Summary: Crosshair finds Tech's old journal and reads through it.
Word Count: 1,136
Warnings: Angst, mentions of death, s2 spoiler
A/N: This takes place right after the ending of episode 4 s3. I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG FOR ME TO FINISH I PROCRASTINATED TO HARD! This was supposed to be my 50 follower celebration but now it's the 151 followers celebration! Now everyone say thank you to my bestie for peer pressuring me into finishing this and proof-reading this.
The moment Crosshair walked onto the ship after reuniting with his brothers he felt like something was off. He knew Tech was no longer with them but as he looked toward Hunter in the pilot's seat he knew it was wrong. That was Tech’s seat. Tech was supposed to fly. Tech was supposed to be there. Tech was supposed to be here. Yes, Crosshair may have reunited with his family but not all of them. Not his genius brother who would never stop talking. Oh, what he would give to hear his voice geek about different kinds of insects or Wookie culture. Crosshair gets up from his seat and walks into the barracks. He walked up to Tech’s bunk staring at all the projects that would never be finished. Gently, he moved the projects enough to sit but still kept them in relatively the same spot. He didn’t want to disturb Tech’s things. ‘He never let us near them anyways,’ he remembered. He threw his head back, a mere attempt at holding back his tears. He missed his brother. Then a thought came into his mind. A long time ago Crosshair had given him a notebook. A real paper notebook. Tech hasn't used it much since “ It is a precious gift that I do not intend to misuse.” He wondered if he ever had used it. He looks around his bunk seeing nothing. He looks under the bunk and in every place that he can think of to find the book. But he couldn’t. ‘Maybe he lost it or threw it away. Wow, Tech, really showing its “value”, he pauses. ‘ Or maybe…it was on Kamino.’ He didn’t like thinking about it much, but the day the city he was raised in drowned was the day he lost all of his memories as a cadet. He recalled the time he first gave Wrecker Lula. Or the time Hunter had come up with the name the “ The Bad Batch”. Or when he found Tech’s hiding place for his datapad. The memory reminded Crosshair of the hiding spot he and Tech used on the ship. Crosshair used it to store his toothpicks, but Tech used it to hide what he deemed valuable.
‘Maybe, just maybe, it was in there.’ Crosshair crawls across the bed stopping when he gets to the edge of the bed. He reaches over to the side of his bed and carefully pries open a panel. With his hand, he searches for the notebook in the dark box until he locates the small red booklet. He grabs the book and flips through it. ‘Yep, he definitely wrote in it,’ but as Crosshair continued to flip through pages he realized just how many pages were blank. Never to be written in. Never to be drawn on. He got up and sat on Tech’s bunk once more. He opened the book, analyzing the handwriting. He saw how the handwriting improved with every entry. While skimming the book one word caught his attention. “Race”. Omega has told him about the time they were bodyguards for someone named Cid and Tech was forced to race to keep everyone safe. “ What’s so important about a mission on some sketchy planet?” Crosshair wonders. There was only one way to find out so he started reading.
I had won the race (obviously) but to my surprise, the crowd cheered which is not uncommon at such events. I've heard their screams since I arrived. I also had full confidence in my ability, but hearing them chant my name with so much excitement, along with the praise from my siblings, I felt an overwhelming joy. All my life I had been made fun of, due to my enhancement. Mainly by regs, I have also endured endless teasing from my brother's thanks to my constant "rambling". It no longer bothered me much but it took a lot of self-reassurance to get to such a point. Little praise was given to me, the only source of which came from my brothers. No one else had a reason to provide that to me for it was my purpose. But now there are hundreds if not thousands of people admiring my skill. It felt nice, to say the least.
Crosshair gave a soulful smile. ‘ He had been mocked all his life, and I participated in it,’ he admitted sorrowfully, ‘At least, he didn’t hold it against me.’ Crosshair lets out a sigh and flips to another page. Crosshair pauses, his name on the page. Hesitantly he begins reading, afraid of Tech’s true feelings towards him after everything. He could only hope his brother didn’t think poorly of him.
Omega asked me why I didn't care about Echo leaving us and while I think I responded appropriately the interaction got me thinking about Crosshair again. I’ve tried to forget, but that plan was flawed. How was I supposed to ignore him if I didn’t want to? I eventually came to accept his decision but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. In all honesty, I miss the times when we’d cause trouble in the mess hall. I miss when we’d compete in who shot more droids. I miss the moments when I work on a project and he’d sit next to me and clean his rifle. I miss when we would be up at the latest hours when I would ramble about anything and everything while he’d try his best to stay awake. He enjoyed sleeping a lot so it was difficult for him, but I appreciate what he did. I miss when things were simpler- no that is incorrect. I do not miss fighting for the republic. Back then we had to risk our lives, we were mistreated, we didn’t have Omega and we couldn’t choose for ourselves. I miss Crosshair. But I don’t think I’ll see him again. But, if there's one thing certain about Crosshair is his loyalty. That was evident when he stayed with the Empire. It never falters but it can shift when the loyalty isn’t mutual. I believe that is why he left us. When we denied the Empire he felt that we denied him. I do not regret leaving the Empire but I do regret not taking Crosshair with us. I find myself replaying recordings of him when I am in need comfort. It’s the closest thing that I have to him with me.
Tears threatened to fall from his eyes. He should’ve come back sooner. If he had his brother would still be here. Crosshair looked around the room and studied it. He sees Tech’s projects, equations, and blueprints. All are things that Tech never got to finish. Looking down towards the journal, Crosshair decided to complete writing on the book. So it didn’t have to remain unfinished.
EXTRA: Here's some old art I made when first promoting this fic.
Warning/Tags: angst, crying, Empire mentions, brief pet names (my love), kissing mentions — tell me if I've missed anything!
Crosshair.
He was handsome but his clothing of choice... really didn't suit him. But with quick inspection, there it was. A silver, clean-surfaced symbol of the Galactic Empire.
"Crosshair?" You met his eyes in an instance and he knew you had seen his attire.
"I know." He was blunt, his voice hoarse and low as his eyes scanned your face. You were so beautiful in his eyes, the last thing he wanted to do was hurt you.
If not for the way that your faces are bathed in moonlight, it might almost seem like any other night. That Crosshair is any other clone saying good-night to you. He's not any other clone, not anymore. But in this moment, it's easy to forget that.
That's the love of your life. He's standing in front of you but in the shadow of the Empire. As a rebel, it was the thing you vowed to take down. But to see your beloved on the other side was heartbreaking.
This wasn't a date.
You don't know if you're happy to see him.
The two of you remain still for a few moments. Crosshair stares down at you and tries to memorise your face, trying to engrave it into his memories. He wants to be able to carry this moment with you, despite how things have turned out.
To remember you as the girl he's fallen in love with.
Crosshair can't help but feel a tinge of sadness as he looks at you. He feels so close to you in this moment, more so than he has in a long time. But he knows that, ultimately, his path away from you is inevitable.
"I know..." he repeats in a more solemn tone, his head hanging low.
"I now live knowing the love of my life is a puppet." You murmured.
