#topshot squad

[cross-my-heartt]

Just thinking about all the clones who had their own family suddenly turn on them because their chip didn't activate (or did in Crosshair's case).

The clone on the left is my oc Ghost but he can represent any other clone in that position.

Because we saw it happen with Howzer and it makes you wonder. How many clones were arrested by their own brothers, held at gunpoint by someone they trusted with their lives without any apparent reason as to why?

Idk, just something to think about if you want to make yourself sad.

[cross-my-heartt]

anyone missing the Topshot squad? well, here they are as kitters 😂

Crosshair is an oriental shorthair and no one can convince me otherwise. I may do the rest of the batch as well, I'm definitely considering it

[cross-my-heartt]

Topshot squad in modern clothing

found some cool refs and decided to play around with them! I've always wanted to draw the boys in drip modern clothing

characters from top left to bottom right: Bundler, Reckie, Stiff, Crosshair and Ghost

[cross-my-heartt]

More like the regs

Four times Crosshair was annoyed by his squad’s habits and one time he realized what they meant for him.

Never thought editing 1k words would give me so much grief but that's writer's block for you. Anyways, hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!

Part 1 here

___

Part 2

A well-maintained weapon was a soldier’s lifeblood.

That creed was one of the few things Crosshair stood by fiercely and one area where he never compromised. Blasters were easy to underestimate but they were actually finicky things. Dangerous to the user if not treated properly.

There was also armor but Crosshair’s expertise lied in blasters and that’s where he could safely say he’d honed his maintenance skills to perfection.

His batch hadn’t been too abysmal in that regard. Hunter took good care of his knives and while Wrecker’s armor always looked like it’d just gone through hell, one could let it slide knowing his fighting style.

Tech on the other hand…

It was difficult to aim a blaster holster but Crosshair was determined as he chucked the thing across the ship, feeling a twinge of satisfaction as it connected with Tech’s head. It’s what he deserved, Crosshair thought savagely, storming into the cockpit.

Tech was rubbing the sore spot when he did, a slight crease between his eyebrows. He looked up at Crosshair and opened his mouth to say something but Crosshair cut him off as he shoved the blaster in his face.

“What the hell is this?”

Tech stared at the proffered object.

“I believe I’m overqualified for the question,” he said after a while, “but if you must know, it’s my blaster.”

“No, it’s a piece of junk.” Crosshair spat. He pulled the weapon back so Tech could see it properly. “Because you treat it as one. Does this look clean to you?”

The answer was redundant. He’d seen how fast Tech had parked his ass in front of the console once they’d returned from their mission and it was infuriating. The nerd insisted on being a dual wielder yet he would only do the bare minimum to maintain his weapons as there was always something else vying for his attention.

That habit was going to get him killed one day. And if not, Crosshair would kill him before that. He stepped closer to the pilot’s chair, pitching his voice to a patronizing hiss.

“You get to do your little tinkering,” He pointed at the console. “after you maintain your weapons.”

Tech’s nose scrunched and he stared down it at Crosshair.

“Says who?”

“Says the person who has to clean them now!” Crosshair snapped and barely refrained from smacking his brother. Tech rolled his eyes.

“Well if you are going to clean them anyway,” he said and turned back to the controls. “I don’t see why I should bother.”

Crosshair bristled at the memory. At times he had to wonder if the Kamioans hadn’t had to condense Tech’s brain to make it fit inside a skull that thick.

His new squad were an improvement at least. It was a reg thing – unlike his batch they’d been subject to routine inspections and while they still weren’t as meticulous as him, the urge to pass an inspection was ingrained and they were willing to learn, he decided as he walked down the line examining each man in turn.

The four Topshot members stood still, backs straight at attention, and there was a blaster in Crosshair’s palm as soon as he reached the end of the line and held his hand out.

He took a good look at the weapon before handing it back to Stiff.

“Clear.”

“Thank you, sir.” Stiff nodded and broke off to return to the cockpit. Then came Bundler and though reluctant, Crosshair had to admit the kid knew what he was doing.

He turned the blaster over in his hands, checking all the nooks and crannies that could hide signs of a slipshod job.

“Hmm. Good.”

As if sensing the begrudging compliment, Bundler broke into a shit-eating grin and Crosshair had to send him off with a kick for good measure. Ghost was next and Crosshair could only hum in approval. Nothing new there.

