Work Text:
Whoever claimed that life gets easier with time needs a good slap.
Preferably with a sheet of durasteel to the face, but if given the chance, you’d wind up with an empty palm.
Life wasn’t easy. It wasn’t kind. And—more often than not—wasn’t worth it. All life was good for, was making you tough enough to endure whatever else it threw at you.
Which, in an ironically unfunny way, was the reason you ended up in Cid’s poor excuse of a bar. After many failed attempts at escaping your rotten life, you fell into bounty hunting. Without a guild and without a ship. Abandoned to your lonesomeness.
The few odd characters you ran with in the past called you ‘the Dying Wish’. Having witnessed you sprint into oncoming fire with nothing but a thermal wrench. But you didn’t linger with them long enough for the name to stick.
Your stubborn need to work alone left you indebted to Cid. A hefty debt that threatened to bring a few rival gangs to Cid’s doorstep. So it was no surprise when Cid shouted you into the office, slammed down a tracking fob on the desk, and forced falsely joyful words through gritted teeth.
“Congratulations,” Cid snarled. “I’ve gotten you some partners. And I’m going to get my money back.”
Clone Force 99 was a peculiar bunch. A group that made the name Dying Wish seem more likely than ever. More so with the white-haired trooper and his bandaged head and hands—the hollow look in his eye sinking the fangs of a colder, pointedly unnamed—emotion into the center of your soul. He moved the way you felt: rigid, like a corpse.
The trip to the last known location of their mark was tense. You found a corner where you were out of mind, and haunted it the entirety of hyperspace. It was a rude move. One you typically wouldn’t do. Especially when you were being carted around without charge (despite it being at Cid’s demand).
But between the small girl much too keen on making friends, and the monstrous trooper behind her eager to do the same, the lonely corner felt familiar. Comforting. It didn’t make you feel like shards of glass strewn across a carpet in a room of bare-footed bystanders.
When the ship dropped out of hyperspace, that small reassurance oozed off your skin. It dripped onto the durasteel, hissing in your ears like acid poured over metal. You search the tight confines and meet eyes with that bandaged soldier. Crosshair. His hollow stare fixed on you with a sharpness that combatted how dead he appeared inside. You felt like prey. Because you were. A rodent in the sights of a cat.
It was unnerving, but not enough for you to feel threatened.
Unfortunately, living on the ships of strange men acquainted you with more… predatory gazes, you knew a genuine threat when you saw one. And while Crosshair’s piercing pale stare tightens in your direction, you recognize it as a distrusting assessment rather than the promise of a violent future.
You still hated how vulnerable he made you feel as you passed him to exit the ship.
As the mission continued on, it became increasingly clear why Cid sent you with the Bad Batch. The target wasn’t a simple stun-and-grab. It was a prison escape.
Hunter sent you off with Tech. As an extra body, your job was to guard and protect the only one capable of reading the servers.
Tech wasn’t an overly talkative individual. Well, no, he was. In fact, he never stopped talking. Everything he said was an information dump. Both irrelevant and relevant to the situation. An overload of values and facts. But it was mindless. He never required you to add to the conversation. Nor did he expect you to follow his train of thought. And because of that, you became increasingly grateful to be paired with him.
The job became Bantha Fodder early in the game. Whatever excuse at stealth everyone had kept was blown sky-high by the explosive Wrecker was in charge of. The comms were a static mixture of ‘protect Omega’ ‘avoid the fuel canisters’ ‘the room’s gonna blow’ ‘Tech regroup’.
From there, the sirens screeched out, and the madness commenced.
Tech’s connection broke with only a quarter left on the progress bar, signaling that the job was over without the hopes of payment. But nothing more could be done. You dragged him from your post and forced him to reconvene with the others.
When you both arrive on the scene, a hunk of shrapnel flies over your shoulder, mere inches from decapitating you in the doorway. Tech dragged you out of the line of fire and, together, you weasel around the outer edges of the ongoing fight to join the others.
Blaster bolts whizzed past, so close the heat stung your skin. You peer around the edge of what used to be a ship’s wing to squint into the debris. The green light of the incoming fire lit the shadows up. But only barely enough to aim at the guards.
In this darkness, you felt alone. Fighting to kill. One man against an army. The Bad Batch’s signature black and grey armor disguises them in the dark room. Only their voices lingering above tethered you to the reality of this moment. But Omega’s young screams—shrill and horrified beneath Wrecker’s giant grasp—teetered you into the oblivion of a memory that lives in your veins. A memory that corrupts your ability to remain human.
The deafening screech of sirens matched the thudding in your chest as you ducked, squeezed through the debris, barely avoiding another blast. Pain flared white-hot against your ear. You staggered. Blood speckled your fingers. No time. Don’t linger on it. It’s your ear. It’s just your ear.
But it felt like it took your mind with it.
Despite the agony, the injury grounds you. You glanced back at the Batch, finding Wrecker crowding Omega into a corner to protect her against the war zone. Hunter, good Sargent as ever, does nearly the same thing to Crosshair. the sniper’s white bandages peek out from beneath his plastoid armor.