Crosshair takes a sharp exhale. He wants to deny that, trying to argue against your words. But he can't, not when you're right. He's been a puppet for the Empire. No matter what he says or does, he can't change the past.
"You're right," he whispers, not attempting to deny it. He sighs with a heavy chest. "But I still have my feelings," he says.
You like to think he still loves you, despite choosing a side that forces him to make your life difficult.
He steps forward and wraps his arms around you For a moment, in your embrace, he can pretend that nothing else exists. It's just you and him, together at last.
"But you... you're with them," you mumbled, "will you be leaving?"
"Yes." He stares at your eyes, glossy that shimmer in the moonlight. They're probably tears about to build up but he finds them so beautiful because they're your eyes.
There's a calmness and peace in him, a resignation to your fate. But with these few minutes you spend together, you almost forget how different you two are.
You lean forward in a cautious manner. With a gentle lean, you're tempted to plant a kiss on his lips. Just before he leaves. You've accepted what he's chosen but you're not leaving without a souvenir.
Crosshair tenses up as you move closer to him. He can tell what you're about to do, but he can't bear it. He's come too far, and he can't let himself waver.
He leans away from you, trying to stay strong. But he can see the disappointment in your eyes - he can see the sadness in your heart. He knows he let you down. But he has to be strong.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, rejecting your kiss. "But that's something I can't do."
Your lips purse into a tight line as you take a small step back, feeling embarrassed and ashamed.
Crosshair's heart is broken. He can't bear the thought of hurting you. But he knows he must. He knows that if he lets you believe any differently, if he lets you think that he has the same feelings as you, he'd be lying to you.
He looks at you again, fighting back the growing regret and guilt in his heart. "You should go—"
"—Please kiss me." You cut him off in desperation.
Crosshair stares at your face as you ask him. He wants nothing more than to comply, than to give in to your request.
But he simply cannot. His mind is in a whirl and his heart is filled with a multitude of emotions. He's spent so much time trying to hold back those feelings, to act as the soldier he needs to be. He can't turn back now, not after all he's done and all he's seen.
"I can't," he whispers. The conflict and sadness in him is palpable.
"It's the least... please?"
Crosshair is at a loss for words. He knows he can't possibly comply with your request.
But he can't help but feel a small pang of remorse. He sees the disappointment in your face, a sadness in your eyes that he himself cannot deny. He feels as if he's letting you down yet again.
He looks away from you, unable to face the shame he feels in that moment. He can barely force himself to speak the words. "I would kiss you but I can't."
"Can't or won't?" There was a hint of aggression behind your words but not enough to be irritated. You were more upset than angry at him.
Crosshair freezes at your question. His eyes narrow and his cheeks turn red as he processes what you're asking him.
He looks back at you and considers for a moment. Can't he let himself be happy once? Can't he let himself kiss you simply because he wants to? He loves you, goddamnit.
But he knows that it's wrong. That that life isn't meant for him, especially after the things he's done. To kiss you would be to ignore his own ideals, his moral compass. He can't betray himself.
"Both," he replies softly.
Your lips go tight as if every word you've uttered has just been trashed and disregarded. It was useless. You take a full step away from him.
Crosshair watches you with a heavy heart. He can see the disappointment in your expression as you pull away from him. He can feel his own guilt eating him up.
He is choosing not to kiss you, despite the feelings within his heart. He is choosing the path of a soldier and a path for the Empire.
"I am sorry," he whispers. "But it's the right thing to do."
"...Then I'd hope something good comes out of this." You gesture between the space between the two of you. Though in the heat of the moment, his hand reaches out to touch your cheek. His touch is so light, so feathery. It's the same hand that wraps around his rifle to pull the trigger.
His fingers linger on your face, a look of sadness in his eyes. In response, you rest your hand on top of his, feeling the warmth as you lean into it. This is what the both of you need.
Your touch brings Crosshair's heart to an ache.
He closes his eyes in that moment, savouring your touch for as long as he can. He wants to be able to hold onto this moment - to freeze it in time and remember it for as long as he can.
But time keeps moving forward, his heart breaking with every passing second.
He doesn't want to let you go. And yet, he knows it's the only choice he has.
You cup his cheek in return, the both of you standing with a hand on one another's cheek.
Crosshair feels your hand on his cheek, and he closes his eyes in that moment.
After everything that's happened, all the hardships and struggles of his life, this moment almost feels unreal. The soft touch of your hand against his face.
He opens his eyes once more and studies your face, committing each detail to memory. The moonlight falls upon your face. Your hair. Your eyes. His heart is racing and he can't bring himself to move away.
You're so beautiful.
"Please... for the last time." You beg. With all your heart, you beg just for the touch of his lips on your own.
Your words make his heart tighten.
What would be the right thing to do? What would be the just thing to do? He's been trying so hard to stay true to himself. To let himself kiss you in that moment... it would go against everything he believes in.
He struggles inside his own heart.
You watch him hesitate and so you sigh, leaning away from his touch as a sign. You've given up on one more intimate touch with him.
He wishes he could change things, to fix whatever he's done to hurt you.
But he can't. All he can do is look back at you, a tinge of regret in his eyes.
"I'm sorry." He whispers. To compensate, he takes a hold of your hand. It's the least he can do.
With the immediate warmth of his palm resting upon yours, you look down. What a pretty sight.
Crosshair looks down as well. He traces his fingers across your palm, trying to memorise every feeling, every sensation.
He can't believe that this is the last he shall hold your hand. That this is all the time the two of you can spend together.
When he looks back up at you, he sees the sadness in your eyes. He knows that you wanted more from this than he could give you. That you wished for this moment to be something different.
To be something more.
You can't help but let the building up of tears finally fall down your cheek. Crosshair holds your hand tighter, as if he hoped it might help to comfort you. It's a small gesture, but a part of him feels like he can never make up for everything he's done to you.
He takes a deep breath and looks straight into your eyes. His voice is soft but raspy, his expression pleading. "No, don't cry," he whispers.
"I can't..."
He tries his best to hold his feelings at bay, to prevent them from overwhelming him. But he just can't help but feel bad for you, for all the pain he's caused you.
"Why cry for me, though?" he mumbled, confused and angry with himself. You shouldn't have to cry, especially not for him.
"I have no power in this situation." You say through whimpers. Your voice has dropped in decibels, as if you're speaking under your breath.
He doesn't want you to suffer. But he knows that's all he can offer at this point. A few minutes of time to say goodbye.
A few moments to reflect on what could have been.
You unclip your pink flower pin, handing it in the palm of his hands, "Will I ever see you again?" You look up at him.
Crosshair stares at the flower pin you've given him, a slight smile on his face as he traces it with his fingers. He has no words in that moment, just a feeling of warmth at your gesture.
He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, absorbing your touch, "I want you to."
You can only nod at this point. You know your paths will part and the time spent not being with each other will last for many, many rotations on end.
"Be safe." You whisper, wiping your tears.
Crosshair wants to tell you the same, but he can only give you a tight smile. He can't find the words to reassure you, to make you believe that he will be safe.
Your eyes meet once more, and for a moment, it feels as if the world has stopped. He wants to hold onto this moment, to make it last as long as possible.
