Archive of Our Own

It's cold.

Crosshair does not like the cold.

Their handlers say that it is part of his defects. That, due to his stretched-out, gangly physique and thin skin, he is naturally inclined towards warmer weather and far less so towards any sort of chill.

Fat load of good that does him. What's the use of a sniper who can't handle a little spat of cold? He can't very well be shivering up in a nest- perfect eyesight or not, any number of things could ruin his aim. He has to eliminate as many of those things as he can.

It's for this reason that he's not mad, exactly, at the day's training exercise. Concentration in Extreme Environments- at least something like this is useful. Some of the longneck's so-called 'training' borders on, and often crosses into, what he would personally call things like experimental if he's feeling annoyed, useless if he's feeling generous, and torture if he's feeling mad. He's not feeling any of those things today. Mostly, he's just feeling cold. Cold and tired.

Up in the perch, with them dialing up and down the temperature, adjusting the lights, and putting to use some other creative methods of weather control, he was able to sink into a sort of stasis. His body was nothing. His mind was nothing. All that existed was the rifle in his hands, the scope, and his eyes.

But they just had to end the exercise on freezing.

Now, back in the barracks, he can't seem to warm himself up no matter what he does. His blacks feel too thin, his blanket is suddenly threadbare, and the grey of the walls seems to leech any heat he may have had away from him. He is achingly cold.

Biting into the blanket stops his teeth from chattering, but it doesn't stop the shiver that plagues his limbs. He wants another blanket- he doesn't have another blanket. It's far too late in the night to ask for one.

Maker, he's tired. He's so, so tired. There's another exercise tomorrow morning, and he will have to get up, just like every morning, in their cold barracks, and walk through those cold halls into the cold training room and continue to be cold for the rest of the day and maybe the rest of his life. Which is dramatic, yes, but he is so cold, and so tired, and yet he cannot sleep at all due to the aforementioned endless cold.

"Cross," a voice whispers in the dark. Hunter. 

Crosshair tries his best to still.

"I know you're awake," he says again. "C'mere."

"Leave me alone," Crosshair shoots back, finally relenting that his stupid brother and his stupid ears would definitely be able to hear Crosshair's rustling sheets and chattering teeth if even he can.

Even in total blackness, Crosshair can still see better than most, which means that he sees when Hunter rolls his eyes. "Don't be a baby," he sighs. He lifts up his blanket, a silent invitation, and repeats, "C'mere."

Crosshair scowls. "We aren't children, " he sneers, "and I-I wouldn't fit anyways." His growth spurt is coming on faster than the other clones, both the regs and his brothers, other than Wrecker- while it certainly isn't as impressive of a difference as his hulk of a brother's, it still renders him above the eyeline of every reg. Further still above Hunter.

Hunter blinks. "You're only four," he says plainly. "I'm six, and I'm older than you, and I'm the one asking you, so what's the problem?"

"I-"

"Get over here before you wake the others."

Crosshair gets up.

When he stands in front of Hunter's bunk, Hunter shifts into a cross-legged position, patting the mattress next to him. Crosshair sits where he offers- gingerly, tensely, and just a bit annoyed, as Hunter's jab about his age rattles around in his head almost as much as his teeth do. The longnecks say they aren't children. The longnecks call them soldiers.

"There," Hunter says softly. He wraps his blanket around both of their shoulders. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"This is silly," Crosshair mutters.

"Yeah, well, we can be silly sometimes, right?" Hunter's face cracks into an easy smile. "Wrecker likes to share cots, and I don't think he's silly."

"Wrecker is always silly."

"Maybe you're just a 'stick-in-the-mud'." It's an odd phrase, one Crosshair's never heard before- based on the slow, annunciated way that Hunter says it, he's only just heard it too. Either way, he's pretty sure it's meant to be an insult, so he bristles accordingly.

The back and forth nearly let him forget the whole reason he was forced over here. Unfortunately, he is swiftly reminded of his predicament when he opens his mouth to reply and accidentally bites his tongue instead due to still-chattering teeth. Hunter's blanket over his shoulders and his own over his legs is helping with the chill, but clearly not enough. He's still freezing.