“I can’t reach the lock,” Echo shouts at Tech, attempting to squeeze further into the wall where the mechanism dropped out of reach because of the explosion.
In a desperate urge to not feel like part of the problem, you dive across the firefight. When you reach Echo’s side, you grip the neckline of his armor and tug back.
“Let me, I can fit,” you shout over a minor explosion—one that starts a fire.
Echo shimmies out of the hole, aiming at the shooters while using the doorframe to block their bullets. Tech crouches behind him, talking you through each step as you squeeze into the hole, thankfully shorter and smaller than the rest of them to maneuver through the durasteel.
It felt like the hottest hour of your life. Tucked inside the narrow metal panels and under a line of roped-together wires. Then the blast doors opened and rumbled your little cage. After a second of wiggling to jimmy yourself out, the team was home-free.
Though that thought could be argued, because when you landed on Ord Mantell, Cid had been unpleasantly unhappy at your collective failure. Some other comments were made towards the Batch and their reputation, as well as a comment or two directed at you. But Hunter was satisfied with your dedication and agreed to let you join them on future jobs. Until your debt was paid.
So you joined them. First for three missions. Then for five. Then seven. And slowly, you forgot about the debt you needed to pay. One Cid conveniently failed to discuss once you paid it off.
You got comfortable with the rambunctious chaos on the Havoc Marauder. Now familiar with the bone-rattling laughter from Wrecker and the scowl Tech sent him that lacked any actual annoyance. Echo would search to meet your gaze when one of his brothers asked a stupid question, his eyes conveying almost a verbal ‘this idiot’ from across the room. And Hunter’s arm around your shoulders should have felt grounding, but a gnawing fear remained coiled inside you, still whispering that you didn’t belong here. That at any moment, they’d see through the cracks and cast you out.
Your little cycle continued until you were no longer an extra body. No longer someone to keep the numbers steady when they couldn’t risk Omega in the field, automatically losing a second member of their squad to the first most important rank—‘babysitter’.
In fact, your presence became so commonplace to the cramped Marauder that after a more recent success, Wrecker took your head inside the crook of his elbow, rubbed his knuckles across the top of your skull, and enthusiastically proclaimed, “what would we do without you, little mouse?”
He released you, your hair frizzed out on the top. His massive hand attempted to smooth it back out, beefy fingers getting caught up in the knots.
Crosshair spins around with a sneer, pointing his toothpick at you from across the hull.
“She is angry like a rat—” Crosshair starts.
“Oi, shut it Cross, she ain’t angry.” Wrecker scoops you up in one arm, tossing you up in the air just slightly to make you yelp and grapple onto him. He laughs. “Aren’t ya, Mouse?”
Crosshair rolled his eyes when the others laugh as well.
Wrecker never intended for the nickname to stick. Whenever he referred to you as it, it was always in jest. But eventually Echo joined, and Hunter. And Wrecker slowly started to call you by it all the time.
You didn’t notice how much you’d been pulled into their team dynamic until Tech approached you—datapad in his face—and called you by that name. Without thinking. Without correction. Only ‘Mouse’ before moving on. Crosshair still called you a rat from time to time, sure. But mostly, you were Mouse.
You liked it much better than Dying Wish.
***
You weren’t sure where the backslide came from. One minute you were happily wandering the bustling narrow pathways of the planet’s famous market. The next you’re frozen. Feet cemented to the ground.
Sunlight crystalized around your head. Bright and unyielding. Piercing to the eye. It shone through the artwork hanging from a glassblower’s stand, perfectly framing the sentimental scene your eyes were trapped on.
A small child gleefully cackles, whitened knuckles clinched around the fabric of their mother’s skirt, successfully dragging her away from her chores after they beg for her to join. They dance around the tiny courtyard; the musician taking advantage of the scene to further emphasize the happy moment.
It was peaceful. Soft. The horrors of the war couldn’t touch it. It couldn’t be tainted by the imperial soldiers marching around the senate building on the market’s far side.
Yet it was. You watch on, shadows creeping into the corners of your mind, pulling the moment into a darker place. And you could see a ghostly fear mar the child’s smile. You could see how the troops would tear the mother off them and land three bullets between her eyes. You could hear the shrill screams of nearby citizens, and you knew how fast they would try to scatter from reach. Still, the trained soldiers would mow them down without a problem.
It all gathered in your throat, leaving you breathless. Weighted to another time. A time where you stood alone, choking on the thick, wet agony that had snuffed the air from your lungs. Even now it refuses to move, still wrapping around your airway, promising to hang you in your helplessness. Your eyes water. But no tears fall. And you’d gasp for breath if you didn’t feel so numb to it, so disconnected.
Overwhelmed but also dead.
A ghoul in its truest form.
A warm body hovers at your side, their shadow looming over you, blocking out the light. Your first semi-coherent thought is ‘Hunter. Must be Hunter’. Still you don’t move. You slump a little closer to him, but your bodies don’t touch.
Wrong. Your heart screams, the thought chilling inside your hollow mind. Wrong. Not allowed. You’re not allowed to touch. Wrong. Kill yourself.