Which only left Reckie.

“It’s fine.” He held out the DC.

The kid gave him a curious look. “Can it be better?”

“It can always be better,” he said and waited for the other to take his blaster. When that didn’t happen, he was prompted to looked up and meet Reckie’s gaze and the anticipation there finally made him realize what was this was all about.

It gave him pause. But he suppressed a sigh and gave in anyway.

Pulling a crate towards himself, he gestured for the kid to come closer which the other promptly did, leaning over his shoulder and watching as he sat down and began to disassemble the weapon.

It didn’t take long for muscle memory to take over –  he didn’t clean hand blasters as often as he did his Firepuncher but the process was similar enough.

At some point the kid’s weight rested on his back and he started to hum. Crosshair didn’t feel the need to stop him. This was a watch and learn demonstration, as long as the kid was paying attention this wasn’t going to be a waste of time.

Finally, the parts of the blaster came together again and he turned around to return it.

Only to falter when he saw the sheer joy on the kid’s face.

“Thank you, sir!” Reckie beamed, taking the blaster from him and shooting him a look that made Crosshair squirm. He then holstered the weapon and headed back in the direction of the cockpit while humming another tune.

Crosshair blinked after him. Then blinked some more.

Well, lo and behold, he’d been had. Somehow the kid had gotten him to indulge and tolerate him for more than ten minutes. And it’d gone under his radar too – he was so used to the regs being fussy with their equipment that he hadn’t thought a thing of it.

There was a noise from behind and Ghost shuffled up to him, a storage box nestled in his arms. “Someone looked happy back there.” He smiled after the shiny.

Crosshair felt his nose scrunch. He scoffed and moved to put away his cleaning supplies.

“Brat. He’s using cleanup jobs to manipulate me.”

“He’s using cleanup jobs to get close to his sergeant,” Ghost corrected. “I think it’s sweet. And clever.”

“You think a lot of things are sweet.”

Ghost’s kick caught him in the shin.

“Your attitude not among them,” the medic said and then he was moving away to put whatever supplies he was lugging around in their place. Crosshair watched him go, thoughtful.

Reckie was a menace on the best of days – loud and excitable, the kind of reg that got on Crosshair’s nerves without even trying. He was also unusually concerned with what Crosshair thought of him which, given how clingy the kid already was, only made matters worse.

And yet this was the longest time he’d gone without snapping at the kid or shooing him off.

The scowl crept back onto Crosshair’s face. He felt cheated somehow though he couldn’t say why. All he could say was that these regs were wilier than he gave them credit for and he wasn’t sure if he meant that in a bad way.

Which was a frightening thought in and of itself.

___

taglist: @twinkofthedink @fangirl-goes-nova

[cross-my-heartt]

More like the regs

Four times Crosshair was annoyed by his squad’s habits and one time he realized what they meant for him.

This is part of my Topshot AU that I'm posting to get a boost of motivation. I've been low on it lately, not for this AU specifically, just in general. Hope you enjoy!

___

Part 1

Crosshair squinted and turned his head to the side as he leaned towards the mirror.

The jagged lines of his burn scar looked the same but at least he’d managed to make the transition from scar to hair look more natural.

The look was… satisfactory. He’d gotten used to it although it wasn’t quite the same as the cut he’d favored during the war. Back then he hadn’t kept the sides so short. He supposed he should consider himself lucky as the burn marks didn’t cover the top of his head where he could still let some of his hair grow out.

Which certainly felt better than a smooth scalp, he decided as he ran his hand through it.

Just then something caught his eye and he turned to see a flash of green in the corridor outside. Bundler stopped to stare back at him.

“You done with that?” he asked as he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. Crosshair glanced at the small vibroblade in his hand.

“No,” he said just to spite the other and spent the next five minutes pretending to trim more of his sides while not actually cutting anything.

A flash of annoyance crossed Bundler’s usually passive face and Crosshair decided he deserved it after pacing outside for more than ten minutes and annoying Crosshair first. Well, first come first served as they said. They’d only been on the ship for an hour after a long and tedious stakeout job and they’d all taken a turn in the fresher but Crosshair was the first to dash back to try and tame the sad mess that was his hair, using the one and only blade they had for the purpose.