But he can't. He can't delay the inevitable. He has to let you go.
"Goodbye," he whispers.
"Goodbye, my love."
With those words, Crosshair feels something break within him. His heart hurts, and he can't hold back his own tears.
He doesn't try to hold it in anymore. He lets himself feel the pain of being unable to hold you, of letting you go. Crosshair meets your gaze one last time before he lets you go.
"Remember me."
You look at his golden orbs one last time before an announcement for curfew is rung throughout the streets. In a moment, all you can think about is 'what if?'
You let his hands go, the coldness replacing his warmth. And as hard as it is, you step away from him, exiting the alley he pulled you into.
Crosshair stares at you.
He can't believe that this is it, the moment where your paths diverge forever. But all must come to an end, he knows, no matter how many regrets he may have or how badly he wishes things could be different.
"I will remember you," he whispers.
"Always."
He has the best eyesight in the galaxy but cannot see the Empire for what it is.
Post-Notes: i hope u liked ittttt, i felt like it was rush a bit? idk but its somewhat messy oh well
Match: Crosshair x fem!reader/Crosshair x jedi!reader
Warnings: canon-typical violence, graphic torture (it’s tantiss, and this dives quite a bit into their trauma in that place), hurt/comfort, hemlock being a creep (expected I suppose), angst, fight scenes, ptsd/flashbacks
Word count: 1432/?
Short summary: Unconventional and untameable. From revered Jedi general to hunted and hated by the new empire, no security is felt in the aftermath. At the mercy of Tantiss and its twisted secrets, no path forward feels like it sits right in your mind, for the first time in your life. After falling so far from the grace of your anthologized and erudite past life, your mind and everything you have ever known hang in the balance of your shattering world. You thought your new way would have to be abandonment of the self you once knew in favour of something more durable to this torture, but more than just yourself hangs in the balance now. Forced to confront everything you were fighting so hard to abandon, the path forward is impossible unreachable to your fitful mind, and you have no choice but to give in to the unknown and let it sweep you away.
A/N: this was the most voted on fic idea on my most recent poll! I've decided to turn this into a series (definitely not because uni is kicking me while I'm down right now and I need a little more time to fully flesh out their story). Hope you enjoy this little prologue for now! Thank you endlessly for supporting my work, please do know my inbox is always open for request for any fic and even things you want to see in this one going forward. Sending love x
Prologue
Emotion, yet peace.
Ignorance, yet knowledge.
Passion, yet serenity.
Chaos, yet harmony.
Death, yet the Force.
Death. Yet the force.
They came last time, they won’t come back this time. They came last time, they won’t come back this time.
Teeth chattering and arms shaking, your body fought to lift you up just enough to feel something other than the grimy, icy durasteel under your cheek. On days like this, whenever you feel like this, nothing quite compares to the bitter chill that bleeds deep into your bones. You’ve been particularly good so far at keeping the swooping waves of dread deep in your gut at bay until you find yourself completely alone, but the tides have been rising up a little too high for your liking. For better or for worse, every time they return you heedfully to the cell, the complete and utter aloneness it so dutifully provides caters to your very needs. The way you are sure you appear when you feel like this is not exactly the best look. You want to be alone.
You need it.
So much for someone who used to respond faithfully to the word ‘general’ and had made herself such a fearsome and fearless force-to-be-reckoned-with that hardly a soul in the GAR didn’t at least know of you by name or reputation, if not only for quiet words of how much of a breath of fresh air you were when it came to how they knew war, and how they knew soldiers.
It was your master who instilled in you, what you believed to be true balance. A master who built you up and broke you down over and over again until he was sure you had learnt most everything you could from his example. Something here and there about what it meant to be a good jedi, but a whole lot of perpetual study of what once was. You hadn’t expected to be matched with a Jedi you had only heard whispers about, who was known to be deeply fixated on the old ways. On the ancient texts and chimerical tales of a Jedi Order of old.
A teacher. A mentor. A master. It was easy to get lost in the labyrinth of your own recollection when your mind was perpetually screaming at you for any kind of cool relief from the now-familiar hellscape you endured. You find yourself rather incapable of recalling much more than the most salient precepts of your former life. Most recently this meant that your mind kept cycling through fading snippets of old Jedi texts your nose found itself buried into more often than not in your early training.
Death, yet the force.
Rather the opposite to the strict doctrine other pursuivants found themselves so paradoxically attached to:
There is no death, only the force.
Sometimes you wonder how some of those followers of the code, who you knew to be so staunch to the religion, would feel should they have considered what you so obediently dedicated your time to; if they would truly acknowledge just how striking the code of old would seem compared to what it had been warped and twisted into today. Or rather, what it had been, before the very foundations had been shaken, and crumbled, and drifted away at the first rush of the storm.
If you had just been better at picking yourself up off the floor every time you were tossed carelessly into the cell, you wouldn’t have found yourself bubbling up with as much anxiety as you do now. Recently, you had started losing track of time motionless on that floor. Recently, you couldn’t help but feel just not quite capable of counting down the rotations anymore. You could hardly recognise yourself. Your mind, your soul.
You try not to let your mind drift away on transient currents of your memory whenever you can. With him trying so violently to break you, you could use mental fortitude and command, even if you feel like an imposter when even just thinking of those words.
Meditation used to feel like a stinging punishment. With a master utterly obsessed over enlightenment, meditation had become somewhat of a tool used whenever it seemed you wandered too far from the path. Now, sitting through the countless hours of silence in that gaping, empty room, with only your internal turbulence for company, even if for a couple of lifetimes, would feel more bearable of a thought than any more of what this place could churn out. To you and from you.
The turbulence pervades so much more than your convoluted headspace now. You have so much more to lose than just yourself.
A name that you refuse to let surface out of sheer desperation at keeping to that crevice of sanity and mental ease that remains tries to claw its way out of you. If this fights its way up and out, and you’re not so sure the constructed barriers you’ve placed around your connection to your former life can weather the scrap. The moment you felt his signature, because let’s be honest, you could never do anything but feel when he was near, nearly turned you to dust. If you hadn’t already been strapped down and screaming along to whatever beating - mental or physical, you could not remember this time - you were being given, you were afraid you might have tried ripping the entire place to the ground with your bare fingernails to make sure that feeling was solid, that it was real. You hated, with every fibre of your being, that he was here. That they needed something to do with him. That they would never stop until they had taken everything of which they were capable, as they always do. But that tiny, terrible, evil part of you that was afraid, that couldn’t recognise her own mind, hoped that it was him, because that terrible, tiny part of you always knew that if he was going down, you were always going to be right there with him. Maybe this was, decisively, your out.
Cross would hate you for the darkness you carried so intentionally inside your heart now. It was the only way you knew you could keep some fight in you alive. The rage was starting to feel comfortable, the fury, the only palpable companion that you could call yours. You knew he would hate you for it anyway. For a man so unyielding and stubborn and bitter, he had been so intentional in how he reached for your mercy, your gentle affection, your light. You had not only stolen that from yourself, but you had taken it away from him. Before you tried to rip it all out and gut yourself of your memory from the inside out, you only ever saw his face, so soft in your mind, begging you for anything other than complete and utter destruction. You had hoped never to see him again. To never, ever be reminded of just how much you had lost, and just how much you had taken from yourself. It was a bitter pill, but it was one you had been swallowing for months.