Hunter sobers, sensing that the mood has fizzled out, and rubs Crosshair's shoulder roughly. "What'd they have you doing today that's got you all jittery?" He's got that quiet older-brother voice on top of the already whispered tone. "Anything real bad?"

Crosshair shakes his head. No, it wasn't real bad. Not like other times. Not like some of the things Hunter has to do. It wasn't real bad, wasn't nearly the worst that he's had, but he's just so damn-

"M'cold," he hisses through his teeth. "Tired."

Another rub on his shoulder, then pressure. "C'mere," Hunter says again, and Crosshair resists at first- sharing a cot is already child's play, laying in his brother's lap is practically infantile- but as soon as his head hits Hunter's thigh, warm-blooded and steady, he gives up. It's the first truly warm thing he's felt all day, not counting the blazing sun replication in the training room. "Better?"

"Mm," Crosshair grunts.

"Yeah, I thought so."

Stupid smug Hunter.

"Hey, Cross, can I try something?"

Crosshair sighs. "What," he asks, closing his eyes as Hunter pulls the blanket on his legs over the rest of him.

"I heard some of the regs playing a record they got on a mission," he says. "They managed to snag a song."

He begrudgingly opens the eye that isn't squashed against Hunter's leg. "A song?"

"Yeah. They were singin' along to it, and it was kinda…" His voice trails off. "Thought I could try that for you, or something. Help you sleep."

Crosshair snorts a laugh, not even needing to look up to know that his brother has flushed red with embarrassment. "You don't even know how to sing," he sighs. "And we aren't children. We don't need lullabies."

"Well, humor me."

Despite his initial reluctance, there is a small part of him that's curious about his brother's offer. Hunter's never been a singer- he's pretty sure he's never heard his brother utter even a single note- but the desire must come from somewhere. Plus, if anything, he's always a fan of having some blackmail on hand. If Hunter wants to embarrass himself, maybe Crosshair will laugh hard enough that he'll pass out.

So Crosshair gives. "Fine."

"Really?"

"Before I change my mind."

Hunter's fingers stutter on his shoulder. Clearly, he didn't think Crosshair would actually agree. Isn't he just full of surprises. "Alright then," he says quietly. "Might not have all the lyrics down, but…" He clears his throat.

And then he starts singing.

" Close your eyes, " he whispers, " have no fear. The monster's gone, he's on the run and your daddy's here. "

" Daddy? " Crosshair snickers.

"Part of the song," Hunter growls under his breath, then continues. " Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy… "

It's…not bad.

Hunter's not a great singer, as Crosshair expected, but he's also not awful, which isn't what he expected. The whispering doesn't really help- still trying not to wake their heavy-sleeping brothers, who, at this hour, would probably not wake up without a nuclear bomb, but Hunter is Hunter, so he's careful anyway. Still. There's potential in there somewhere. It's clearly untrained, a bit nervous, but there's a gentleness to it that works, in a way.

Belatedly, Crosshair realizes that Hunter's moved his fingers to his head, smoothing the hair that's cropped short at his temples and around his ears. It makes him stiffen at first; with embarrassment or insecurity, he's not sure, but a few more strokes eases him back into the relaxed state he'd come out of. Most of the time, if someone is touching his head, it's to measure him for a new helmet, or to strap him down for testing, or to shave his hair back down to its roots. He hasn't had this sort of thing in…a while. How old was he, the last time he let one of his brothers hold him? Has it really been so long?

" Before you go to sleep, say a little prayer, " Hunter sings. His voice has become muddled in Crosshair's ears. " Every day, in every way, it's gettin' better and better… "

His body feels very heavy. Heavy and warm.

Maker, he's so warm.

______

He points his rifle towards the child in the tree.

Good soldiers-

He points his rifle at the leader of the refugee camp.

Good soldiers-

He points his rifle at his brother.

Good-

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful

What is he doing? What is he- what is-

Good soldiers follow orders.