In reality, it was something of a hassle to have only one knife on board. Crosshair certainly wasn’t used to it as it’d never been a problem on the Marauder…

Crosshair marched into the cockpit where he zeroed in on Hunter fiddling with his vambrace.

“I need a knife,” he said unceremoniously, toothpick jerking up and down as he wriggled it between his teeth. Hunter looked up from what he was doing. He seemed to contemplate asking Crosshair what he needed a knife for but didn’t. He never did.

And wasn’t that a sign of supreme trust.

Instead, his brother’s lips stretched into a smile and there was a twinkle in his eyes when he looked at Crosshair. “Small knife, big knife, medium-sized knife or scissors?”

The urgency in Crosshair’s manner stuttered and he stared at Hunter.

“We have scissors…?”

In response Hunter shook his head, letting his hair sway from side to side with the movement.

“This doesn’t maintain itself you know,” he said with a grin and Crosshair had to groan. His brothers were downright embarrassing sometimes.

“Whatever, just give me a knife.” He waved his hand dismissively.

Hunter’s look didn’t waver.

“A normal knife,” Crosshair hissed, “please.” His brother nodded, slapping his thighs as he got up to retrieve it.

“Medium it is then.”

The memory faded into nothingness as Crosshair turned the little blade over, watching the overhead lights reflect in sleek patterns. They looked like blaster bolts for a moment, darting about its surface.

It was far from the quality of any of Hunter’s knives and Crosshair didn’t even remember where they’d gotten it or who took care of sharpening it but they all used it regularly.

“Is this the only knife onboard?” He asked after a while, fingers busy inspecting the handle.

At the threshold, Bundler gave a shrug. “We’re not called ‘topcut’ squad, are we?”

Crosshair’s lips tugged into a grimace and Bundler’s annoyance was replaced by a smirk.

“Fucking glad I asked you…” Crosshair grumbled as he handed over the knife and watched Bundler saunter into the fresher to fix up his crew. He contemplated locking the di’kut in but decided it was too petty, even for him.

Instead he walked back to the cockpit where the rest of the squad were gathered - Reckie and Stiff engaged in some kind of argument while Ghost scrolled down his datapad. Nobody seemed to notice him so he stayed at the back and slid into one of the chairs.

They’d spent enough time in close quarters during the stakeout and while the proximity couldn’t be helped, he hoped to catch a moment of peace. And fading into the background suited that purpose. It was odd to think of a modified clone fading into the background among regs but then again his bunch weren’t exactly normal. Most of them, anyway.

His luck didn’t hold out for long as Reckie turned his head and their eyes met across the cockpit. The shiny grinned, radiant as usual, and immediately directed his attention to Crosshair.

“Fixed your hair, sir?” he asked, the word fix making Crosshair wince. His arms came up to cross over his chest and he grumbled something unintelligible when the kid perked up again.

“Hey, we almost match like that!”

Crosshair froze. His eyes snapped up but rather than just him, Reckie was looking at everyone in the cockpit. And he did have a point. With Ghost’s buzz long overdue for a trim and Stiff’s standard reg cut there wasn’t much variation to speak of. Reckie’s own clean shaved sides had grown a layer of bristles since he hadn’t had a turn with the knife yet and sitting next to Stiff the two looked more and more like the twins they behaved as.

The kid was right, Crosshair realized in a moment of abject horror, they did match. The realization made him groan as he slumped back into his seat.

“Great.” He deadpanned, “Fitting in with the regs, how lovely.”

It earned him a laugh from Reckie who had turned around to kneel on his seat, arms wrapped around the headrest. “Aw, it’s not so bad! ‘Sides, at least your hair is white.”

“Reckie,” Ghost warned, looking up from his datapad. The shiny blanched.

“Um gray, I meant gray.”

Crosshair ran a hand over his face, pointedly ignoring the way Stiff’s shoulders shook with repressed laughter. He was too tired for this. It was a stupid observation anyway - everyone knew long hair under a bucket was a disaster waiting to happen so keeping it trimmed was the only sensible way to go.

At least that’s what he told himself as he bit down on a toothpick, tuning out the conversation that picked up around him. Before long Bundler sauntered in to join them and the cockpit became near crowded.