Ignorance, yet knowledge.
It would be so easy to forget he was here now. You could push it away and learn to forget and fill your thoughts back up with Hemlock and what he wanted and how he was ruining you. You could ignore him. It wouldn’t be the first time. But you know he’s here. And that wretched, damned Jedi part of you that had revelled in untangling and unsnarling the dirty, complex tangles of life, and love, and light was fighting its way out of the depths of your heavy heart. You know it’s only a matter of time before it becomes unbearable once again, and once that happens, you know Hemlock will have won. Indifferent, unemotional, and unconcerned are three things you know you could never be where Crosshair was concerned, and once you lose those very things keeping you alive, the dread will truly sink in, and sink you down.
Instead of drifting off into restless sleep, the bitter durasteel finds a home under your cheek for the rest of the empty night. Distantly you can make out the typical shuffling of the base, distant chatter amongst troopers, and a gentle wind. You cannot calm your restless mind and you cannot slip into the familiar cool indifference that allows you your habitual restless sleep. Crosshair. You hear a guttural scream from the dark doorway at the end of the hall. Crosshair. It’s not him. Cross.
Warnings: canon typical violence, major angst, death, PTST, flashback in bold, trauma, drinking, smoking.
Summary: You’re a bartender trying to make a living for yourself well after O66. At this point, you’re used to the galaxy’s ability to cycle through governing bodies overnight; each one just as corrupt as the last. It seems like the only place that never changes is your parlor. That is, until an unfamiliar face starts making routine visits to drown his sorrows along with everyone else.
Author's Note: This has been steeping in my drafts since the end of January and after watching last week’s episode I had an untamable compulsion to finish it. No spoilers but it does take place some years after the fall of the Republic. I haven't even seen this week's episode yet.😅 I should also warn about the viscerally, gut-wrenching angst as well. Sorry...🙈
Read on ao3 & wattpad - just over 3k words
Masterlist - My kofi✨
“Kill me...” The conscripted soldier in gunmetal grey gear begs. Crosshair doesn’t know who he is, where he came from or how he got recruited into the Empire’s militia. All he knows is that despite the fact they’re wearing the same uniform, they clearly don’t follow the same orders. At an early age, it was ingrained in him that arrogance is a characteristic of exceptional military leadership. It is the only characteristic that matters if one desires to go far in this New Galactic Order. That arrogance is displayed at every pull of his trigger, serving a death sentence under the guise of insurgent eradication.
“P-please...” He stutters, looking down the barrel of Crosshair’s rifle. He’s suffering from his injuries after the pair brutally exchanged fists, kicks and blaster bolts. He knows he’s not long for his world. These innocent deaths are merely a grand performance orchestrated to distract, maim and manipulate the masses. If a soldier is trained to face facts, will there be anyone left to make it out alive when the curtain call comes? “Do it.”
“Were you in the war?” You ask, driving a moistened cloth into a drinking glass while trying to strike up conversation with the loner across the counter.
Before Crosshair could follow through with the painful memory plaguing his psyche in a perpetual loop, hearing your voice dissipates the mental scenes. His eyes slowly lift up from the bar’s countertop to meet yours as he massages the scarred portion of his head, then flicking back down so as to not prolong the momentary connection. “What could have possibly given you that idea?”
“That cigarra of yours.” You shrug, not thinking anything of talking to yet another imbibing regular. He’s been coming in quite routinely for a while and you’re itching to learn his story. However, he’s extremely keen on keeping to himself, but you couldn’t pass up this insider opportunity after having caught onto his mannerisms. It happened a good few years ago, but the clone war will always be a topic of discussion. “I’ve noticed you like to hide the ignited end in your palm. That’s a soldier’s move, isn’t it?”
Old habits definitely do die hard. With each drag, Crosshair feels the singeing smoke flood his lungs, but it does little to calm his nerves. “Yeah... I guess I’m still trying not to give anybody something to shoot.”
“Well, you’re safe here. You can let your guard down once you walk through my saloon doors.” You pridefully nod in his direction but he abruptly breaks eye contact at the tiniest hint of compassion.
“It’s bad practice to ever let your guard down.” He bitingly disagrees, rolling his squinted eyes.
“Damn, they must have trained you really well then.” You add while pouring him an extra drink free of charge. He most definitely needs it. “Here. On the house. Hopefully you’ll be able to relax.”
“Hope.” He scoffs. “What a pointless sentiment. Is that’s all that’s left to do when everyone has already allowed for things get worse?”
“What else are we supposed to do? What did you ever do to change the way things are now?” You’ll not allow this brash attitude to disrupt the laid-back ambiance of your establishment. You understand that he, as a veteran, must have a different perspective about the war, but why put a damper on anyone else’s evening? In hindsight, you second guess snapping back at him, but this is the most he’s ever said in the entirety of his visits here, unintentionally striving to keep him talking.
His reluctant charm offensive is wearing off and Crosshair can’t keep up the small talk façade anymore. Instead, he downs the distilled drink, throwing his head back in the process. Once quenched, he tosses a couple credits at you and promptly storms out of the bar, paying for it anyway. It all happened so fast and you’re suddenly sore from losing one of the scarce paying customers you have left. You earn a couple wary glances from the other patrons due to such an emotional display. After all, that was the most action anyone’s seen this side of the Hydian Way in a long time.
The remainder of your shift goes on as normal and bland as can be. Tabs have been closed, glassware and tabletops have received a good scrubbing and you’re just about to lock up the safe with the night’s earnings when you see a face peering at you from the shadows. “Whoever is there, don’t try anything.” You cautiously coax between hesitant steps, reaching for the sidearm in the holster secured to your hip.
“Don’t shoot.” Comes that recognizably slithering voice from the darkness. His palms are raised as he steps forward, illuminated by the dingy and flickering lights overhead. “It’s me.”
“For kriff’s sake! I thought you were here to rob me!” You exclaim, slamming the heavy metal door to the safe and punching in the numerical combination, anxious and agitated. “What do you want?”
“I shouldn't have lashed out at you earlier. I came to apologize.”
“Ah, don’t worry about it. I’ve had far worse things than credits thrown at me in this line of work. But still,” You reason with him, taking out his chips with the intent to return them. “I should be the one apologizing. I didn’t have a right to speak to a customer that way. And a serviceman at that. From here on out, consider all our services free of charge.”
“Being a veteran means nothing if we’re both living off scraps.” Crosshair places a finger pad on each of the medallions, pushing them back to your side of the counter.
“You really have some harsh feelings towards the war, don’t you?” You study his expressions while sealing this spare change into a smaller pouch that you keep for your personal tips.
“Doesn’t everybody?” His stance on such matters is very set in stone, meanwhile you view yourself infinitely too small to be even referred to as a nameless spectator in these constant battles.
