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You stared in defeat as your ship, the only means of escape off of Scarif, crackled and groaned in the angry orange-yellow flames that had devoured it. Plumes of charcoal smoke filled your lungs, staining your cheeks with soot. Ears still ringing from the explosion, you couldn’t help but kneel in front of the flaming wreck, stunned into a stupefied silence as you slowly realized that there was no longer hope of escaping the Death Star in Scarif’s atmosphere.
The eye of the Angel of Death watched you, patiently waiting to erase your existence from the universe with a single red teardrop.
And you knew this. You knew, horrified and distraught, that your final card had been dealt. The line was cut through your name… and Crosshair’s.
He stood a few paces behind you - quiet, calm. Even as he glanced to the sky, as he stared at Death’s eye, he remained composed. Collected. Nothing more than a simple downward tilt of his lips to show displeasure - be it from the wound, broken bones, or oncoming end. Like he already accepted that this was the end and there was no worth in trying to fight it.
He called your name but you didn’t hear him. You were still trapped in your mind’s purgatory, leaning back and forth between terror and grief. Fury and anguish.
Above all, underneath the sadness that the end was nigh, you felt angry - and Crosshair noticed. Still palming his side, he set his other hand atop your shoulder and gave it a tight squeeze.
“Leave it. It’s over.”
You unfurled your tongue from the roof of your mouth, forcing your words through gritted teeth.
“No. We can still go back to the tower. We can relay an s.o.s to Hunter-”
Crosshair knit his brows, lips parting to object when his face suddenly scrunched in pain and he grunted, slamming a knee into the concrete as he collapsed.
“Cross!” You cried out, a sudden rush of adrenaline spiking your heartbeat when you saw just how pale his skin had become; when you noticed that Crosshair wasn’t just palming broken ribs but a leaking stab wound above his hipbone.
You pushed aside his jacket and reached out with the intention to apply pressure, when his hand suddenly grasped your wrist. His grip was tight, even after silently losing blood for hours.
“Leave it,” he forcefully repeated, golden eyes burning into yours. “There’s no use.”
“Don’t say that,” you quivered harshly, tearing your wrist from his hold to press your palm against the wound.
Again, he fought your efforts to stop the bleeding. He swatted your hand away and pushed himself off the concrete, clenching his jaw to suppress a hiss of pain.
“We need to get you help.” You sounded desperate but you didn’t care. You were desperate. You were afraid. You were a mess of emotions hiding behind a fracturing piece of stained glass. Crosshair- ever the observant soul- knew.
He knew you were afraid so he took your hand in his own and raised your knuckles to his lips, kissing the split skin. Sand, blood, and ash spread across his tongue - no longer the familiar sweetness once gracing your bare body. No perfume to remind him of the warm feeling in his chest when he’d wake in your sheets and pillows.
There was nothing of home to comfort him, nothing except you, and you stood in front of him broken, staring into his soul with sadness, with burning anger.
“This can’t be it,” you breathed, finding the strength to shake your head. “This can’t. W-We didn’t have enough time. We didn’t- We couldn’t-”
Your voice broke into a whimper, chin falling against your chest as you struggled to withhold the angry sobs rising up your throat. Crosshair shut his eyes, shoulders sagging. Raising your hand to his face, he pressed his palm into your cheek, drawing in a steady breath through his nose.
“Look at me.”
You didn’t want to. You wanted to dress the wound on his side. You wanted to rip yourself out of his hold and sprint to the tower, to scream into the comm for help from Hunter, from the Rebellion, from anyone. You wanted to take his hand and kiss each knuckle, to trace his scars like you did each morning. You wanted to wake up with Crosshair like you did earlier that day, limbs intertwined in the safety of your bed, playfully chiding him for taking up the mattress when he’d stretch out his arms and legs like a cat.
Gods, you wanted nothing more than to turn back time. You wanted to hold yourself back from asking him to join you on this mission. You wanted to stop him from agreeing.
You wanted so many things… but there was never enough time. Never enough time to get married; to have kids; to visit his brothers and sister. Never enough time to memorize the sound of his voice or to engrave every inch of his tired, battle-worn body into your memory.
