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No one fights with Crosshair the way Hunter does. Wrecker, big and strong and tough as he is, wears his heart on his wristguard and always pulls his punches. Echo might have a vibroknife tongue, but he tends to use his words as his weapons, rather than his body. Tech... isn't around anymore, but even then, he'd never engaged, even when Crosshair had pushed or prodded or made one comment too close to a line. A condescending look is— was— the strongest response that he'd usually get.
Hunter, though. Crosshair will push, and Hunter will push right back. Crosshair will pull himself taut, and Hunter will be the one to snap. They've bruised their knuckles on each other's armor more than once, come to blows over things that seem almost trivial now. Hunter's better in close quarters, always has been. Crosshair can count the number of times he's held his own against his brother on one hand. And the only person who bothered to keep track of his losses is no longer counting. When it comes to blows, it's hardly a fight. Some snide shoves, a shoulder check or two, hardened brows and harsher glares. A few misjudged hits that usually leave Crosshair headlocked or armlocked.
Crosshair's better from a distance. Used to be, anyway. It's doubtful what he's much use for anymore, but Hunter seems to trust him again. All it took was a proper fight and the imminent threat of death on the icy plain of Barton IV. Nothing resolves a fight quicker than instincts kicking in, rifles raised and blades drawn to defend each other, not to harm. Hunter may have shoved Crosshair first, but he was also the one to push him to safety when the wyrm first emerged.
He used to hate his brother sometimes. No one gets under Crosshair's skin like Hunter does. The whole squad is known for disregarding orders, yet they've always followed Hunter's orders. It had felt like betrayal, when Hunter had lied to him about the Padawan. It had felt like betrayal, when Hunter had listened to Omega instead of him. And it had felt like betrayal, the way Hunter had looked at him on that platform the night Kamino was destroyed, all the ways that Crosshair had jabbed and dug and pushed, and Hunter had barely reacted. When he and Omega had escaped from Tantiss and reunited with Hunter and Wrecker, the only conversation on the uneasy ride back to Pabu had been between Wrecker and Omega. Hunter hadn't said a word to Crosshair the whole time.
And now Pabu lies in ruins, harshly awoken by Imperial searchlights, scarred by Imperial fire. Crosshair knows the feeling.
He sits now beside an unconscious Wrecker, toothpick churning anxiously between his teeth. According to the medical droid, his brother will be fine. Crosshair knows this anyway. He can tell from the way Wrecker's chest rises and falls in pained but steady breaths. AZI cannot tell him what Wrecker will say when he wakes to find Omega gone.
Again. The word comes unbidden to Crosshair's mind. This won't be the first time that the Empire has taken Omega from Wrecker and Hunter. They weren't the ones to tell him what happened, but Crosshair had heard enough from Echo. Wrecker, he knows, was the one keeping Hunter steady those ten months. And that makes sense. Wrecker, childish and playful as he can be sometimes, is also their anchor, their support, their heart.
Hunter, on the other hand? Hunter's their leader, their pole star, their compass. If he goes wrong, the squad falls apart. A tiny, bitter part of Crosshair seethes in the back of his mind that it's Hunter's fault, it must be, that it was something that Hunter did that led to all of this, that led to Echo leaving and Tech falling and Wrecker getting blown up and Omega giving herself up and Crosshair lost and stranded and utterly, utterly useless.
It's a foolish thought. Unfounded. Irrational.
After all, Hunter's not the one that killed Mayday.
One of the clone cadets— Stak, was it? — drops by to check on them. Crosshair sends him away with a curt assurance. Hunter's still not back. Crosshair takes up his rifle and decides to venture outside.