“I don’t know. I suppose I’ve always felt powerless and overlooked no matter who was in power. Empire isn’t so different from the Republic if you’re living in the Outer Rim.” From what you can gather, there’s more on this trooper’s mind than he’s leading you to believe. He came back to your parlor, not for a drink, but possibly for some company; a person to listen to him. “By the way, what should I call you?”
He thinks for a long while in silence. You don’t urge him to hasten a reply or surmise he would be thinking of a fake name to tell you. It seems as if he is debating whether or not to share it at all. “It’s...Crosshair.”
“Well, Crosshair. It’s nice to officially meet you. Now wait. Let me guess.” You tap your chin with a finger in playfully sarcastic thought. “You were a sharpshooter, weren’t you?”
“The tattoo gave it away, didn’t it?” He lets himself feel the momentary glee of your jokes, trying to combat his frown through a smile.
“That. Your name. And your aim.”
“My aim?” He questions and you witness the moment he is completely pulled into this serendipitous engagement.
“Your credits dropped right into my apron pocket when you threw them at me. I know I should have been offended in that moment, but I was rather impressed.”
“Oh... Sorry about that.” He deflates once more, and you reach for his arm across the bar. He flinches away from your touch but you’re much faster than he was prepared for. You see his throat muscles flex in a nervous gulp when the tension sets in, being so close to you.
“I thought I already told you not to tell me sorry.” You smirk, soaking up every moment that he isn’t stone-cold quiet or brazenly angry. “I didn’t anticipate that what I said could have rubbed you the wrong way.”
“It wasn’t necessarily what you said. It was how you said it. As if I, a single person, could have had the power to turn the tide of the war from where I rested amongst my ranks.” The weight of his eyes drags heavily up to you before he limply drops his gaze to the floor, unable to hold it up any longer. “There’s so much you don’t know about what really happened back then. No one knows.”
“Seems like you’re dying to tell someone.” You raise a hand and gesture to the establishment as a whole. “Now’s the perfect time. It’s just you, me and the floorboards.”
Given the liberating occasion, Crosshair runs through the most impactful occurrences in his life not knowing where to even start. Unfortunately, his inner afflictions decide for him, and things pick up exactly where they left off before your softened presence pulled him from the cognitive miseries. He falls still and emotionless. The catchlights in his eyes go dim, lifeless and you can tell he’s been sent somewhere else.
Crosshair struggles to hold his rifle steady when the pangs of fractured ribs and split, scorched skin leave him envious of the mutineer he has in his sights. He lies there at Crosshair’s mercy, jaw tremoring with an estuary of bloodshed flowing from his lips with other various breaks and bruises littered throughout his brittle body. Crosshair has executed these tactics relatively upon instinct, but with every life he takes, he’s killing a part of himself off. Each discarded fragment, a hand carved puzzle piece with scratching splinters that represent a disarray of disintegrated senses until the time nor place or even the setting makes sense anymore. These triggers mark an irreversible undoing that harasses him with the guilt of not being able to alter his actions sooner. He was caught like a prized fish from an expansive school; pricked, prodded and enhanced just to be thrown back to the cruel wilds.
Crosshair succumbs into the comfortable imprint of the firearm digging into his hands as he holds it in a death grip. His left eye drifts closed, and he fulfills his mission as well as this man’s dying wish. The agonal breaths have ceased in tandem with the groaning croaks. That dreaded, cursed silence is what he was callously trying to prevent. There’s no justification for anyone’s nightmare to be put on the same pedestal as an act of valor, but if he could hold off from having to listen to the legion of screams in his head for just another second, he was intent on milking every single one.
Crosshair comes-to with you forcibly straddling his waist to aid in pinning both arms to the floor. You feel his rigid muscles flex over his slender frame beneath you when he starts to panic, frightened by this precarious position on the dusty ground. “It’s okay! Look! It’s just me!”
He lurches his hips upward and you’re swiftly bucked off. Luckily, he moves you closer to his discarded blaster and you’re able to take his as well as yours in each hand, pointing them directly at him. “Stop! Don’t move!”
“What... what happened? Did I hurt you?” Crosshair’s downtrodden head slumps into his palm as he scans the disheveled area of broken glass, spilled spirits and a singular pillar of smoke wafting from an Imperial recruitment poster. The scored blast is marked directly at the center of the graphic’s forehead, eliminating the two-dimensional figure. His disposition is no longer that of a highly trained military asset, shifting to timid and almost submissive. In this moment, he finds that he can only choke on his desire to feel more humanity than the hate, rage and shame he cannot escape from, perilously entangled with the programmed inclination to kill.
“You don’t remember? Any of that?” He does a minor shake of his head in disagreement, and you lower the blasters at his compliance but keep them on your person and out of his reach as a precaution. “You... you shot at me. I asked you to tell me what was bothering you but it’s like you were absent from reality. I’m sorry...I had to-”
“Don’t.” He holds up a hand to cut you off, unsteadily traversing in a fragile gait to a plush booth against the wall to rest his bones in. You’re given time to acclimate to this drastic switch, but you still tread lightly upon approach. “I’ve heard enough.”
“You clearly shouldn’t be left alone.” You add, taking a couple steps forward.
“I don’t need you to speak to me like that. I am not an infant.” It’s becoming ever more obvious why he isolates himself. Sure, having people around is an innate creature comfort, but not a very viable one if he has the capacity to kill them too.
“No.” You ease into a seat at the booth with him. “But you are hurting. More than anyone I’ve ever met. I can only imagine how terrifying that is from your perspective.”
“It always passes.” He mutters, dismissing your empathy.
“Yeah but, how long until you have another episode, and no one is there to stop you from hurting yourself or other people?” He doesn’t say anything when you raise this crucial inquiry. The space in the room causes the last words you said to indiscernibly echo back into his disconnected self. It’s a constant losing fight, trying to rescind his consciousness. He would give anything to borrow some indifference to rupture his connection with everything.
Crosshair retracts his elbows from where they sit on the table, taking his hands away from his face so that he can transition to a more closed-off, defensive posture. He’s lost the will to speak, and you do what you can to let him know he doesn’t have to do this alone. “Look, I can tell you loathe being waited on. I get it. I like my independence too. But have you got any place to stay? People you can call?”
Memories of his previous squad rush to the forefront in waves, thrashing him against the shore of his ethos only to leave him crumbled in its wake. He, like countless others, fell victim to a collective mistake that he thought he would have a chance to change. But the only reward he was granted is promises shattered into irreparable bits. He’s humiliated by your hospitality but shakes his head in a very clear ‘no’ as a response. “Right then. Come with me.”
Crosshair lets out a raspy grumble but does not deny your willingness to comfort him. You guide him upstairs to the cozy loft that takes up the entire upper floor of the bar. The lights are low with only the cool blue hue of the holo projector suspended to the ceiling to light your path. Upon entry, it’s like Crosshair has been teleported to a place of everlasting tranquility. Burning incense cuts through the cigarra smoke that wafts from below, and the soft upholstery across all your furniture is a stark difference from stiff barstools and dining chairs. After offering him a place on your loveseat, you walk to the kitchenette with the intent of making a couple beverages, filling a pot with water to place on the heating element. “Caf or tea?”