Crosshair’s silence remained stoically resolute. He did not share the regs’ penchant for conversation and company or their sense of style if there was any. He may have come to tolerate this lot (and perhaps appreciate Ghost’s presence) but that didn’t mean he was becoming like them. In behavior or appearance.

…

And besides… Hunter’s hair had always looked stupid.

[cross-my-heartt]

More like the regs

Four times Crosshair was annoyed by his squad’s habits and one time he realized what they meant for him.

Part 2 here

___

Part 3

There was something wrong with the regs, Crosshair was sure of it.

He’d first noticed it back when it was just him and Ghost - the little medic had an eerie ability to stick to a standard day schedule, even when they were in hyperspace. There were times when a job would drag on or things would get messy and they would end up behind on hours of sleep. But even then, when both of them needed their rest the most, Ghost would sense the ship’s clock hit oh six and sit up in his bunk groggy and disoriented, as if woken up by an alarm.

The same thing happened when he stayed up late reading or sorting through supplies.

Usually Crosshair would talk or nudge him back into sleep and Ghost would comply, bleary-eyed and exhausted as he gave a nod before flopping back onto the mattress.

However that didn’t seem to be an option when you were outnumbered.

“Hey Reck, you want any caf?”

“Sure, do we have sugar?”

“I don’t know buddy. Knowing you, you should either have caf or sugar, not both.”

“Hey! That was one time-”

Crosshair groaned and pulled the pillow tighter around his ears.

Maker, he should have seen this coming. He should have seen this coming and kicked them all off his ship the moment they set foot on it. Even if they were being shot at by imperials at the time.

There was a crash and a curse as someone struggled with the caf machine.

“Is that my mug in the sink?”

“No, it’s your buir’s.”

Every morning was the same ordeal.

The ship was quiet until it suddenly wasn’t and it became impossible to keep sleeping. But it was his fault for letting things get so bad - it’s not like he didn’t have the experience to know better.

The Marauder was quiet and that’s what helped Crosshair identify the shuffling coming from below his bunk. It stopped for a moment before picking up again, like a well-measured song.

The rustle of sheets and the quiet clink of metal on metal. A frustrated sigh. Quietly, Crosshair let out a sigh of his own.

He was familiar with the signs and even though they were all exhausted after their missions there was always someone awake to catch what was about to happen, much to the poor perpetrator’s regret. They didn’t always call him out on it but they knew nonetheless.

A few more agitated rustles and there it was - the thump of heavy feet hitting the floor. Thankfully Crosshair was already in position and all he had to do was hang one of his legs out the bunk and wait for the dark to do the rest.

“Oof!”

He smirked at the feeling of something running straight into his shin.

“…Crosshair?” Echo’s voice sounded hesitantly from below.

Crosshair rocked his leg back and forth as he spoke, quietly so as not to wake the rest of his brothers.

“Going somewhere?”

There was silence again steeped in more hesitation.

“Yeah, can’t sleep. I think I’ll be getting up.” Echo said finally but Crosshair’s leg was still there when he made to stand up gain.

“What the-”

“It’s only been three hours. Go back to bed.”

The reg seemed to struggle with an answer to that and Crosshair made himself comfortable as he waited. Echo had his fair share of demons and anxieties that kept him up at night but those combined with his ungodly reg habits made for a miserable combination. One that hadn’t escaped the Batch’s notice.

There was a huff and more rustling from below.

“Even if I stay in bed I won’t be able to-”

“I thought you wanted to adapt,” Crosshair said, effectively shutting him up. “What was it again? ‘One man adapts to the team, not the other way around’?”

Echo’s unresponsiveness grew surlier the longer he failed to think of a comeback. It made Crosshair smirk to himself in the dark. It was always a pleasure to throw people’s words back at them and he was a master at this point.

“I thought Tech was the one with the good memory,” Echo grumbled after a while. Crosshair’s smirk widened.

“I’m full of surprises.”

Now that series of mutterings he was definitely not meant to hear.

It didn’t take long for Echo to tuck himself back under the sheets after that, judging by the sounds coming from below. The reg’s even breathing followed soon after and Crosshair sent a glance at the top bunk opposite his own.

Hunter’s back was turned to him but the sergeant raised a thumbs up over his shoulder in approval.