Part of you wants to ask why. A larger part of you mindlessly agrees. You haven’t initiated physical contact. Not with the Batch… or anyone. Not since—
Warm fingers dig into your arm, painfully tight beneath your elbow, rotating deeply into the flesh of your forearm. You jump when the discomfort registers, trying to pull out of their tight grasp. In your shock, you stare up, brows curling together when you see Crosshair standing before you, his team long vanished from your surroundings.
He appraises you as you look around. The scene vastly changed from what it had been moments before. Still the same street and still the same vendors. But none of the shoppers looked familiar in the slightest.
Eventually you return the sniper’s gaze, feeling hollowed out as you meet his eye. You try to ignore how your skin itches, urging you to succumb to old habits. Begging you to punish yourself like you deserve. You push it down. The last thing you want is for Crosshair’s keen stare to see you fall apart behind the portrait you’ve created to hide your suffering.
“Are you—” Crosshair begins, fingers twitching against your arm. “You finished shopping, Mouse? Or do I need to drag you out of here before you spend what little money we managed to scrape together before landing?”
He asked snidely, but you can hear the molten concern in his chill tone.
Try as you might, you can’t answer him. Your words left you. Gone with the breeze and the overbearing thought that 'you can fix this, you know how to fix this', and you won’t entertain it, but finding anything else to say when your mind is shredding you apart on the inside is impossible.
Instead, you nod and hope that he leaves you to your internal battle without pressing further.
***
Crosshair hovers more after that moment. Not that he would be caught doing so. Despite all the traumas he has been recovering from, he refuses to be mistaken for ‘soft’.
So his hovering looks more like verbal assault than anything else, but you’ve had enough experience with crass people to know the difference between genuine hostility and a tough front. Though that doesn’t mean his wicked tongue doesn’t hurt sometimes.
And of course—being the person you were—you didn’t tolerate the forked comments, regardless of Crosshair’s intentions.
Which leaves the two of you, unsurprisingly, in a heated battle of wits. As heated as you could get while whispering. Especially when your tempers were climbing with Tech’s ever-unhelpful reminders to remain quiet or risk the wrath of waking up Hunter. Or Omega.
“Just let me raise the temperature. It’s freezing in here,” you hiss, arms guarding your chest as Crosshair looms over you, his cuirass inches away from your face.
“Freezing?” Crosshair drawls, staring at you down his nose. “If it gets any warmer, the plastoid will melt.”
“Please. Ord Mantell’s scraplands are hotter. You can stand a couple of degrees–”
“The temperature needs to stay low to balance the systems.” Crosshair leans in closer. “Want to be stranded in space?”
Your breath catches at his proximity. For a brief second, the argument is suspended mid-air, as you’re too caught up in the gold flecks in his gaze. He snorts.
“That’s what I thought.”
The self-satisfied smirk on his face kicks your mind back into focus.
“I didn’t agree, you idiot.” You bark, clutching his cuirass to drag him closer. His eyes widen and he throws out his hand to catch himself, planting it next to your head. “We’ve been stranded in space before, and I doubt that changing the temperature is going to throw off the ship’s systems that much. Besides, I can’t focus when my fingers are numb.”
Once you’ve growled out your piece, you notice the position you’ve put yourselves in. The one most of the romance writers overuse. He’s leaned over you, and a head taller than you, one arm propped against the wall, the other frighteningly close to your waist. You’re beneath him, hand on his chest. And while you could step back, you’d be directly against the wall. Which would put you in an even more compromising position.
He scans your face, those eagle eyes scouring yours for the smallest change. Part of you wants that—wants him to see the ember of desire you try stomping out.
“Actually, the most optimal galactic standard degree would be twenty-two, which studies have proven is conducive to both comfort and an effective working environment. So neither one of you will be adjusting the temperature to your liking,” Tech finally declares, adjusting his goggles as he looks up from his soldering iron. “Please take your little domestic elsewhere.”
“Domestic–” Crosshair starts, pushing off the wall to pursue another argument, this time with Tech.
Part of you wanted Crosshair to see your want. But not the larger part. No, the larger part of you was ripped out of the ship and thrust into the vacuum of space. It snuffed out all feeling, leaving you distant and disorientated. You’ve seen too much. Been through too much. You’re too broken to be loved the way you want. This little family was the closest you’d ever get, and even then, you weren’t part of it. You were an onlooker. Some sideline spectator to a silent hope.
You had your chance at a family. And you blew it.
A piercing scream shatters the glass box you closed yourself in, your feet moving before your mind can follow.
Omega scrambles out of the old gunner’s mount, leaping onto you as you closed in. She grips you with sharp nails and tightly coiled limbs. Momentarily, it felt like being in the clutches of predator. But it felt like that beforehand too. A child, when riddled with fear, can be the most inconsolable of monsters. You knew that from experience.
You also knew that they needed to be reminded they weren’t one.
Once bundled up in your arms, you sit on the floor, back propped against the gunner’s ladder. You coo and hush, ignoring the blubbering that sounded far too alike to ‘momma’.
Each time she says it, it guts you a little more.
Each time she says it, those old urges of yours snarl in your mind.