“Pardon?” Crosshair sits straighter when you address him, poised and polite but you can tell he’s trying desperately not to impose. You raise one hand with a pouch of grounds and another full of leaves. “Uhm, the first one.”
Once the water is boiled, you pour half into each mug and bring both to the end table beside the loveseat, taking your place next to him. “Before you say anything, I want you to know that you can stay here as long as you like. You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to, but I’ll always be here if you ever change your mind.”
But that’s just it. Crosshair chronically aches to reveal this part of himself, but that freedom is suddenly taken away by the toxicity of sulfur on his breath and the burden of stones in his chest. The fury he holds towards the Empire arrived far too late when reason has already been dislocated, given way to infamous forfeit. He wakes up every morning hating the person he’s become, and it leads him to bend to the yearning of being close to just one person.
Being here with you, it shows him that you’ve more depth to give than mere warm belief and vacant pleasantries. It’s going to be a long, demanding journey to find a healthier mode of coping, but your presence alone is enough to convince Crosshair to try.
“Thank you.” He starts, fumbling through the many things he wishes to say. “It’s been a while since it felt like anyone believed in me.” His jaw quivers and you gather notes of disgust in his expression for telling you something he deems so pathetic. The holo’s glow shines on his skin, casting him in a gloomy aura. You can’t fathom being subjected to this nightly casualty of decreasing self-worth. As each moment passes, your heart breaks for Crosshair. Without consideration that it would be an overstep on your part, you wrap him up in a spontaneous embrace with both your arms enclosed around his neck. There’s that rigidness again. He trembles at this startling human connection but soon capitulates to the safety of your hold. The longer you maintain this engagement, Crosshair’s shakiness seamlessly reveals itself as an unfurling release of bottled vexes.
“Oh, you poor thing.” That particularly spirit-breaking revelation overrides your ability to suppress a sympathy cry. Crosshair hides himself in your neck and chest but the dampness of his tears soaking your skin exhibits everything that which he has denied himself all this time. He’s had ample solitude to hate himself, but not a second of that was reserved for grieving. Until now.
You hold him for as long as necessary. The drinks you made have gone cold, but you couldn’t care less. His stifled, defeated sobs slowly calm to idle sniffles until he finally is able to breathe easily again. His face is swollen and salted, same as yours, and words will never be able to express the profound bonding moment you just shared.
In a flash, he pulls himself away from you. His eyes rapidly blink, soothing their strain as he wipes his face clean with one of his tattered sleeves. He clears his throat and goes for his mug of caf. Unphased by the temperature, Crosshair swallows the swill and doesn’t even comment on its stale flavor. “Do you want a fresh one? Lukewarm caf doesn’t exactly taste good.”
“Nothing tastes worse than military rations, I can promise you that.” He appreciates your change of subject, indebted to you for this cordial confidentiality. The fact that you don’t linger on his mood or pressure him to speak when he’s not ready is more than he thinks he’s worthy of.
“Why don’t you tell me some of the oddest thing’s you’ve ever eaten on deployment?” Distractions do the trick to lure Crosshair away from the darker parts of his mind.
“Oh, no. I don’t think you want to hear about the time one of my squad mates cut off the stinger of a Yalbec Queen to be consumed. Apparently, it’s a delicacy on some planets? I didn’t care to partake.” He shudders at the thought of anyone cooking up and chowing down on a nasty, poisonous portion of thorax.
“No, you have to tell me that story!” Yor excitement entices Crosshair to tell you about the occurrence in thorough, riveting detail. One of these great stories leads to another. Then another. He keeps you hanging onto the edge of your seat with every one of these tales of great escapes, close shaves and suicide missions far into the night until the morning comes.
so if Rex is marked as K.I.A in the Imperial Files, and Cody saw that, after he went "AWOL" and was possibly exectuted, doesn't that kinda give a vibe that Cody thought to find Rex again? yk like after death?
Set immediately after season 2, so spoilers if you're not caught up. Got in my feelings about how the batch would handle their situation and this happened. Enjoy my angst! Echo cops most of it because I love putting my favourites through the most pain.
Words: 1803
There is a type of silence that feels tangible. A type of silence that seems to live and breathe and think. A type of silence like a creature lurking, a predator. Unseen, though its presence grates keenly on your senses and drives you back, caging you in until even the tempered rise and fall of your chest is an unwelcome intrusion. A thin, ragged breath is driven from Hunter’s lungs. His heart pounds in his throat, like the frenzied hoofbeats of a wounded animal. His fists clench, fighting in vain against the tide that drags his mind back to the hell they’d just clawed out of.
Desperately, he digs beneath the silence, enhanced senses searching for ground, for the blanketing whir of the engines or the dull hum of hyperspace to keep him in his body. Instead, he hears Wrecker a dozen feet away, sitting on the ledge of the tailgun pit, his breath leaving him in short bursts that he tries to disguise. Unbidden, Hunter’s chest seizes, forcing his eyes away from his brother’s pained expression. Too long ago had their fury burnt out and left them with only the ashes of their grief. And yet, when Hunter turns his senses to the front of the Marauder, he alights on Echo’s heartbeat: steady, slow, rhythmic as marching drums. No trace of pain lingers in his expression – his brow is set but uncreased, his jaw square but slack. Hunter’s upper lip twitches. Among the ashes, an ember sparks to life.
It had been this way since that first moment. Since the worst had happened. Fleeing like beaten strays, hey had returned to Ord Mantell and touched down at Cid’s with broken bones the least of their pains. It shamed him to admit it, but Hunter had almost been relieved that he had Omega’s condition to focus on, to keep his mind away from where it kept trying to stray. From the look on Tech’s face as he vanished beneath the clouds. He stayed by Omega’s bedside, despairing in her every exhale, cursing himself and all he had done to lead his squad here, before she inhaled again and started the cycle anew. Wrecker was listless, aimless, his limbs seeming for once as heavy and cumbersome to him as they did to everyone else. He had been slumped over the bar when Hunter had left him, staring into the stained benchtop like it would give him an answer.
And Echo. Echo, who had stayed on the ship to review holomaps and plot possible flightpaths. Echo, who had come to Hunter with a list of questions about their next destination, about supplies and inventory. Echo who had passed out rations, splitting Tech and Omega’s shares among the three of them without so much as a sigh. As if their entire world hadn’t just ground to a screeching, violent halt. As if ration bars and blaster repair had any meaning at all anymore. It was absurd. Unthinkable. Hunter could scarcely make sense of what Echo was doing, couldn’t even gather the sense to feel anger at his apathy. Instead, when Echo had offered the rations, Hunter had merely stared his brother down, his face clearly betraying his dismay, and searched Echo for any sign of acknowledgement of what had happened. When Echo’s expression showed only confusion at a lack of answer, Hunter had pushed silently past Echo, leaving him on the ship to run routine maintenance like this was any other day.
Hunter had not felt his confoundedness give way to anger until after the next catastrophe. Until now, with Omega long gone, torn straight from their very hands. Hunter can barely stand to keep breathing, and still Echo sits before him, tapping away at a datapad, eyes moving in deliberate, unhurried arcs across the screens.