The Imperials have all gone now. Hunter must know what that means, wherever he is. Crosshair doubts Hunter managed to sneak on board one of their ships. Last he saw, his brother was actively struggling against the ocean current on his way back to shore. Maybe he's still in the water. Maybe he's collapsed on the beach somewhere, heavy and exhausted from waterlogged armor. Maybe the Imperials shot him down. Maybe they captured him, too, to make Omega cooperate. Maybe he's running up to the mountain now. Maybe he's scouring the island for the next available ship. Maybe he's contacting Echo and catching him up on the situation. Maybe—
Crosshair sees a shape darting in the pre-dawn darkness just a few ledges below, and his hand darts to the pistol at his thigh. He relaxes when he realizes it's only Batcher, but he freezes when he sees that Hunter's with her.
Hunter doesn’t so much slow down as he does stop running altogether, halting at the foot of the steps leading up to Shep's house. He sheds his helmet, shoulders heaving with exertion and hair plastered to his neck. His knees tremble in the dim firelight, his face shadowed by more than his tattoo. He's almost leaning on Batcher for support to get up the four steps to the doorway that Crosshair is standing in. Batcher scampers in to keep Wrecker company, and suddenly Crosshair is left alone with Hunter, and despite being taller he feels very, very small.
He's not sure what he's seeing in his brother's eyes. He's not sure that's his brother at all.
Hunter's voice is rough and ragged, glass shards piercing the two words he speaks. "What. Happened."
"I... Omega... " Crosshair can't get the words out. His hand starts to shake. "She didn't want—”
"Crosshair!" Hunter all but snarls his name through gritted teeth. Crosshair's the one who gets struck in both pauldrons, but Hunter's the one that almost falls over. Crosshair catches him, lets Hunter rest on his forearms. His brother’s grip is durasteel. "Tell me what happened!"
"She turned herself over." The words don't feel right, even though there's no other way to say what happened. "She thought, even if they took her comm, that I could still plant a tracker onto their ship. Just like—" And somehow, this feels right, "—like I did to you back on Ryloth."
"And?" Hunter presses. He takes an unsteady step forward, as if he's about to push Crosshair against the wall. They both know he doesn't have the strength for that.
"I... " The tremor seems to spread through his entire forearm.
"And?"
There's no way Hunter doesn't notice. Crosshair's eyes drop from his brother's demanding gaze. He shoves Hunter back, just enough to make the other let go of him as he admits, "I missed."
There is silence between them for a few, eternal, tortured seconds. Neither of them are looking at each other, but neither of them move. Crosshair would know by Hunter's shadow. Hunter would know by Crosshair's heartbeat. Can he hear the way Crosshair's breaths drag in shallow tides from his lungs?
He chances a glance at Hunter. The former sergeant's shoulders are still and stony. His voice is far too level when he asks, "How's Wrecker?"
Crosshair blinks. "Hunter—"
"Do you still have your comm?" Hunter keeps distance between them when he presses into the house. "I must have lost mine in the water."
Crosshair's brow furrows as Hunter moves uncannily quickly, gently but firmly shaking Wrecker, who remains unresponsive. The shadow of a curse slips through Hunter's lips. Crosshair's never seen Hunter move like that before, like someone so utterly devoid of purpose and full of it at the same time. He rounds on Crosshair, who takes a half-step back in mild surprise.
"Comm."
Crosshair doesn't have time to respond but takes his out without thinking. It's an order, after all. Hunter nods quickly, snatching it from Crosshair’s hand. "I’ll contact Echo. We'll need the navicomputer on his ship if we're going to track Omega."
"Weren't you listening?" Crosshair hisses, annoyance slipping into his tone more out of an inability to keep up than genuine frustration. "I missed the shot. We have no way of tracking the ship."
"Echo has Tech's archive backed up onto his ship's datalog," Hunter says brusquely. "I'll get readings in recent atmospheric energy surges, which can get us started on triangulating possible hyperspace routes. They had a cruiser, so we could be looking as far as the Outer Rim. He might let us use his ship, but we need to look into other options for the long term—”
Hunter reaches behind his waist, eyes widening a sliver when whatever he's looking for clearly isn't there. Crosshair watches him stiffen, exhale, relax all in a matter of seconds. There's something both weary and practiced about the motion. He doesn't like that he doesn't know what it means. Another reminder of the ways his brothers have changed in his absence, another reminder of the way they've adapted without him.