______

He wakes up.

Truly wakes, in a way that he hasn't for weeks. Opening his eyes feels like breaching the surface of an ice-cold ocean.

And Maker, is he cold.

"CT-9904," drones a distinctly electronic voice. "You are awake."

He groans out something that probably sounds like a response. Awake. Yes, he's awake. And his brothers-

His brothers.

"What is going on, " he hisses, snapping his eyes open fully to reveal the familiar white ceiling of Kamino's medicinal bay. "Why can I- why-"

It shouldn't be possible, and yet it is. He has woken up, and for once, the mantra isn't there. It's gone.

Good soldiers follow orders.

He remembers it, the parasitic whisper that threaded through his brain, convincing him to raise his rifle at targets he realizes now he never would've shot before. Never would've even thought about it. But he did think about it, and he did shoot, and now he very much feels like he's going to be sick.

"What happened," he asks the droid again. His chest heaves with too-little air. " Answer me. "

The droid pitters to the opposite side of the room. "You have been exposed to engine fire, and you have undergone three surgical procedures to recover the damage done." Its voice is void of any emotion, coming back to Crosshair's side with a bucket in its hands. "Readings indicate that you are feeling nausea. If you feel the need to vomit, please do so in the bucket provided."

Crosshair sucks in a breath and tries to control the way his stomach rolls in revulsion. "What surgeries," he asks. "What did you do to me? I can- I'm not-"

"Skin grafts for your burns," the droid begins, "resetting your fractured arm, and removal of damaged technology."

"Damaged-?"

"That is classified information."

He tightens his lips. The droid stares impassively.

"Do you have any further questions?" it asks. Crosshair doesn't answer. "CT-9904?"

"...No," he spits. He's going to be sick.

"Affirmative. I will begin a diagnostic scan on your overall condition, then I will assess each surgical procedure's recovery."

Again, Crosshair doesn't respond. Near all of his energy is devoted to not heaving into that bucket right this second.

Damaged technology. Something was in him- in his brain. He's not sure how he knows that's where it was- the headache is perhaps giving him a clue- but he's certain it was there. Murky memories of a tube, electricity, and scientists begin to surface, and he feels his fists tighten into the bedsheets below.

Can you…enhance the effects?

Effects of what?

They did something to him. Something that made him different. Made him shoot at a child- at his brothers-

His brothers.

They must have known.

They must have. They had to have known that something was wrong. That he wasn't himself. Right? They had to have…they must have known…

They know him. They know he would never aim a shot at them. He only aims at those he intends to hit.

But if they knew- if they knew something was wrong, that he was…that he was influenced, or controlled, something, that something had happened, then that means they left him, left him to-

The bucket is in his hands before he even goes to grab it.

______

The platform is quiet.

Quiet for a planet of storms, anyway. After eight rotations, he can barely hear the waves that crash against it. The rain feels like nothing at all.

His best method of survival is to assume a sniper's hold- to dissociate from his body, forget everything but his rifle and his eyes.  If he thinks too long, if he starts to tether himself too much, then he begins to feel the pangs of hunger and the burn of his parched throat. He cannot afford to think about those things. Slaughtered troops or not, he was- he is- one of the best soldiers that the Empire is in possession of. They will come back for him. They have to.

The storm stopped sounding like a storm a long time ago. Instead, it echoes the fall of Kamino, the face off with his brothers.

You weren't loyal to me, his own voice snarls.

And yet.

He survived because the girl saved him. He survived because his brothers spared him with a stun instead of a blast. He survived because for some reason, all that talk of loyalty and never leaving another behind decided to well up now, instead of weeks ago in the hangar.

His eyes burn with rainwater.

Why couldn't it have been then? Why couldn't they have knocked him out then, cuffed him to a bunk if they had to, and figured out what was wrong with him? Why'd they have to leave him behind that time? The least they could've done was finish the job. Maybe then, he wouldn't have been forced to take aim at innocents.

