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Crosshair watches from his perch on a wall as the sun sinks into the sea, dissolving into swatches of reds, yellows, and oranges. Discolored by twilight, sky bleeds through with deep blues and purples. It is beautiful here. Peaceful. Quiet. Safe.
He does not belong here.
Omega gave him a tiny box of toothpicks when they first arrived on Pabu. He holds the gift tightly in his hand, corners biting into the calloused skin of his palm. Still unopened.
He does not deserve this gift. This comfort. This small joy from a life murdered by the Empire.
But he holds it and silently cries.
“So this is where you’ve been sneaking off to.”
Crosshair doesn’t turn to face Hunter, mopping at his wet face with his sleeve. A rough, natural material. Wool?
“You tracked me,” he says, hard tone hiding shaking breath.
Hunter chuckles, sitting down beside him. “Old habit.”
Crosshair smirks.
Hunter doesn’t look at him, staring straight ahead, eyes focused on watching the sunset colors being absorbed by dusk. Crosshair watches too, but his focus is on the proximity of his brother’s shoulder to his. Nearly brushing. Familial.
He leans away. Subtly, he thinks, but a slight twitch of Hunter’s jaw suggests he failed.
“We missed you, Cross. We’re happy you’re back.”
Crosshair swallows. “I shouldn’t be back.”
Hunter doesn’t react to that. Not bodily at least. He remains motionless, dark eyes roving the horizon. He says, “Because you shouldn’t have been gone in the first place.”
“Yes,” Crosshair says, softly, like the click of a gun’s hammer drawn back. Loaded.
Hunter hums. “You’re right.”
Crosshair scowls, resisting the burning sensation behind his eyes. It hurts that Hunter so easily agrees, even if it is true. A blade twisting in an invisible, weeping wound.
“We should never have left you,” Hunter continues. “You should never have had to come back . We should never have had to get you back . And I’m so sorry that’s how it happened.”
Crosshair blinks, surprised, a tear escaping unbidden. He turns to face Hunter. “What?”
“We don’t leave our own behind,” Hunter says, “but we did. We left you. Over and over again.”
Hunter won’t look at him, not even a glance.
“I made my choice,” Crosshair argues weakly, voice tripping over the emotion building in his throat.
Hunter shakes his head, a harsh, singular movement. “No. It was the chip.”
“At first, but–”
“No!” Hunter nearly shouts, an explosive noise shattering the quiet. “We left you! We left you, Cross, when it wasn’t your choice.”
Cross . He missed that name with an ache.
“You did,” Crosshair says, “You left me. But I wasn’t in my right mind. You had to protect the squad.”
“We could’ve…”
“Maybe,” Crosshair interrupts, “but maybe I would have killed one of you. All of you. I don’t know, you don’t know. What I do know is that I would never–” Crosshair’s voice cracks, breaks. An inhale, and he composes himself. “I would never have forgiven myself, Hunter. Never.”
Hunter has finally turned to face him, dark eyes wet.
Crosshair looks past him, over his shoulder into the darkness that has blanketed the island. “I don’t blame you for leaving. I did, at first. I was angry. But…I would have done the same.”
“We could have–”
“Stop it!” Crosshair snaps. “We can’t change what we could have or should have done, can we? Everything happened, didn’t it? It happened, and we can’t change it. Tech almost died. Omega was captured. I was…”
Tortured. Abandoned. Lost.
He finishes, voice hollow, “I may have come back wrong, but I came back. We came back.”
Crosshair, Omega, Tech. They came back.
With a nod of finality, Crosshair begins to turn away, but a gasp of air is knocked from his lungs when Hunter barrels into him. Crosshair can’t remember the last time his brothers embraced him, arms locked around him, unyielding.
Before the Empire. Before the chip.
Before.
Not even Wrecker has given him more than one arm draped tentatively over his shoulders since the rescue. Crosshair hadn’t wanted that. He didn’t deserve that. Had shrugged out of the light hold with a snarl.
But, Maker, did he miss it.
Slowly, Crosshair lifts his arms to wrap them around Hunter, returning the gesture. His grip tightens, fingers curling into the soft fabric of Hunter’s scarf. Hiding his face against his brother’s shoulder.
He might not belong here.
But he will stay.