“New plan, then. Echo said he and Rex have been working on the Tantiss coordinates, so maybe they have new intel since the last time we saw them. At any rate, they have to have a ship or know where we can get one—”
Crosshair stops Hunter with a palm across his chestplate. "Slow down. You're in no condition to do anything right now."
"We don't have time to slow down!" Hunter retorts. "Every second we waste here is another second Omega gets further away from us."
Batcher whines when Hunter raises his voice, and Wrecker gives a soft groan. Some of the tension fades from Hunter's brow when he lays a gentle hand on Batcher's snout and looks at their unconscious brother. He sighs when Wrecker doesn't stir. "We've already lost her once, Crosshair."
"And you said it yourself, she's the one that ended up finding you."
“And you think they’ll let her go a second time?” Hunter snaps. Something familiar is building in his eyes. Crosshair isn’t sure what it is yet. “We’re going after her.”
"She turned herself over,” Crosshair says flatly. He lets his frustration at himself color his words, make it sound like he doesn’t care. He can think of nothing further from the truth.
"She's a kid."
"She's important to the Empire, whatever their plans are. She's not like us. They don't care whether we live or die, but they won't hurt her."
"Maybe not physically." Hunter's eyes drop momentarily to Crosshair's hand. Crosshair hadn't even noticed it was shaking again, and he clenches it into a fist.
"Look, Omega can handle herself," Crosshair tries. "She was the one who came up with our escape plan the first time. She was the one who got us back to you, and she's the one who never gave up. She'll survive, even if she's alone."
Hunter shakes his head. Something taut and desperate enters his voice when Batcher nuzzles his palm. "She shouldn't have to."
Crosshair pauses, takes a moment to properly study his brother. He takes in the slump of Hunter's shoulders, the dark and harrowed look in his eyes, the way his back is tensed but his jaw is slack, the way his salt-drenched hair clings to the skin of his neck. He remembers where Hunter had fallen, from what height, how far out from the nearest shore, how far up the mountain he must have had to run against the wind. He thinks about the way he's seen Hunter talk to the other refugees on Pabu, the softness that he treats the cadets with, the drive and instinct that took him to the end of a Sith assassin's lightsaber. And then he tracks back to Hunter's original plan, what he'd said about tracing energy signatures and using Tech's old archive. He can guess by now, from the way that Hunter's been the one to fly them to Pabu and the way that Tech's old datapad sits by Hunter's nook, who picked up the pieces after they'd fallen in the first place. Who had to, because that’s what leaders do.
And then it hits Crosshair all at once.
He's never once seen his brother grieve.
How can he, when the Bad Batch never had any losses during the Clone War? Crosshair wonders if Hunter looked this way when Omega was first taken to Tantiss. He wonders if Hunter looked this way when Tech had fallen from the skycar. He wonders if Hunter looked this way when Echo had left their squad. And he wonders if Hunter looked this way when Crosshair had insisted on staying behind on the platform after the destruction of Tipoca City.
Crosshair had been skeptical at first of Hunter’s insistence on laying low on Pabu, starting over, leaving the war behind. They were soldiers, after all, born and bred for war. They were nothing without a fight, and there was always one to be had. Crosshair had known that better than anyone, but Hunter had shut him down as soon as he mentioned the Empire.
“The Empire is bigger than anything we’ve ever faced,” Hunter had told him. “That’s a fight we’ll never be able to win.”
Crosshair had scowled in lieu of a reply and stormed off to the beach to practice shooting with AZI. Wrecker had come by later that morning to invite him to go fishing. And maybe in retrospect, Crosshair had responded with more rudeness than was necessary. He’d wanted to lash out at Hunter, but Wrecker was the only one there.
“He’s not that naïve,” Crosshair had seethed. “There’s no way he really thinks we can hide from the Empire forever.”
An almost pensive look had come over Wrecker’s face. “We ran into Cut and Suu, y’know. They were our first stop after Kamino.”
“After I shot you?”