“There’s an outpost not far from here we can stop at to resupply,” he says, and the emptiness of his voice enrages Hunter. There’s nothing there. No pain, no crushing weight of guilt or horror, no sign that Echo is, like Wrecker and himself, standing with his toes over a precipice and leaning forward. His statement goes unanswered, and Echo does not even waver at this.
Hunter finally snaps when Echo makes his way to Tech’s shelf, leans down, and digs into Tech’s pouch to fish out a handful of credits.
“The hell are you doing?” he says, his voice a low, warning growl. Echo straightens.
“We need plast to patch up our armour and bacta for the wounds,” he replies, and his voice is so kriffing sensible that Hunter wants to scream. “Won’t be cheap. We need all the credits we can get.”
“So you go rifling through your dead brother’s bags to get them?”
This, finally, gives Echo pause. He draws his chin up, tightens his jaw. A crease has appeared at his brow.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You know damn well what it means,” Hunter snarls. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Echo studies Hunter’s face for a long, lingering moment. The longer his brother’s eyes search him, the more Hunter feels the impulse to do something he’ll regret. He feels raw, volatile. A fire starved for fuel.
“We need to stay focused,” Echo says finally. “We have a mission to complete.” As infuriating as Echo’s eyes had been on him, it’s worse when Echo looks away and turns his attention back to the console. Hunter lets the flames consume him, anger searing away the pain like a cauterised wound.
“Doesn’t seem like you care a whole lot either way,” he hears himself say, and Echo’s head snaps up like he’s just been shot at. He stands.
“Is there a problem, Hunter?”
“You tell me, Echo. Sure seems like you’re not having a single problem here.”
Silence senses its opening and begins once again to stalk the two of them, but before it can sink its teeth in it is disturbed by a soft, pained groan from across the cockpit. Hunter is taken aback by the sight: Wrecker looks small.
“Don’t,” he pleads. Through the barricade of Wrecker’s arms, Hunter can just barely see Wrecker worrying Lula’s ear between his fingers. “No fighting. Not now. We can’t.”
Echo’s sigh is heavy, his eyes falling momentarily shut.
“I know this is hard. But we need to stay on our feet here. We can’t afford to slow down.”
“Do you hear yourself?! Can’t afford to slow down?! We just lost a brother and let the karking Empire take Omega, and you’re talking about staying on our feet?!” Hunter can’t tell if the tremble in his voice sounds as clear as it feels, whether it’s the grief or the anger that wins. Either way, he has edged over the precipice and plunged into freefall, no other way out now than to go down, down, down.
“Hunter, I know how much it hurts. Really, I—”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he spits, the words venomous, weaponised. “From where I’m sitting, you’re doing a pretty lousy job of pretending to care.”
If Hunter had been anywhere close to his own mind, he would have regretted the words as soon as they’d spilled from his lips. But they had burst forth from him as though he were only a bystander. In fact, he scarcely felt he was in control of his own limbs, until Echo’s next words brought him plummeting back down into his body with a weight like solid stone.
“Do you know how many times I’ve been through this?” he utters.
His voice is soft, suddenly coreless, like the first dregs of a gathering fog. It’s enough of a shock to strike Hunter dumb. Echo continues nonetheless.
“You’ve never lost one of your own before. Not like this. Not like how we lost Tech.” The name is a hail of shrapnel in Hunter’s chest. His ears prick: Echo’s breath shudders when he inhales. “But I have.”
The words hang thick in the air, demanding silence in their wake. Hunter has not thought much of Echo’s time with the other regs. Has never really thought of Echo as a reg at all. The reality comes to him all at once, discordant and unwelcome, like a dozen different songs played over each other. He clenches his jaw and forces himself to meet his Echo’s piercing gaze.
“Do you have any idea how many brothers I’ve seen die?” he breathes. He does not look away. Does not even blink. “Do you have any idea how many I didn’t get to see die?”
There is nothing beneath the silence now. When Hunter searches for it, the whir of the engine is not there, and the dull hum of hyperspace has faded away to nothing. Not even the sound of his own breathing reaches him.
“Every time,” Echo quavers, his resolve at long last beginning to crack, “Every time I stepped off a battlefield, there was another handful of brothers I’d already said my last words to. Sometimes weeks ago.” Echo’s eyes shine, his lip trembling with a memory he does not give voice to. “Sometimes years.”
“Echo, I—”
“You think it doesn’t hurt for me that Tech’s gone? That we lost Omega? Of course it kriffing hurts. Of course I feel it. How could I not? That pain… it’s the most familiar feeling I have.”
It’s too much. Hunter falters, breaks his eyes from Echo’s. His gaze falls, landing on his brother’s shaking hand instead. Echo continues. “We’re soldiers. We lay down our lives for what we believe in. And I, for one, respect Tech’s sacrifice too much to waste it by letting the pain get the better of me.”
There’s a type of guilt that has claws. A type of guilt that shreds you from the inside out and leaves you hollow and weightless. A type of guilt that burrows into your memories and tears holes in your past, letting light shine through from the present to show you every ignorant thought and deed in bright, garish light. Hunter tries to speak, but words are beyond him, his mouth hanging useless and ajar. It’s Wrecker who breaks the cold war between them. He stands, plods softly over to Echo. Lula still held tightly in one hand, the other laid gentle but firm on Echo’s shoulder.
“I got a few credits to spare for bacta,” he says. Echo regards him for a long moment, then lays his own hand atop Wrecker’s. The quiet vulnerability in the look they share is what draws Hunter to his feet. There are a thousand words he wants to say. That he would say, if he thought any of it would be worth more than the quiet nod he shares with his brother as he approaches the console.
Was going through some old WIPs on my laptop and came across a Cadet Tech whump one I had started.... Dude... Like, I can't decide if it's really gut wrenching or too much. There's torture, comfort, more pain.... I can't decide if I should post it or not. 👀
TW: Descriptions of Violence, Blood and Injury (please tell me if you find anything else)
Summary: Attempting to hide an injury never ends well.
AN: This is my first bit of writing posted on Tumblr. This was written in the span of 2 hours, so its not great. Enjoy the peace offering!
You knew the moment you'd been shot. The hot bolt grazed your side leaving what felt like fire in its wake, making you hiss involuntarily. Your face contorted in pain and you tried to blink away the tears in your eyes. You quickly regained your stance and shot off a bolt towards the lone trooper, hitting him in the groin where the armor didn't cover, and knocking him down.
"Are you alright?" Wrecker had turned to you, searching for any sign of injury, but your balaclava hid the residue of pain on your face.
"Yeah. Fine. Let's just get out of here." You panted out. You had to be strong. Strong enough to complete the mission. What would the Batch think of you if you couldn't handle this? Maybe they would drop you at some random planet and forget about you. What are you worth if you can't pull your own?
You and Wrecker run through the maze of halls. Well, Wrecker was jogging and you were closer to limping. Every labored breath and step felt like knives ripping into your side, burning and stabbing. You gently touch your side and your hand comes away sticky. Great.
Almost there. Almost there. You told yourself.
"We're heading to the roof now," Wrecker spoke into his com beside you. You heard a muffled response. The escalating ringing in your ears drowning out anything else. If you got to the ship you could rest. Luckily the elevator ride to the roof of the secret empire base was quick with no interference from the resident troopers.