Huffing at the gesture only he could see, Crosshair settled back into his bunk and closed his eyes. These regs were a handful but he guessed it paid off to look after them sometimes.

Sometimes Crosshair thought the Kaminoans had installed actual internal clocks into the regs. It was a fun thought to entertain, even more so because he could imagine wringing the Kaminoans’ necks alongside his squad mates’. But enough was enough and Crosshair had definitely had that.

So the next morning, when he heard that telltale shift above him signaling the beginning of the end for his peace, his reaction was immediate:

“If you get out of that bunk, I swear in the name of the Maker I will deck you.” he said, not even bothering to open his eyes, and felt more than saw Reckie freeze in the bunk above. The rest of them, still in their bunks, seemed to get the message as well as the various little sounds ceased all around him.

Before long the ship was back to being as blissfully quiet as it had been a minute ago.

Crosshair took a deep breath.

Finally. Some peace.

Now he could finally catch up on all those hours of sleep that had been spoiled by reg conditioning...

Except that sleep wouldn’t come to him. He tossed and turned a couple of times, pulling the blankets up and then down and rearranging his pillow. Five and then ten minutes passed and still it eluded him. Why was it so hard to fall back asleep?? The regs were quiet but he felt more awake than ever and every passing second made it more difficult to stay in bed.

It made no sense. He had hours of rest to catch up on and he didn’t need to check to know it was ass o’clock in the morning.

And then it hit him.

Like a wet rag to the face before he’d had his caf.

It wasn’t the regs’ habits that were changing.

It was his.

He yanked the blanket off himself with a curse and sat up in his bunk. Sure enough nobody was moving about and he wasn’t dreaming – the ship was quiet save for the low rumble of engines. Swinging his feet off the bed, he got up and stormed out of the bunk area, leaving the regs to stare after him.

Shabuire! He’d been woken up too early one too many times and now his body had decided that that was the new norm, he realized as he paced around the cockpit. And it was all the regs’ fault. Irritated out of his mind, he was just about to ask himself how he’d allowed things to get this far when a tiny voice in the back of his mind piped up:

One man adapts to the team, not the other way around.

Crosshair froze and stared at the wall in front of him. His thoughts were interrupted as Reckie’s voice drifted up from the bunk area.

“Can I… can I get up now?”

The choked off snort was Stiff’s.

“I’m sure you can Reck, don’t worry.”

Groaning, Crosshair pressed his face to the cold metal.

He didn’t know how the Force worked and whether it had anything to do with karma, but he was pretty sure that somewhere out there, the universe was laughing at him.

___

I know what you're all thinking, I'm updating unusually soon but to be fair, this part was largely written out while I was working on the previous chapter. Anyways, the ending here is a bit rushed but I hope you enjoyed!

And yes, 'your buir' is the clones' version of 'ur mom'. No, I don't accept any criticism on this.

taglist: @twinkofthedink @fangirl-goes-nova

[cross-my-heartt]

Pieces Ch. 8

Crosshair doesn’t think he will ever have a family again but the galaxy has a knack for proving him wrong. And little by little the pieces fall into place.

← Previous chapter || Read on Ao3

_____

Hardly half a standard hour later, Bane’s group burst out of the hangar just as Crosshair and Ghost were clearing the ships’ ramp, allowing them to provide cover fire while the others boarded under a barrage of bolts. At first Crosshair had taken the sour look on Bane’s face to mean a dud but then he’d seen the data stick poking out of the Duros’ bloodied fist.

A success then.

It registered dully in his mind – he was used to success despite his recent string of failures with the Empire but the thought that he’d officially completed his first job as a mercenary brought a sense of finality with it. One he wasn’t sure how he felt about yet.

Once the initial euphoria of a clean escape had subsided and the ship lurched into hyperspace, the hunters went back to keeping to themselves. There was an air of contentment despite many of them looking exhausted or worse for wear but Crosshair remained tense.

He and Ghost were outsiders. He couldn’t let his guard down.

Especially now that there were real, tangible credits on the table.

In contrast, Bane, who was only a few feet away letting his droid bandage his hand, seemed completely at ease. He’d dumped the data stick in an open compartment in the pilot’s chair as soon as he’d come on board, hardly sparing it a thought despite the handful or so hunters loitering in the hallway to the cockpit.