It felt like a lifetime before Hunter finally swoops her off your lap. You feel weathered, like your soul has withered into an elderly cripple and your body has yet to catch up. He dips his head to meet your distant gaze. When you meet them, his eyes widen, obviously seeing something in you that the others couldn’t. Most likely because of the child cradled in his arms.
***
This mission is supposed to be huge. The pay triple what any of them had been paid in months. But the planet was dastardly occupied by the Empire and its people in support of the new military regulations.
Crosshair was far more jumpy than he’d been in a while. And he hated that the best spot for him and his rifle was a perch only a couple of clicks away from the very visible Havoc Marauder. Yet even with all of his reasons, you are more anxious than the rest of them.
“Got something against the Empire?” Crosshair asks, glaring at you when you hesitate to answer.
You hadn’t bothered to meet his eyes when you finally came unglued from your spot overlooking the gully. “Something against the planet.”
Ultimately, the Batch’s bad luck strikes as it always does. You knew there’d be one hell of an argument when you manage to get off the damn planet, since the compromise was your fault.
You were in a hall you had no business being in. And in that moment, it was rather hilarious. The orange Twi’lek gaped, and you stood there with an equal look of shock on your face. Humorous—until he tore his pistol from its holster and aimed from a point-blank range.
It had been Crosshair’s trigger finger that saved you.
The blaster bolt tore through the bay window to your left and pierced the side of the Twi’lek’s head. He dropped to your feet, and you scooped up his gun for extra precaution. Crosshair snarls at you over the comms and you sprinted off to do your part. But it felt like trudging through a marsh.
By the time you reconvene with the others, you shot down everyone on your tail. Hunter hollered orders, trying to get them all out of the sparsely treed area to where there was more cover. Your feet moved you in another direction.
“Mouse! Get your arse in gear and fall back!” Hunter ordered, his hostile tone slightly muffled by his helmet.
“Two minutes,” you mumble, coming to a halt in front of an unmarked grave, knowing the space beneath your feet intimately.
You clutch at the weeds, tearing them out with hunks of dirt.
“Get going,” Hunter says to the others. They dart off, though not without their share of hesitance.
You abandoned your helmet to the side, sweeping your fingers over the rushed carving on the base of the tree at the head of the little grave. Your fingers catch the vines hiding part of the name, tearing it away from the tree. Hunter crouches next to you, looking between the name and you, not entirely understanding.
“I tried so hard,” you say, voice filling with unshed tears.
It’s obvious that Hunter doesn’t know what to do.
“Gotta go, Mouse,” he says instead, because all he does know is how to keep people alive—unlike you—and the longer you sit in the dirt, the harder that is going to be. Too many people are moving in on your last known location.
“I’m out of reasons to keep running,” you admit quietly.
“Let–” Hunter’s voice stutters, his helmet turning to you in a slow, deliberate notion that screams of horror and apprehension and fear, like Hunter finally understood your intent. “Let’s get back to the ship.”
You sigh, leaning your forehead on the trunk as a tear finally crests over your cheek and drips to the forest floor.
“Com’on Mouse, we gotta get Omega to the ship. She’s not safe out here.”
It’s dirty. Cheap. Vile. But it works. You stand on shaky legs, press a kiss to the tree, and whisper ‘goodbye’, knowing you could never return to this planet again. When you stuff your helmet over your head, Hunter wraps an arm around your middle and forces you forward, keeping you in front of him.
You had a feeling he would never let you out of his sight again.
***
Hunter asked you a lot after that day. On days when you were a little more bitter. A little less talkative.
Hell, he asked you during missions when he had a chance.
‘You need a reason, Mouse?’
You knew he was being safe. Being responsible. But you still regret him knowing—he had enough responsibility—because now he was aware. And damn him, you wanted to struggle in peace. You needed that. Nobody else was supposed to know that you were a husk of a person. His knowing felt demeaning. It felt condemning.
And how were you supposed to give in to those urges when he lingered in your shadow?
He asked quietly. Most days he’d tug you aside, just out of earshot. Other times, when they were in the cramped hull of the Marauder, the question would be no louder than a whisper.
Still, the others knew something was amiss. Especially Crosshair with his habit of being within arm’s reach of you constantly.
It was a tough day, though. Tough enough that Omega had sent you several looks of concern moments before you all went on another mission. Tough enough that Hunter was looming against your neck. But you got split up, and while you could manage just fine on your own, you didn’t want to.
“You need a reason, Mouse?”
You jump in the silence, glancing around the empty office before you recognized Crosshair’s tinny voice over the comm unit. You stare at your wrist, the bright button waiting for a reply. Heat swells over your cheeks, thankfully hidden from the sniper’s gaze beneath your helmet. How’d he notice?
How didn’t he?
You hadn’t realized Hunter was frequent enough with his check-ins to draw attention. And Crosshair, while still learning how to become one with his team again, still had a keen sight. The one thing he didn’t need to relearn was the noticing. You found it startling on a good day.
But today wasn’t a good day.
“No,” you answered on reflex. Then you thought about it—the question, the darkness in your lungs, the implication of him asking—and found that him asking was enough. “No, I’m good.”