The metal doors slid open and you thanked the maker that everyone else was already on the ship ready to go; you wouldn't have to wait around. Jogging into the Marauder was one of the hardest things you have ever had to do. Your limbs were sluggish and seemingly unwilling to cooperate. The hatch hissed closed as you walked to the cockpit.
Tech and Hunter were seated in the pilot and copilot seats, respectively. Echo sat behind Tech, and Crosshair behind Hunter.
"Thanks for the diversion. Thanks to you two we were able to download the files." Hunter said, looking over his shoulder at you and Wrecker. As the ship took off you became dizzier, making it even harder to focus on what was happening around you. Your surroundings began to blur, fading into streaks of color.
You felt too hot, so you pulled off the black mask in an attempt to cool yourself. The knit garment pulled against your hair, making it stick up awkwardly when you got it off. You didn't have the energy to reach up and smooth it back down.
"Kiddo. (Y/N)? Can you hear me?" Echo's voice and metal hand tapping your shoulder dragged you out of your haze.
"Huh?" You whipped your head around, much too fast for your static mind to keep up with.
"I asked if you wanted to sit down. You don't look very good." His voice faded in and out like a long distance com.
Your eyes began to droop. "I'm…f-fine." You slur. Suddenly blackness takes over your vision.
○°○°○°○
All but Crosshair just watched as you crumple to the floor of the cockpit. His fast reflexes help him catch your head. "Kriff! Ad'ika?" He calls, gently shaking your body. Everyone hurriedly crowds your limp form.
"Oh god…" Echo murmured. The previously unseen blaster wound began to bleed heavily through your dark colored clothes, leaving you in a pool of your own blood.
"They're bleeding! Tech, get the med kit!" Hunter ordered, lifting you into his arms. He rushed farther into the ship to a metal table designated for the injured. However it was currently blanketed by bits and bobs of Tech's. "Wrecker, can you clear this off? Wrecker?"
The look of guilt on Wrecker's face was gut wrenching. Unlike his normal self, he looked towards the floor, shoulders hunched and curled in. He had been the one with you after all.
Realizing Wrecker's state, Hunter called for Crosshair. Once cleared, Hunter set you down on the table just as Tech came in with the med kit.
"I need to remove their shirt so I can get a better look at what we're dealing with." Tech said to no one in particular. He pulled on a pair of sterile gloves before making quick work of your top with a pair of scissors. Once pulled away, Tech spotted your injury. "If I can stop the bleeding they should recover. The blaster bolt just grazed their side, but they've lost a lot of blood." He began sopping up your blood with gauze, every white pad rapidly darkening to crimson.
Hunter stood on the opposite side from Tech, clinging to your hand as if when he let go you would disappear. While they focused on you, Wrecker spoke.
"They said they were fine. I know when this would have happened, but I thought they were fine." He whimpered quietly.
"It's not your fault. If they said–" Echo began, his flesh hand on Wrecker's shoulder.
"Like hell it's not his fault!" Crosshair interrupted. "If you had been paying more attention to them they wouldn't have lost this much blood! If you had been paying attention to your surroundings they might not have been shot at all!" Wrecker's imposing frame became impossibly smaller.
"Crosshair! Enough. This could have happened if they were with any one of us. It was an accident. (Y/N) will be alright," Hunter snapped.
Crosshair quieted, moving away from the others but still able to see his vod'ika lying limp on the table. He didn't really mean it. He knew it wasn't Wrecker's fault. He was just scared, maybe more than he had ever been. You're his kid. Sometimes he feels like your buir more than your vod. His chest physically hurts with worry, as if feeling your pain.
"Okay, I cleaned this out the best I could. I'm going to apply bacta, and then bandage them up." Tech said, interrupting the silence. He quickly applied the viscous liquid and covered it in a large bandage. He then removed his gloves with a snap, discarding them. Tech reached into a drawer, grabbing a clear vial.
"Oh, Kiddo, he's giving you the good stuff." Hunter muttered amusedly.
"I'd prefer they have it than we just save it for a rainy day." Tech replied. There were mutters and hums of unanimous agreement.
○°○°○°○
You woke up leaning on someone. Their even breaths and heartbeat soothing you. Their coarse blacks rubbed against your cheek. A scent that reminded you of the rain on Kamino filled your nose. Their hand however was touching your mutilated side and caused you pain.
"Cross, move your hand." You mumbled, voice scratchy with disuse.
"Sorry, sorry." He moved his hand away from your wound, but then hugged you tightly. "(Y/N). I was so worried, ad'ika," He whispered. "But you're okay. It'll all be okay." You weren't sure if he was comforting you or himself. He continued to hold you, even as Hunter walked in.
"Hey (Y/N). How're you holdin' up?" He asked quietly.
"I'm okay. It doesn't hurt too bad. Just when 'Mr Clingy' here pushes on it."
Hunter chuckled, "We were all worried about you, Kiddo. You gave us quite the scare."
"I'm sorry," you said sheepishly, hiding your face in Cross' neck.
"Why didn't you say anything?" It was Crosshair's turn to speak. The rumble in his chest as he said it oddly comforting.
"I'm really sorry…I just didn't want to be a burden." You spoke the last bit quietly.
"Look at me. Hey. Look at me." Crosshair commanded, pulling away to look into your eyes. "You will never, ever, be a burden."
"You're one of us, (Y/N)." Echo added from the doorway. "A Bad Batcher." A small smile stretched across your lips.
You waited a moment before asking. "Can I go see Wrecker and Tech?"
"Yeah."
"No."
You turned your head back to Crosshair. "What, why not?"
"Because you are injured and they are not. They can come to you." He nodded to Echo over your head, and you heard him leave the room, only to come back a moment later with the other two men in tow.
"Heya, tiny!" Wrecker exclaimed with a wide smile, striding over to give you a bone crushing hug. But before he could do that Cross pulled you slightly away from him.
"They're injured, Wrecker."
"Oh yeah, sorry. Got a bit ahead of myself." Wrecker stepped back as his face dropped slightly.
You pushed Crosshair's arms away in an attempt to stand up. "C'mon Cross, it's five steps." He sighed and released you, assisting you to a standing position.
"Be careful (Y/N), it's gonna be a while before you can go back to your normal activity levels." Tech points out. You roll your eyes and move toward Wrecker, bringing him into a hug. You couldn't see with your face buried in his chest, but his bright smile returned with his gentle hold on you.
"I'm sorry kid. I should have seen that you were hurt. In fact I should have seen that trooper before he could get a shot off."
"It wasn't your fault. Especially since I said I was fine." You look pointedly at Crosshair, not knowing how he acted or what he said while you were unconscious, but knowing him well enough that it was something. "I promise I won't lie about being hurt again." You swear to everyone in the room.
"I'm sorry, Wrecker, I shouldn't have yelled at you." Cross says. A hum comes from Wrecker and then a moment of silence, before; "Alright, alright. Everyone out. (Y/N) needs their rest!"
As much as they have their flaws, these are your Bad Batchers.
