’s one problem though,” you said, “We don’t exactly have access to holovid streaming on the Marauder.”
Tech’s mind immediately began calculating solutions.
“I could construct a receiver array using salvaged components from our last supply run. With proper modifications to our comm system, I could potentially access archived Republic entertainment databases. It would require approximately six hours of work and some creative rewiring, but it is feasible.”
You were staring at him.
“You would build an entire system just to watch an old show with me?”
Tech adjusted his goggles, suddenly uncertain.
“Was that… did you not want me to? I apologize if I misunderstood the request. I simply thought—”
“Tech.” You were laughing now, soft and warm. “I would love that. I just… you’re amazing. You know that?”
Amazing. You thought he was amazing?
“I am simply solving a technical problem,” he managed.
“You’re doing it because you want to spend time with me.”
Tech’s face burned hot enough to compromise his goggles’ thermal regulation.
“I…” There was no point denying it. You had stated the obvious truth he had been trying to rationalize away. “Yes. I want to spend time with you.”
The admission hung in the air between you, vulnerable and terrifying and honest.
Your hand moved, reaching across the small space, and suddenly your fingers were brushing against his where they rested on the datapad.
Tech’s entire nervous system went into overdrive.
You were touching him. Deliberately. Your fingers warm against his, the contact soft and tentative like you were asking a question without words.
Tech’s thumb shifted, just slightly, pressing back against yours.
“I want to spend time with you too,” you said quietly. “That’s why I come here every night. Not for the cockpit or the quiet. For you.”
Tech’s throat felt impossibly tight.
“Oh,” he managed, which was possibly the least articulate response he could have managed.
You laughed softly, and your fingers curled more firmly around his.
“You really didn’t know?”
“I…” Tech struggled to form coherent thoughts with your hand holding his. “I considered it a possibility, but the data was inconclusive. I did not want to make assumptions that might compromise our… our current dynamic.”
“Our friendship?”
“Yes.”
“What if I wanted to compromise it?” you asked softly.
Tech’s heart stopped.
Then restarted at approximately twice its normal rate.
“That would…” He swallowed hard. “That would depend on how you intended to compromise it.”
You shifted closer, and suddenly the co-pilot’s seat felt very far away and much too close simultaneously.
“I’m not very good at this,” you admitted. “Saying what I mean. But I like you, Tech. A lot. More than just as a teammate or friend.”
Tech stared at you like you had just rewritten the laws of physics.
“You have romantic interest,” he said, needing the clarification, needing to be absolutely certain he was understanding correctly. “In me.”
“Yes,” you said simply. Though the single word felt inadequate for what was happening in this cockpit with your fingers tangled with his.
“I have…” His voice came out rough. “I have developed similar feelings. For several weeks now. Possibly longer. I have been attempting to analyze them but the data has been inconclusive and I did not want to jeopardize our established rapport by introducing variables that might—”
You kissed him.
One moment Tech was explaining his feelings using the emotional processing capabilities of a particularly anxious droid, and the next your lips were pressed softly against his and his brain forgot how to do anything except feel.
Soft. You were so soft. And warm. And kissing him. You were actually kissing him.
Tech’s datapad clattered to the floor.
His hands came up automatically, one settling carefully on your waist, the other cupping your jaw with the kind of reverence he usually reserved for rare technical components.
You made a small sound against his mouth, and Tech’s entire system overheated to a level nearing catastrophic.
When you pulled back, his goggles were askew and his breathing was unsteady and he was quite certain he had forgotten his own name.
“Was that okay?” you asked softly, and you sounded as breathless as he felt.
“That was…” Tech struggled to find words. “That was significantly more than okay. That was optimal. Exceptional. The data suggests that repeating the experience would be advisable.”
You laughed, and the sound vibrated through him where you were still touching.
“Very smooth, Tech.”
“I apologize. My verbal processing capabilities appear to be compromised by your proximity and the lingering sensory input from—”
You kissed him again.
Tech stopped trying to think and just let himself feel.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, careful around the arm of his goggles. His hand tightened slightly on your waist, pulling you closer across the small space between seats. The angle was awkward and the armrests were digging into his side and none of it mattered because you were kissing him like he was something precious.
Like he was worth wanting.
When you finally pulled away, you were smiling and Tech was quite certain his cardiovascular system would never recover.
“I’ve wanted to do that for weeks,” you admitted.
“I have wanted you to do that for weeks,” Tech replied, then immediately felt his face heat. “That is… I have experienced similar desires. Of a reciprocal nature.”
“Tech?”
“Yes?”
“You can just say you wanted to kiss me.”
“I wanted to kiss you,” he repeated obediently, and then added because apparently his brain-to-mouth filter had been completely demolished: “I want to kiss you again.”
Your smile widened. “Good. Because I want to kiss you again too.”
“Excellent,” Tech said. “Then we are in agreement about the desired course of action and can proceed with—”
You were laughing now, bright and warm, and Tech realized he was being ridiculous but he could not seem to stop.
“You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” you said.
“I am not flustered. I am simply experiencing elevated neurological activity in response to novel stimuli.”
“Uh huh. Very scientific.”
“It is an accurate description of—”
You kissed him again, and Tech decided that you were absolutely right to keep interrupting his explanations with your mouth.
Minutes or hours later—Tech’s usually precise temporal awareness had been completely compromised—you were both sitting pressed together in his pilot’s seat, your head resting on his shoulder, his arm around your waist, hands still tangled together. The cockpit had grown quieter, your breathing evening out into something close to sleep, and Tech found himself perfectly content to sit here holding you for as long as you would let him.
Then you stirred slightly, and Tech glanced at the viewport.
The horizon was beginning to change. The deep black of night was giving way to the faintest hint of color, a gradual lightening that Tech’s pattern recognition immediately identified as pre-dawn.
“Look,” he said softly, not wanting to wake you fully but unable to keep the quiet wonder from his voice.
You lifted your head from his shoulder, blinking sleep from your eyes, and turned toward the viewport.
The sunrise was slow, methodical, exactly as planetary rotation dictated it should be. But watching the sky transform from black to deep purple to brilliant orange felt like witnessing something extraordinary. Light spilled across the landscape beyond the Marauder, illuminating rock formations and scattered vegetation in shades of gold and amber.
Tech had seen countless sunrises on countless planets. He had calculated the exact timing based on axial tilt and orbital position more times than he could count. He had never found them particularly noteworthy beyond their scientific implications.
But this one was different.
Because you were here, your hand still tangled with his, your shoulder warm against his side, watching the same sky transform with an expression of quiet awe that made his chest ache.
“It’s beautiful,” you whispered.
Tech looked at you instead of the sunrise, at the way the growing light caught in your eyes and painted your features in soft gold.
“Yes,” he agreed quietly. “It is.”
You caught him staring and smiled, “We should do this again, watch the sunrise together.”
Tech’s thumb brushed across your knuckles. “I would like that very much,” he said.
And as the sun continued its inevitable rise, painting the cockpit in warm light and chasing away the shadows of night, Tech thought that maybe—just maybe—he was starting to understand what it meant to want things that served no tactical purpose.
To want things simply because they made him happy.