He didn’t respond. Which left you wondering whether he accepted that answer enough to trust it. But you keep pushing on, and if you notice blaster fire rain down a little harder, you make no mention of it.
***
You should have known better than to press. Hunter knew from the moment he laid eyes on you that you shouldn’t be on this mission. But your mood brokered no argument, and you fought yourself into this situation. Between Hunter and Echo (though you still had no idea if he knew about your mental state or not), you didn’t have the… opportunity you were looking for.
You were pulled out of the way of debris by Echo twice, and Hunter once. After which, Wrecker used himself as a human shield.
“Do you need a reason, Mouse?” Crosshair asks, his voice echoing in your new helmet, bouncing around your mind with the whirlwind of darker thoughts.
The question normally tethered you to reality. Calmed you enough to see that your own bloodshed would do the boys no favors. But the hiss of his voice, the apparent ‘you’re devolving’, pushed you further.
You don’t know how you didn’t immediately get shot as you leap into the firefight next to Wrecker. Maybe you undervalued your own skill, maybe you turned a blind eye to Wrecker’s. Or maybe the sniper has more say in how the battle ended than he got credit for.
In the end, you didn’t care.
***
“What was that?” Crosshair snarks out, his palm threateningly close to your airway as he backed you into the storage room back on the Marauder.
“What do you want me to say, Cross? We both know nothing is gonna change that it happened. I made a mistake.” You sigh, pushing your fingers into your right eye until it aches.
Crosshair snatches your hand away, clutching it in his grasp. His hand engulfs yours, perfectly fitting against the back of it. He uses his knuckle to tip your head back, forcing you to meet his searching gaze.
“We don’t make mistakes.”
You shrugged, huffing softly in the dark confines, ignoring how trapped you feel between the crates and Crosshair’s unmoving form. “Yeah, well, I’m not you guys, so–”
“You misheard me,” Crosshairs says with a little less patience. “We don’t make mistakes. Not like that. We comm each other. Too much is at risk not to.”
You nod, pulling away from him. “I’ll do better next time.”
Crosshair scoffs and rolls his eyes, then snags your face in his free hand, squeezing hard enough to squish your cheeks slightly.
“Don’t be obtuse. Hear what I’m saying,” he snaps.
You squirm in his hold, but he doesn’t budge. He raises a brow at you and you concede, pausing to think his statement through.
It takes an embarrassingly long time to understand he’s calling you one of them. Part of the team. He’s saying he was scared at the thought of losing you—someone he’s come to care for.
“I’m sorry,” you say, for a lack of anything else.
His jaw clenches.
He wanted more. Not that you knew what that could mean. And despite wracking your brain for the right words, you couldn’t come up with anything else. With a grimace, Crosshair releases you. But he doesn’t leave the storage room, nor does he move to allow you to.
“You think you can hide things from me? You can’t,” he mutters, voice rumbling in the small space.
Immediately your heart jolts in your chest, and you’re grateful this conversation wasn’t happening with Hunter. He knows, your mind hurls at you, he knows, he knows, damaged, he knows. But it’s impossible because you’ve kept it hidden. You time it carefully, making sure it never looks like you did it to yourself.
Crosshair tilts his head, and you swallow your tongue and all the vile thoughts it wants to spill into the air. In its stead comes denial, but you know better than to voice that either. Which leaves you to stand in front of him, a silent panic written across the valleys of your face.
“How many times will you be able to ignore those thoughts?” He presses further.
Relief floods you. A trickling river inside your chest that you redirect to hide from the sniper. He knows, but he doesn’t know. He’s likely seen the way you enviously study Hunter’s vibroblade when he leaves it on the table to keep sharpening once he grabs a cup of caf. He’s likely noticed how your hand stutters when Tech asks you to use the soldering iron. Hell, he’s probably recognized the split-second hesitation when you all have waltzed past a bar on some backwater planet. He knew you wanted nothing more than to drown the thoughts.
But that’s all he thought they were. Thoughts.
You hold his gaze long enough to let him believe you’re thinking up a honest answer. But you’re saved from having to attempt lying when Hunter calls from somewhere else in the hull, having finished liftoff procedures.
This time Crosshair lets you slip by. But he follows fast behind you.
***
Hunter twirls his vibroblade again, listening to the satisfying hum of electricity through the air.
The Havoc Marauder wasn’t a silent ship. But there’s a stretch of time after a mission—bone weary and cold—that he hates. Almost painfully static with the lack of liveliness.
It makes him achingly aware of the body that leans against the wall, watching the same thing he does.
“Hunter,” Crosshair says to catch his attention, as if he could ignore his existence in this time of quiet.
He glances over at his brother, unsurprised to find him stripped down to his blacks. Crosshair’s probably just as tired as he is.
“What’ya want, Cross?”
Crosshair folds his arms across his chest and turns away to peer out the cockpit at the lights of hyperspace. Hunter sighs and places his vibroknife down on the control panel. He rubs his eyes, tired of the constantly changing colors that strain them. When he drops his hand, he finds Crosshair glaring down at the blade.
“I asked Mouse the question,” Crosshair says.