Wrecker’s laugh had been good-natured. “Yeah, you sure got me good. Hunter wanted Omega to leave with them, but she wanted to stay with us instead. That’s probably what changed things for him, for all of us.”
“You, too?” Maybe it had sounded scathing back then, but Crosshair had been genuinely curious.
Wrecker scratched his head. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like making things blow up. But I also like fixing boats and going fishing and having big meals every night. It’s different, but it’s not bad.”
“We’re soldiers. We’re supposed to fight.”
“Well, we are.” Wrecker frowned and nodded back in the direction of the Marauder. “Just tryin’ to keep what we have, that’s all.”
And now the Marauder lies in ruins, and Wrecker is not waking. This is new territory, Crosshair thinks, but if there’s one thing the Bad Batch is good at, it’s improvising. They’re used to thinking on their feet. Hunter, who sees and hears and feels more than the rest of them, knows that better than anyone.
And Crosshair knows his brother, which is why when Hunter stares at the space between their feet and says softly that Omega shouldn’t be alone, he crosses the distance and lays a hand on his brother’s shoulder and tells him,
“Neither should you.”
Because the look in Hunter’s eyes right now is the same one that Crosshair had seen above the burning surface of the Kaminoan sea, just before Hunter would have dived into the black water and stopped only because Crosshair had leveled his rifle with his brother’s head and made the same choice.
When it comes to Omega, there’s nothing for them to fight about.
But that’s Hunter’s problem, always has been—he’s better in close quarters. He makes things personal, even when they shouldn’t be. Part of that means keeping people close, but that also means that he doesn’t know what to do with distance. Crosshair’s the opposite, somehow. It’s easier to watch from afar, to observe and learn and strike with precision when the shots are least expected.
The Empire’s been taking too many shots at them lately, wearing them thin. Wrecker might have been holding Hunter up, but Hunter’s been keeping everything else together. Crosshair had thought he knew what leadership meant, even when he’d fired a shot through the skulls of his Imperial squad.
But it was Mayday that taught him what caring for a squad meant, Mayday that taught him what a person’s life meant, Mayday that taught him what the difference between surviving and living was, Mayday that made him realize that he missed his brothers. Echo would have had stories to swap around a battered heat generator. Tech would have been fascinated by the ice vultures on Barton IV. Wrecker would have seen the pressure detonator before Crosshair could even step on it. Hunter would have sheltered with him during the blizzard.
It'd be easy to keep distance, to keep his head down and do what Hunter asks of him. But when has anything ever been easy for the Bad Batch? When have they ever followed orders? Yes, they’ll go after Omega. Yes, they’ll make the Empire pay. But the last time they attempted a rescue mission, they came back without one of their own. Crosshair hates to think which of them will be next if they’re not careful. He won’t let lose another brother, won’t make another memorial on a planet he might never see again, won’t watch darkness and bitter desperation fill Hunter’s eyes like this again.
So maybe Crosshair learns to fight in close quarters. Maybe Hunter learns to take shots from farther away. Maybe Crosshair tells Hunter the make of the Imperial ships he saw alongside the cruiser, so that Echo also knows what they’re up against. Maybe he takes up his helmet and rifle and volunteers to go back to the wreckage of the Marauder to see what he can salvage. Maybe this time it’s Hunter who stays with Wrecker and Batcher and finds what rest he can. Maybe on Crosshair’s way out, he picks up Hunter’s helmet and brushes the dust and salt from it. And maybe the sides of their heads knock against one another as they go their ways into the dawn. A push, a shove, a contact point.
Crosshair doesn’t look back, but he can feel Hunter look over his shoulder at him. Being a sniper is about knowing when you’re being watched. This time isn’t like those scattered practice session on the shore, though, shooting fruits from AZI’s hands. This time he knows his brother’s watching out for him. This, at least, is familiar. This is something Crosshair hasn’t forgotten, from the years of watching Hunter’s six during the war. Crosshair has lost him once. He won’t lose him again.
After all, no one fights with Crosshair the way Hunter does.