A chill runs over him then- what now? What does this mean for his brothers, for his hunt? The Empire surely thinks they're dead, and Crosshair failed- they refused to join him, their one chance at safety. If they are discovered alive, the Empire will take them down at once. There will no longer be any sort of consideration for second chances.

This changes nothing, the storm spits in his ears.

Except it changes everything. They let him go. They offered to take him back- they wanted him back.

Well. They said they wanted him back.

It was most likely obligation that drove them to make the offer. Were it Crosshair on the other side, he wouldn't take himself back either.

He can't let the Empire get to them, he realizes with a staunch clarity. He can't let them find out that his brothers are alive. The Empire will come for him, and he will return. He will be a good, loyal soldier, like he's always been, like he was raised to be. He will go on missions and be their gun. They'll say fire, and he'll shoot.

When they ask him about the Bad Batch, he will say, dead.

______

Home.

He's home.

He's home, he's home, he's home, he's…

"Crosshair," Hunter whispers. 

"Hunter," he gasps. "I-"

Strong arms encircle him. "Don't," he says, clutching him hard, too hard, but Crosshair would trade breathing for this any day. "Don't."

He doesn't. He's not even sure where to begin.

______

Adjusting back to life on the Marauder is…difficult. For one thing, they aren't on the Marauder, not all the time. Mostly, they stay on Pabu. They're 'retired', technically, or at least that's what Hunter will say the first time Rex asks for help, only to give in on the second. But real missions, scraping by for money, traveling all over the galaxy- they're done.

He's done.

He never thought there'd be a 'done'. All of them had just assumed since they could speak that they would die in battle, whether to an enemy in the field or an infected wound later. There was never any end in sight.

Now, they fish.

Well, Wrecker fishes. He's good at it, too, frighteningly so. Had his training on Kamino involved fishing somehow? Obviously not- it must be one of Wrecker's bizarre innate abilities that he seems to acquire without even realizing it. It's very strange.

Wrecker being good at fishing means they never miss a dinner at least, and Maker is dinner on Pabu better than any ration bar that ever existed. Echo's taken to meal prep- Tech managed to alter a variety of kitchen utensils to fit smoothly over his scomp, so he can alternate between his hand and whatever tools he needs. It's clear that he hasn't adjusted nearly as well to retirement as Wrecker has- Echo is still the first to jump up to offer assistance, and last to go to sleep at night, filling his day with anything to keep him busy and useful. He's not sneaking off-planet, though, which is good- Tech makes sure of that.

Nobody gets to fly the Marauder without his permission. That means most of its use is relegated to flying lessons with Omega, which Tech exits each and every time with the same shell-shocked face.

"Why're you still teachin' her all that, anyway?" Crosshair overheard Hunter ask, once.

Tech had shrugged. "She likes it. It keeps her busy. And who knows what she will do someday." His voice had taken an odd tone, then. "She may need it."

Hunter does the best out of all of them. Surprising, given how resistant he was at first to the idea of it all, but once he had a taste of a life without battle, he seemed to just…drink it in. Not a morning goes by where Crosshair doesn't see Hunter standing in their kitchen, cup of caf in hand, and gazing out the window for no reason other than that he has a view to gaze at.

It makes Crosshair sick.

If there's a candidate for who is adjusting the worst besides Echo, the entire batch would vote Crosshair. He can't help it- this peace, this serenity, this quiet. He doesn't deserve it. Doesn't deserve this kind of solace.

"I shouldn't stay," Crosshair had said before, an unspoken plea on his lips. Let me fix this. Let me make it up to you.

But Hunter had shaken his head. "We stay together this time, Cross," was all he had said, and that was that.

So Crosshair stays. Crosshair watches Wrecker fish. Crosshair watches Echo cook. Crosshair watches Tech teach. Crosshair watches Hunter settle.

Crosshair does nothing himself.

For all he'd dreamed of the batch's open arms when he was captive, he sees it all too clearly- there isn't a space for him anymore. He's too late. Done too much, and not enough to fix it. He couldn't even protect the girl. His one chance, and then there she was, in the same prison as him. He'd failed.