Hunter waits for Crosshair to elaborate. Unsurprisingly, Crosshair doesn’t.
“What question?” Hunter grumbles.
“The question.”
“What—oh.”
Crosshair doesn’t say anything about that, just flicks the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other.
Hunter glances over to the co-pilot seat, leaning his head back against the rest while he studies Mouse. She fell asleep after a long period of restlessness, curled into herself with one of Wrecker’s blankets strewn around her. It’s been a while since she slept this solid, Hunter would know. He hears her pacing when she can’t.
“She didn’t respond,” Crosshair supplies. “She always responds.”
“You’ve asked her before?” Hunter asks, curious to when his brother figured it out.
Crosshair hums but doesn’t elaborate.
“She’ll be okay, Cross,” Hunter promises, silently pleading that she wouldn’t turn him into a liar. “She’s just going through a rough patch. We’ve got her.”
All they’ve ever needed was each other. He doesn’t know what else to do if it’s suddenly not enough.
***
Death always seemed appealing. Before, when your life was at its best. After everything went to hell. And especially now, with your body screaming in agony as you sink into a seat aboard the Marauder. You’ve all been through a lot in the past few months. And you’ve been toughing through it. But lately, living has lost its… everything.
You messed up badly this time. All because you were too much of a coward to end it. Too afraid of the unknown, too eager to be done suffering. Limbo, you’re in limbo, you’re not real anymore.
You sure didn’t feel real. Not unless you were bleeding or beaten, hurting like you deserve to. But that desperate desire kept cropping up during missions, kept encouraging you to allow unthinkable things to happen for the sweet relief of pain.
Which led to you putting yourself in front of a vibromace, leading to the large gash on the outside of your upper thigh.
Hunter fumes with an unspoken anger as he passes by you to the controls, Tech right behind him. You turn your gaze to your feet. If only, if only, if only, if only, if only, if only, if—
Tech squats down in front of you, meeting your gaze with sad eyes. He studies you voicelessly, grief thick in the surrounding air. He shuts his eyes tightly, shakes his head, and continues to the cockpit.
Still can. Still can. Still can. Still can. Still can.
Crosshair silently slips into the seat beside you. You pointedly ignore him. Only, it seems Crosshair felt a little more demanding this time. After a few minutes of being ignored, he takes your hand in both of his. Then he refuses to meet your eye. Once in the air and Tech has activated autopilot, Crosshair pulls you to your feet, helping you down to the refresher.
You ignore the tension. Repeating in your mind the schematics of an unaltered Omicron, internally smiling at all the changes inside the Marauder that screams of the Bad Batch. From the overhead cargo hold, to Omega’s little room, and the weapons wrack hidden in the wall near the doors. But the most chilling change in this moment is the refresher where the weapons wrack used to be.
It was ingenious. The boys didn’t need an additional weapon wrack with the new alterations. And with such long periods spent in space, a refresher was necessary. Right now, you were cursing it as much as you were grateful for it.
Crosshair steps inside it first, pulling you in after he maneuvered himself into a corner of the small space. Once inside, he scoops an arm beneath your thighs and lifts you up. You bite your tongue to keep from hissing. He folds out the mirror piece that alters the sink into a medical table, then drops the legs before setting you atop it.
You look everywhere but at him; at the showerhead on the left wall and the toilet against the right directly across from it. Then at the table you sat on that took up most of the space. There was enough room for two people when the table was up, but it was a tight squeeze. If Crosshair turned the shower on now, your legs would be soaked.
It was the smallest refresher you’ve used in a long, long time. And every time you were inside it, you remembered why you hated small spaces.
With how thin the walls are, you can hear the others clearly.
“Omega, I need your help to disable the magnetic lock on the console seat.”
You cringe, nervously meeting Crosshair’s gaze. He reaches up and pushes the hair away from your face, staring blankly back at you. It’s then that Tech appears in the doorway.
“I need you to step out of the way now, Crosshair.” Tech says, turning to Omega behind him. “Thank you for your help, my dear. I’ve got it from here. You and Crosshair should join the others in the cabin.”
“Okay,” Omega says, peeking around him into the refresher. “We’ll give you some privacy.”
She smiles and waves before vanishing; her hurried footsteps echoing through the aft. Tech backs away from the door to let Crosshair out. Crosshair taps his forehead against yours, then shimmies around the table to follow his little sister.
Tech clicks the door in place to block the others from coming down the aft to the rear gun. Once secured, he carries the console seat into the refresher. There’s not much space with the table down, but he manages. He locks the magnets into place.
“I must say,” Tech begins, setting his datapad down to open the medkit cabinet over the toilet, “this is the most reckless I’ve seen you in the field.”
He adjusts his glasses and sets down an anti-bacterial towel atop the toilet lid, using it as a makeshift side-table. Once all the supplies are situated in a spot they won’t fall off, he turns to you.
“I cannot lie and say that this turn of events does not change how I view you. I believed you to be more rational than the others. It appears I’ve mistaken. A mistake I can guarantee will never happen again.”
Volatile, emotional, liability, you hear. But what you really are is desperate. You wanted it to end. Wanted it to be quiet.