Crosshair would have dubbed him a fool if it weren’t for the fact that not a single hunter had so much as glanced in its direction since.

“Dang it, Todo, you better know what you’re doin’!”

Crosshair turned in the direction of the curse.

“Don’t you worry mister Bane! I have done thorough research on first aid procedures, you can be sure you’re in good hands,” the droid all but fawned over its master and Crosshair resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Droids. He’d never get over his distaste for them. It didn’t help that this one insisted on being a sarcastic little shit to anyone who wasn’t Bane.

The two of them kept bickering, causing Crosshair to consider moving to another part of the ship, until the droid finally tied the bandage off and hovered a little way back.

“There! I told you I could do it.”

Bane didn’t seem the least bit inclined to agree or thank the droid as he made to stand up. Just then a voice interrupted him.

“That won’t do you any good.”

Crosshair jolted in surprise. It took him a moment but he soon confirmed that it was Ghost of all pople who had spoken. Bewildered, he shifted his eyes from Bane’s glare to the reg standing next to him.

“Like I said,” Ghost continued in the silence that had fallen over them, “It won’t do you any good like that.”

The three of them seemed to stop and stare at him for a while and it was the droid that broke the silence first, lurching forward with an angry whirr.

“And who are you to say that? I’ll have you know that I’ve downloaded several databanks detailing first aid and laceration treatment procedures. I know for a fact that this kind of dressing is perfectly adequate.”

Ghost shook his head. “Maybe for a regular patient. But not for a gunslinger.”

He raised a finger pointing at the bandage. “The edges tend to snag on whatever you’re holding if you wrap it like that. May I?”

He took a step towards Bane and Crosshair’s free hand shot to his weapon as his pulse picked up. Bane didn’t seem to notice, eyes trained on the clone who had approached him as his mouth twisted in and out of a scowl.

In the end he sat back down with a sneer.

“Go ahead.” He rasped derisively and Ghost took that as his cue to get to work. Crosshair’s nerves pulled taut. He kept his hand close to his rifle as he tried to figure out – though he couldn’t for the life of him – what had compelled Ghost to put himself in arms reach of the hunter.

Bane too didn’t seem to know what to think of it. His face kept alternating between confusion and mild suspicion right up until the medic was done rewrapping the bandage.

Ghost stood from where he was kneeling on the floor and watched Bane flex his hand a few times. The droid shoved past him to take a closer look and promptly let out a huff at Bane’s satisfied nod.

“Much obliged.” The hunter deigned to say though there was still an edge of suspicion to his voice. Ghost merely nodded before returning to stand at Crosshair’s side.

Crosshair kept stealing glances at him for the duration of their journey but Ghost didn’t give any indication of wanting to discuss what had happened.

Later, when they were back on Kaisel and had just received their share of the bounty – miraculously without any hiccups – Bane had pulled out a credit ingot and flicked it in Ghost’s direction.

“For your services,” the hunter had said, tipping his hat and turning to walk back to his ship, his droid trailing after with an angry glower.

“Well,” Crosshair had said then, raising an eyebrow. “aren’t you a charmer.”

Ghost stared at the gold bar for a second before flipping it into the air and catching it deftly.

“More like isn’t Bane a cheapskate,” he said and Crosshair found himself suppressing a grin once again.

After that they headed off to a shipyard to find some piece of junk to spend their credits on – the only thing they could afford for now – and it wasn’t long before they had a ship of their own. A cramped foul-smelling little rust bucket with four bunks and a functioning fresher and hyperdrive, not anywhere near up to respectable standards but functional nonetheless.

This was home now, Crosshair thought with resignation. Or at least it would have to be for the time being.

As they climbed up the steps to the inside of the ship, he took note of all the things that would have to be cleaned or patched up to be restored to working order. Ghost’s quiet footsteps behind him told him he was doing the same.

“Well, I’ve seen vode live in worse conditions,” the reg offered. Crosshair turned to see him nudging one of the ‘mattresses’ covering the bunks.

“Don’t touch that. We’re burning it.”

Ghost chuckled under his helmet.

After they’d completed their inspection and there was nothing else to be done, Crosshair finally took off his helmet and took his first breath of the ship’s air without it. Just as he suspected, it smelled even more vile without a filter.