She would probably say something like, it all worked out in the end! were he to ever voice such a sentiment, which he will never, ever do, not like it matters. Who cares whether it worked out or not? Omega was captured. Tech was captured. They all nearly died trying to rescue them. And for what? A brother, a sister, and a traitor. How could they even look him in the eye?

Most nights, he cannot sleep. This is the easiest part out of everything to adjust to. Insomnia was never new to him, but now its effects have increased tenfold. He tells himself that this is fine. Missed sleep is preferable to what awaits him in his dreams.

It's not uncommon for his brothers to stay up into the night, and he watches the ways that they deal with it every time. Wrecker will go to the beachside. Echo will walk the streets. Tech will seek out the Marauder. And Hunter will stay inside, sitting at their kitchen table.

They have a kitchen table now.

What is uncommon is for Crosshair to catch Omega unable to sleep. She probably has her fair share of sleepless nights, but she never leaves her room, so he couldn't say. Not like he’s stalking them all on purpose-

Not this time

-or anything, he just happens to be in the right places to observe. Sniper’s instinct, perhaps. It's anybody's guess as to why this night, of all nights, she comes padding down the hallway and into the kitchen.

Crosshair's not sure if Hunter knows that he's outside the open window. He spends most nights outside- if he's going to be awake, he'd rather be awake outside than in a suffocating room. It's really only due to this habit that he catches his brother's sleeping habits (or rather, lack of sleeping habits) so often, and now his sister, too.

He hears her pause. "Hunter?" she whispers.

"Hey, kid," Hunter says softly. Crosshair hears him shift on his seat at the table. "Can't sleep?"

"Sorry," she responds instead of answering.

There's a huff of breath. Not anger, not amusement- affection. "Nothin' to apologize for." He hears Hunter pat something- his leg?- and he says, "C'mere."

Omega's small footsteps move forward. Crosshair waits.

"It feels silly," she starts, "thinking 'bout all this now. When it's all over, y'know?"

"Sometimes, that's the only time you can think 'bout something."

She doesn't reply for a moment. "Do you remember when it all started?" she asks, making a stone form in Crosshair's gut.

A pause from Hunter, this time. "'Course," he finally says. "Is that what it was tonight?"

No reply. An assumed nod.

"Mm," Hunter breathes. "I'm real sorry, kid."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not. You've been through too much. 'Specially someone your age."

"You're younger than-"

" Anyway, " Hunter continues, "it's all over now. You're safe, right here. With all of us."

Not all of you.

The stone becomes an anchor, and it sinks fast.

"Hey," Hunter says when Omega goes quiet. "I think I've got something that might help."

"You do?"

"Sure I do. Used to do it for my brothers."

Wait.

What is he…

"When they couldn't sleep," he starts, and there's a rustling, like he's combing his hand through her hair, "I'd sing them a song. Got it from a reg years ago."

"You can sing? " Omega asks. He can imagine her large, inquisitive eyes, and for just a moment, the anchor lifts.

Her eyes as you aimed a rifle at her head-

-the boy's lightsaber deflecting your shots-

Good soldiers-

He squeezes his eyes shut and resists the urge to smash his skull into the wall.

"Well," Hunter says awkwardly. "I'd say I'm alright at it. What d'ya say?"

Good soldiers-

"I'd like that," she says softly. Crosshair balls his fists tightly enough to cut his nails into his palms.

There's a beat of silence where Hunter clears his throat, then he begins to sing a song Crosshair hasn't heard since he was four years old.

" Close your eyes, have no fear. " His voice is so much deeper than it had been all those years ago. There's a rasp to it now, an undercurrent of grunge that he'd grown into. He sounds so different. " The monster's gone, he's on the run, and your daddy's here. "

-Shoot the girl in the water-

Good soldiers-

-if he takes them out in the engine, then-

-the clones are escaping in the ship-

Good soldiers-

-a fake diplomatic mission-

Good-

Crosshair gets up.