Isn’t this all quite the opposite turn of events.
“Now, I can either cut your pants open or remove them. Regardless, I will need you to tell me where to find your other garments.”
“Second pouch in the drawer under seat six,” you say.
“Ah, yes, the zippered one. Excuse me,” Tech says, disappearing from the room again.
When he enters, he places your folded pants on the table beside you. “I assume because you haven’t removed the torn pants, we will be cutting them open.”
Honestly, you can tell that the act is up, the stage is set, your show is over. The boys are onto you. Whether you liked it or not, you were about to face them. And you weren’t fighting anymore. You were too tired to fight. So, you may as well give them all the information.
“I need help removing them.” You sigh, looking at your feet.
“Very well,” Tech says without hesitation. “Brace your back against the wall and try to lift your hips up.”
You nod and obey his request, shimmying as much as you can to help get the waistband past your arse. His breath catches at the sight of your thighs. He pauses. Just for a second. Then he continues to pull your ruined clothing off, dropping both your shoes under the table.
He doesn’t say anything. But his face screams his every thought. Obviously, the gash from the vibromace is the worst, requiring a ridiculous amount of skin adhesive.
“I cannot seal this with the laser cauterizer due to the severe bruising. It needs the adhesive spray, which will be more susceptible to re-opening. You will be required to rest longer.” Tech examines, prepping his cleaning supplies. “Bacta should heal most of the other injuries.”
You grip the edges of the table as Tech swipes the antibacterial cleaning pads across the wound. Eventually, you disappear into your thoughts, allowing them to sweep you along in the depths of their dark tides.
The ship jolts, forcing you the grip the table. Tech pins one of your legs down, holding tight to the magnetic chair. When the ship settles again, he leaps to his feet.
“I will send Crosshair in the assist with the bacta,” he says in lieu of ‘excuse me’.
Immediately, your heart curls in on itself. Because while Crosshair knows, knowing differs from seeing. He can’t know, he can’t know, he can’t know. And by the time you think to slap some bacta on yourself and pull your pants on, another body has planted itself in Tech’s chair.
Crosshair stares down at your legs, his wide sniper eyes taking in every detail. Only then do you dare to look too. It’s a horrid pattern of yellows and browns intermingled with deep purple veining. The white flecks of bacta patches across your thighs and knees made them that much darker. Especially the thick piece glued atop the adhesive spray fusing your skin back together.
Clenching his jaw, Crosshair leans down and presses his forehead against your knee. When he straightens, he refuses to meet your gaze, instead solely focused on applying the bacta spray across your bruises.
You both coast on the silence until your pants are on and you both exit the refresher. Crosshair closes the door, gaining Tech’s attention.
“I’d prefer Mouse not being on her feet.” He adjusts his glasses before ushering both Omega and Hunter toward the refresher.
Crosshair sweeps you into his arms wordlessly. You chirp in surprise. He squeezes you a little tighter. You watch the three of them pass by, meeting Omega’s sad gaze before Hunter taps her on the back to keep her going.
Wrecker rubs the back of his neck sheepishly as Crosshair sets you down, feeling your questioning gaze and falling prey to it. “Tech is doing check-ins. He feels, well…”
Crosshair stares down at you, and you wish you could draw your legs up and hide in them. He sits next to you. There you both remain in dreadful silence, waiting to land on Pabu.
***
Hunter must have spoken to everyone else first. Because once the ship lands on the island, Wrecker carts Omega down the ramp.
“Come on, kid.” Once outside the ship, he hoists her atop his shoulder, only her legs visible from where you sit. “Let’s find Phee and tell her about that creature we chased.”
Wrecker made cautious eye contact with everyone inside, leaving when Hunter nods at him in approval.
Yeah, you’re in for it.
You expect more than the stagnant silence. A little shouting, arguing, some guilt. But nobody knows what to do or what to say.
Echo looks more hollowed out than ever before, a husk of a man, drained of every last ounce of life left in him. Tech scowls to himself, his thoughts competing for attention. Crosshair sits still and silent. And Hunter, he just looks at you.
With a sigh, Hunter draws a console chair over in front of you, not bothering to lock the magnet. He leans on his knees, framing himself to take up your entire field of view.
“Hey.” Hunter’s voice wobbles, and he reaches out to take one of your hands in his. He stares down at it, weaving his fingers between yours and tracing the scar on the heel of your palm absentmindedly. Your thoughts bounce around, saying they’re better off, they’re better, liability, leave them, give in, give in, give in, help me, they can’t know, they know, if only–
“Hey,” Hunter says sternly, knocking you free from the deep, “you listen to me now. You’re wrong. We need our girl. Okay? You’re not allowed to take her from us. It’s not her time yet.”
It wipes the breath from your lungs. You don’t know if he was talking to you, or the thoughts in you. And perhaps that was the point. In the end, when you’re curled over Hunter’s lap with his hand in your hair, you clung to his determination.
***
The boys arranged for you to see a mind healer. And while you were nervous, you weren’t against it. You’ve seen too many things, lost too many people, earned too many scars to say no. But ultimately, it wasn’t the mind healer that helped. It was the people in your home.
