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Omega is waiting by the door when they return him to the cell. She doesn’t say anything when she wraps an arm around his waist and accepts his weight when he leans against her a little too heavily. They stumble to the cot, and Crosshair sits down with a sigh that wheezes out like a whine.
“Do you want water?” she asks.
Crosshair shakes his head.
“Okay,” Omega says. She sits down next to him, presses into his arm, takes his hand in hers and twines their fingers together. “Do you want to hear another story?”
Crosshair doesn’t respond, but he grips her hand. It is answer enough.
Omega tells the story about Tech winning the pod race. Details like names and places are omitted, their absence replaced with lies obvious to Crosshair, but confusing to anyone who is listening in. Omega embellishes with laughably exaggerated details — a skill she learned from Wrecker undoubtedly.
Crosshair listens, eyes closed, heart broken. It is strange, listening to memories of his brothers that he does not share, from a person – a sister – he does not know. While she is chronologically older than him, biologically, she is much younger, a child. A being that should be cared for and comforted; and yet, since her arrival in his cell, she has taken the role of nurturer. It feels wrong, but he accepts it, telling himself that it is for her benefit. Obviously, feeling useful keeps her calm. She doesn’t cry as much since he’s relented to being coddled.
But she still cries.
Like now.
Her story cuts off sharply, and she takes a shuddering breath. Her hold on Crosshair’s hand tightens. “I miss them.”
Crosshair is exhausted and pained, every muscle protesting movement. Even his mind aches, a throbbing pulse. He doesn’t know what to say or do that would bring her solace, because, really, there is nothing he can offer. Not when his decisions put them here.
“My heart hurts,” Omega whispers, voice shaky.
Crosshair recognizes the affliction with excruciating clarity, the tight fist of loss and regret.
And there’s nothing he can do.