______

Maybe he can take the Marauder someplace else. Maybe they won't be able to find him. He can land somewhere, sell the ship, or stash it and steal another, because Tech's bound to have an army of tracking devices in the damn thing. He's honestly surprised he doesn't have the batch themselves tracked.

Oh, god, what if he does? Could he? He’s always making things. No- no, he doesn't. He trusts them. He trusts them.

He shouldn't.

If Crosshair can just- if he can just make a plan-

"Thought I'd find you here."

He snaps back in the pilot's seat, expecting, for some reason, to see Tech, when it should have been immediately obvious who would be standing behind him.

"Hu-"

"Don't." It's not said in the deadly quiet way that Hunter used to silence an opponent, but it's not said kindly, either. "Crosshair, the hell are you doing?"

His tongue is fat and useless between his teeth. "I- " he starts, but fails, losing his nerve under his brother's eye. "-Was cold."

"Bull shit you were," he says. "The house is way warmer than the damn ship, you couldn't think of anything better than that?"

He shrugs. What is he supposed to say? Sorry, but I must take my leave now, seeing as I've realized now that none of you have ever been and will ever be safe around me. Toodles! Hunter would club him.

To combat Crosshair's silence, Hunter sighs, sitting in the chair next to him. "C'mon, Cross," he says, and it's gentler this time. "Let's go back, yeah?"

He shakes his head. "I can't."

"Why's that?"

"I'll-"

Kill her-

-aim and fire-

-bottom of the ravine-

-shot his brother.

"I guess it is."

Good soldiers-

"You told her she was safe, " Crosshair hisses, and his voice cracks on the last word.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Hunter's gaze soften into something heavy and sad. "Oh, Cross," he breathes. "She is. We all are."

He shakes his head again, harder. "Not with me. I'm- I'm a liability to the mission-"

"We aren't on a mission," he says, gripping Crosshair's shoulder. When had he started shaking? "We're on Pabu. We're home. All of us."

"But I-"

"But nothing. All of us means all of us, okay?" His hand squeezes, hard. "We aren't losing you again."

"But she isn't safe! " Crosshair snarls. He wrenches himself out of Hunter's grip, backing up into the wall before losing his footing and sliding down on the floor. Hunter moves to grasp him, but he presses himself as close to the wall as he can get.

"Crosshair-"

"She isn't safe. Not with me." His voice drops to a whisper, trembling and awful. "I keep thinking about- about hurting her, Hunter. She isn't safe. I could-" He cuts himself off, unable and unwilling to voice the thoughts in his head, the memories of what he's done. "Do you even know what I've done?" he hisses, and he can hear the panicked edge to his words. "Do you know what you've let back into your house?"

Hunter's eyes are wide, sharp with confusion and fear. His hands linger in the air around Crosshair's shoulders- he wants to grab him, but he won't, because-

Because he knows you can hurt him

Crosshair digs his teeth painfully into his lower lip. He wants a toothpick. He wants to rip something to shreds. He wants to leave.

"Cross, you- you aren't dangerous," Hunter says, and at Crosshair's near-delirious laugh, he purses his lips, saying, "I mean- you won't hurt her. You won't hurt any of us. The chip is gone."

"I didn't need the chip, you idiot, " Crosshair drags through gritted teeth. "Don't lie to her. Let me go. Just let me go. "

The confusion from before clears into sudden understanding, and Hunter's hands come down from where they hung to clutch Crosshair's shoulders. He shuffles closer, and Crosshair tries to shuffle back, only to find he's as far up against the metal as he can go.

"Oh, Cross," he says again. Gentle. Far too gentle for what he is.

The monster's not gone

"Please," Crosshair begs, but he doesn't even know what he's asking for anymore.

To that, Hunter shifts to Crosshair's side, slinging one arm around him and pulling him roughly into his chest. His nose presses against Crosshair's scar, thick and leathery and barely able to feel touch anymore. "Cross," he says, "I was singin' that for you, too."

Crosshair blinks.

…He knew he was out there, then.

"I know you don't sleep," Hunter murmurs, "and I know you wander around, actin' like if you make a place here, someone's gonna kick you out of it. I know it's been real hard for you. I know you feel lost."