Pabu allowed you to settle finally. Sure, a time or two you all needed to go out and make an income on a job. Or even help Rex with the rebellion. But for most of the year, you all fell into a routine, something comfortable and calm.
As calm as you could get with Omega vibrating after you, speaking what feels like a million words a minute.
The older she gets, the more like Tech she becomes.
“That’s really why I wanna go with Lyana. Not because of–”
“Omega,” you cut her off, sliding a hand over your face. “Go, your momma needs a break anyway.”
“Really?” She bounds around you.
“Yes.” You smile.
Her grin wavers, and she looks around the empty home, growing dimmer with the promise of nightfall. “You sure?”
Oh, your little extrovert.
“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me. Go find your friend,” you say while ushering her out the door, eager to take your tea and watch the sunset over the ocean.
When she rushed down the street, you closed the door behind you and breathed in the silence. The sunlight dappled in through the windows, bathing the room in the orange hue of dusk. Music drifting in from the open patio doors, mingling with the scent of freshly baked goods cooling on the counter.
Your kettle pops, calling to you. Succumbing to its call, you fix your drink to your liking, stepping outside once finished.
The sunsets on Pabu were unlike any other planet. Pinks, oranges, purples, and a hint of red blending to create a canvas of watercolor. With the hint of saltwater in the air, and the florals littering the posts of the balcony, it was an oasis. One you hoarded in the evenings.
As you lean against the railing, mug cupped between your palms, something brushes your hair away from your neck. You gasp, lurching upright toward the intruder.
“Crosshair!” You clutch your chest, gently settling your mug atop the railing. “You scared the life out of me.”
He cradles one side of your neck, stroking it with his thumb. He hums.
“Can still feel your pulse.”
You smack his chest, ignoring him in favor of sipping on your tea. He brushes your hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear.
“My hair bugging you or something?” You ask, something unspoken bubbling over in your chest.
“Yes.”
“Oh.” You can feel your surprise cool your cheeks. “Why?”
“Can’t see your pretty face.”
You pause, turning your gaze from the horizon. He looks serious. Genuine. And for a man who can likely see every pore on your skin, it’s heartwarming.
“Crosshair, I–”
But you don’t know what to say. Because anything you could think of sounds embarrassing to say aloud.
“I know.” He smirks, flicking his eyes over your features. He takes a step closer, backing you up against the railing. His palms settle on either side, caging you in place. You vibrate at his proximity. “I’ve always known.”
“I–A-are you sure?” You ask with a nervous smile, leaning a ways back over the railing, unable to breathe with how close he was.
His fingers skate across your jaw, his palm cupping your cheek and drawing you back in to where you were before, refusing to let you escape him. His thumb sweeps over the corner of your mouth, his eyes tracing the movement with precision.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he says, holding your gaze firmly.
He remains unmoving, waiting patiently for your answer.
You peer up at Crosshair, your small fingers gripping his wrist. You gently tug to test him. He doesn’t let you pull away, instead bringing his other hand up to your waist. Too close, he’s too close. And you can’t think, your mind spinning in a slew of thoughts. It’s not overwhelming though. Not like it had been.
You scan over his sharp features; the tattoo around his golden eye, his high cheekbones, his sweeping jawline, each thing that made him a fierce creature to behold. And the longer you stare, the more your desire—your yearning—seeps onto your face.
The corner of his mouth tips up cockily, and you want nothing more than to melt into the floor. He traces your bottom lip with his thumb, leaning closer.
“That’s what I thought,” he says, looking between your mouth and your eyes.
Your heart flutters in your chest. The traitorous thing.
His breath brushes against your face as you lock eyes, teasing you. The anticipation causes you to lift onto your toes, trying to get closer to him. He chuckles. Then pulls back again to savor the moment. But when you pout, jutting out your plush bottom lip, he caves, falling into you like a man starved.
He captures your bottom lip in his mouth, sucking ever so lightly. You gasp, and he groans into you, wrapping his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The hand on your face cups the back of your neck, fully bracing you in his hold. All you can feel is him. All you can smell is him. All you can breathe is him.
When the sunset drifts into night, and the chill breeze bites, wracking you with a shiver, he takes you into his arms. Then into his bed.
That night you felt more like yourself than you had in years.
***
The harsh truth is that life wasn’t easy. It wasn’t kind. And, sometimes, wasn’t worth it. But sometimes is not all the time.
Sometimes, you get something good in the bad. You find a friend that will never let you go, even if you hate them for it. You find someone who can share your burdens, someone who maybe only understands a bit, but that’s a bit more than anyone else. You meet people that learn to carry you, physically or mentally. And you meet people who will sit with you in the silent suffering because that’s all they know too. And, on super special, super rare occasions, you’ll be blessed with the best of them all-a treasure among the trash that you couldn’t possibly deserve but still hoard.
So, no, life isn’t easy. It was never meant to be. Because what meaningful things could we appreciate without a little hardship? What would be valuable if everything was always ‘worth it’? The river widens closest to the sea, but only after it has endured its course, bending and breaking, yet always moving forward—toward the open horizon, where the waters finally calm.