The two of you had burned too fast. Melted too quickly. Your light was dying and you could see it, helpless to stop it from flickering out.
Look at me.
He spoke so softly. The gentleness was a stranger on his abrasive lips, even to your own ears. You had no choice but to turn, to tilt your chin until you looked him in the eyes. A broken gaze meeting a knowing one.
He placed your intertwined hands over his heart. Though he struggled to keep the cadence of his breaths, his heart still pumped blood. Though he bled down his leg, through his shirt and into his palm, he was still breathing. Still coursing with life.
And because you had no time, you decided to make the most of what you had left.
You wrapped your arm around his torso, dipped your head so he could loop his over your shoulders, and began stumbling towards the beach. He tried to remain upright as you walked from concrete to sand but the unstable ground made it nearly impossible, drawing hisses of pain through his clenched teeth whenever he stumbled.
A trail of red stained the sand. For his sake, you pretended to not notice it, drawing to a stop when the waves were close enough to beat against your boots. He removed his arm from over your shoulders, reaching around his torso to uncurl your hand from his waist. He laced his fingertips in yours, stepping between you and the ocean…
…between you and the Death Star as it began to glow red.
You crouched down to the wave, dipping your hands in the warm waters before gently wiping away the dirt and grime on Crosshair’s cheeks. Your fingertips hovered over his lips, his nose, the crosshair tattoo. You thumbed the spot where his toothpick would have been, lip quivering when you realized that you’d never be able to chastise him for his habit of leaving toothpicks wherever he went.
As if sensing your turmoil, your agony for the memories lost to time, Crosshair took your hand, lifting it to his lips. Kissing each fingertip, he branded the feeling into his mind out of fear that he would forget.
Forgetting him was a fear you never knew you had - until now when the possibility hung over your head. You cupped the side of his face with your free hand, withering when he leaned his cheek into your palm. Eyes fluttered shut, a tired breath sifting through his nose.
“Tell me you love me,” you whispered breathlessly. “Tell me so I don’t forget what it sounds like.”
Though there was no room to be humored, you caught the ghost of amusement as he mumbled against your fingers, “M’ not that easy to forget, peach.”
No, no he wasn’t, but you feared the possibility either way.
The words left your lips once more, a broken whisper spoken past the deep hum in the distance, past the flash of red that claimed the blue sky.
Tell me you love me.
The cracks in his composure were spreading, threatening to shatter the facade that he maintained for you. The world would burn before he could break, leaving you with the image of a tired man.
No, he would stay strong until the final second. Just so you could remember his resilience. His burning love for you kept him standing, even though the acidic pain in his body was enough to make any man crumble.
Tell me you love me, you begged, pleading with tears in your eyes.
No, you wouldn’t forget him. He’d make sure of it.
Intertwined hands held between your chests, Crosshair cupped the back of your head and drew you in, lips hovering over your own as your back began to prickle with heat. The hairs on the back of your neck stood, smoke burning your eyes as you felt it coming - the wave of heat that would melt you against Crosshair, turning your bones into stardust.
He angled your head towards him, lips hovering over your own. His words left in a whisper, gracing your ears like a breathless promise that would carry into the afterlife.
“I love you,” he murmured, looking over your head only when you shut your eyes to bathe in the feeling of his touch, of his breath against your mouth. He watched the wave of fire roll towards the shore as he repeated, “I love you, peach.”
Through your tears, through the sadness that clawed up your throat in a gut-wrenching sob, you whispered the words back. Soft, gentle - just as he liked.
“I love you, Cross.”
He pulled your lips to his and kissed you with enough fervency to permanently imprint himself into your memory. He swept his tongue against yours with enough passion to rival the heat that dried Scarif’s ocean. He gripped you against him so tightly, so full of unspoken love and devotion, that you didn’t feel any pain when the fire kissed your skin.
In your kiss, Crosshair was home.
In his kiss, your existence melted into stardust and scattered across the perfect galaxy - a final testament of your severe and unyielding love.
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