Crosshair doesn't say anything.

"Omega doesn't hate you," he continues. "She doesn't feel scared around you. None of us do. It's just nightmares."

Good soldiers follow orders.

Crosshair grips his head harshly. "I just want it to stop," he whispers. 

"I know," Hunter says, and suddenly, they're in the barracks again, four and six, and Hunter is stroking his cropped silver hair and Crosshair is listening to his shit attempt at a lullaby. All because he'd been cold.

Was it just because of that?

Hunter's other hand comes to take one of Crosshair's off of his face, gripping it tightly. "You're alright," he says, and Crosshair realizes belatedly that Hunter's voice is shaking, too. "You're alright, yeah? And you aren't gonna try and leave like that again."

Nowhere in the galaxy would take you

"N'stop listenin' to your head."

Despite himself, Crosshair manages a laugh at that. He can feel Hunter's smile against his temple.

"None of that, okay? We're gonna go back to our house, and you're gonna sleep, and you're gonna stay here, and we're gonna figure this all out. Okay?"

Crosshair can't reply. Not at first.

"Cross, I'm gonna need an affirmative on that one," Hunter pleads. His hand somehow manages to wind even tighter around Crosshair's trembling palm.

They aren't safe.

She's not safe.

-aimed a rifle at your brother's head-

Good soldiers-

"Okay," Crosshair rasps.

Hunter's body sags against him, which means that he was wound up tight with tension, just like Crosshair is still. He can't uncurl himself from this ball. "Okay," Hunter says, "okay. Good man. Let's get you up."

He can't uncurl himself. He can't. Hunter pulls him up anyways.

The walk back to their house is a blur. He doesn't remember taking any steps, but after a moment, he raises his head and sees their front door opening, and Hunter's pulling him inside.

"Your room," he says. Crosshair nods.

His room is undecorated and bare. It occurs to him now that it may have been a bit too obvious as to why.

Still, there's a bed, a bed that has a soft pillow and a warm blanket, which are so ridiculously foreign that he still can't quite believe it, and said bed is coming closer and closer into view until Hunter is pushing him down on it.

"Don't treat me like the girl," Crosshair mutters, trying to scrape together some sort of replica of his usual self as Hunter drapes the blanket over his legs.

"Forgive me if I'm a little nervous," he retorts. He winces the moment he says it- does he honestly think Crosshair, of all people, would be offended at something as silly as that?

Just what do you think he's so nervous for?

Oh.

He frowns, but lets Hunter finish with the blanket, and doesn't argue when he folds down by the side of the bed.

"I'm staying 'til you're asleep," he says.

"I know."

"I know you know, I just-" He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. "- Maker, Crosshair."

"I-" He swallows. "I'm sorry."

There's a long pause.

"I know that, too," Hunter sighs. "Promise me this doesn't happen again."

He's not sure that he can. How can he guarantee such a thing, when he still can't quite believe what Hunter is saying?

But Hunter is tired, and hurt, and worried, and Crosshair is the one who made him this way, so he exhales. "Fine."

"Good."

There's more silence. Hunter's foot taps on the wood below.

"Hunter."

"Yeah?"

"... Sing me your song."

Hunter actually turns to face him, and he looks bewildered. "I- really?" His eyebrows raise nearly to his hairline. "You haven't asked for it since we were kids."

"I never asked for it."

"Sure, sure."

Crosshair sighs. "Before I change my mind," he murmurs, closing his eyes.

He feels Hunter brush his thumb along his temple, where he'd cradled him all those years ago. His hand is warm. "'Course," he says. "Anything."

And Hunter sings.

And his mind is able to quiet.

And he sleeps.

______

Crosshair stays. Crosshair lets Wrecker teach him how to fish. Crosshair passes ingredients to Echo as he cooks. Crosshair sits in the seat behind Tech and helps him with flying lessons. Crosshair stands in the mornings with Hunter and a cup of caf as he settles.

Crosshair teaches Omega how to shoot her bow.