But before he’d even thought of any way to remedy that, there was a sharp intake of breath behind him.

“You’re injured.” Ghost said, voice tight, and Crosshair shot him a glance before looking at a nearby metal surface where he could see a faint reflection of his face.

The side that had been showered with sparks when that blaster bolt had struck the crate above him was covered in small burn marks, some on their way to healing and others looking angry and raw. He examined them indifferently.

Some of those sparks must have been sizable globs of metal if they had left burns that big. A lucky angle must have let the bolt pass through and propel all that debris outward. Nevertheless, they would heal. And he told Ghost as much as he turned to head towards the front of the ship.

“Those may heal badly if you’ve left them under your helmet for so long.”

“I’ve had worse.”

He was just about to enter the cockpit when a hand grabbed his arm and spun him around, forcing him to look down into a pair of angry brown eyes.

“Sit. Down.”

Stunned into silence, Crosshair did just that, plopping into a seat bolted to the wall.

A knee-jerk reaction.

Kriff, Ghost had never been pushy like this before.

He then watched as Ghost’s expression mellowed out and he crouched down in front of Crosshair, pulling medical supplies out of the pouches at his belt and lining them up in that same methodical order Crosshair remembered from the med center.

Ghost was too preoccupied to notice. At least Crosshair hoped he was. But the moment a careful gloved hand touched his face both of his hands clutched at his knees, fingers digging painfully into the joint.

“This may hurt but we don’t want them to scar,” Ghost said in a low tone.

Warm. Comforting. Considerate.

For a wound like this? Why? Crosshair had to wonder.

Then his chin was turned to the side and he felt the light, cold daub of bacta over the burns. His grip tightened further and he was transported to the medical wing of some unnamed Imperial base, the Kaminoans’ oversized fingers twisting his head this way and that, staring at him and seeing no deeper than the surface of his skin. All the while something flickered on and off in his head like that broken light in the barracks. Something that wedged itself deeper than the pain but apparently didn’t matter enough from what he could glean.

They could fix him. It wouldn’t take too long. The wound would scar without the full course of treatment but he would be functional again, ready to serve.

And they had, fixed him. Any other minor scrape or not so minor one was treated by the medical droids with their blank voices and metal limbs.

Cold like everything else in the Empire. Even the blankets they slept under were nothing more than a play at privacy. His burn scars ached the worst on the nights it was cold. He’d been tempted to sleep during the day on Ryloth, when the sun warmed the rocks and he could see the heat haze rippling over their surface. But Rampart had eyes everywhere and Rampart expected results.

Crosshair swallowed thickly.

When was the last time someone had treated him like a human being?

The gentle touch to his face angled his head sideways and Ghost apologized for any potential discomfort.

Back in his batch Tech had been efficient in dealing with their injuries as long as they didn’t require treatment that was too advanced. He had been pragmatic about it however and so had Tinar for the duration they didn’t trust him to redress his wounds on his own. He didn’t remember that first time Ghost had done it for him, his body too sore and his mind too cluttered at the time.

“There. That should do it.” Ghost voice pulled him out of the daze. He barely held himself together while the medic gathered up his supplies and wandered off to find a place to store some of them on the ship.

He’d smiled at the end, proud perhaps of his own handiwork, but Crosshair’s mind kept circling back to the same question: When was the last time someone had treated him with such care? He put his head in his hands and let the cold feeling of bacta seep into his gloves. The image of a girl flashed through his mind but her words were tepid, overshadowed by a dark cloud so he asked himself again.

When was the last time anyone had been gentle with him?

And the answer was too long ago.

Far, far too long ago…

_____

Today in Pieces: severely traumatized man encounters human kindness.

[cross-my-heartt]

Does Ghost ever try to explain medicine or scientific stuff? If he does, I imagine this is the face Crosshair makes because he understands NONE of that.

😂😂😂 that face though

Hmm Ghost has an impeccable bedside manner and he learned early on that medical talk can make people anxious so he stopped doing it altogether (unless it's with other medics or doctors). He does infodump but it's usually about the Meladari people. Their culture, stories, lifestyle, language, anything you can think of. And it has a certain effect on Crosshair but I'm leaving that for a fic hehe

What this does look like is Crosshair's face when Reckie explains why he thought the dumb thing he did was a good idea 😂