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The sun rises early on Pabu. Hunter does not.
It’s cute, Crosshair thinks as he watches Hunter try to burrow into the pillow, smearing the spot of drool that’s forming under his mouth and mussing his hair badly enough that it could be mistaken for a womp rat’s nest. Hunter never slept so soundly before. There was always a part of him that was alert and ready for a fight.
They’re safe on this island. They both know it, feel it, deep in their bones. It’s a sense of calm Crosshair’s never known before, the kind he didn’t know he was missing until it was finally there.
He smooths a hand over Hunter’s hair, brushing back a strand that’s fallen over the former sergeant's face. It’s longer now, enough that he could pull it back into a tail like Omega does with hers, though he wears it loose most days – to Crosshair’s appreciation – and still opts for a bandana on those occasions when he wants to keep it out of the way.
Hunter doesn’t stir as Crosshair leans down to press a kiss to his hair but even asleep, he still makes a small sound of disapproval when he feels the bed shift as Crosshair moves to get up.
Crosshair wonders if Hunter would believe him if he ever mentioned that little whine he hears almost every morning. Probably not.
It does make a compelling case for staying in bed, though. If he weren’t already planning to come right back, it might even win out.
The house is still and quiet as Crosshair pads from their bedroom to the kitchen. The caf machine breaks the silence as it sputters to life. It’s an old secondhand thing, like most items in their little home are, and it’s perhaps a bit slow to fill the pot but the caf it produces is real, not the instant sludge they were given in the army, and Crosshair doesn’t mind the wait for such a luxury.
Batcher wanders into the kitchen when she hears the first drips of caf hit the bottom of the pot. Crosshair gives her a pat and dutifully retrieves her breakfast dish. The container of ground meat is in its usual place on the top shelf of the conservator. Crosshair wrinkles his nose at the smell when he pops the lid off it but Batcher’s crooked little tail starts to wag in approval. Three generous scoops of meat go into the dish.
Crosshair pauses in his routine to consider the hound a moment. She tilts her head from side to side and looks up at him with wide eyes. He breaks. An extra scoop – smaller than the first three – goes into the dish.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he instructs. Batcher tilts her head again. Crosshair takes that as agreement.
He tops the dish with a couple slices of dried fruit, to the hound’s apparent delight, and sets it on the floor for her to tear into.
The caf machine is finished by now. Crosshair pulls three mugs down from the cupboard, filling two and leaving the third next to the half full pot for Wrecker. Once, he would have left one out for Tech as well but he’s sworn off caf since their retirement, claiming it makes him jittery now.
Taking the two mugs of caf with him, Crosshair heads back to the bedroom.
In Crosshair’s absence, Hunter has claimed his pillow as a replacement cuddle partner. He’s got his arms wrapped tight around the middle and his nose pressed into the fabric of its covering. Their bed isn’t especially large but it’s bigger than the army bunks and bedrolls they’re used to and somehow Hunter’s managed to migrate halfway across it, unconsciously seeking Crosshair. To top it off, his hair is in his face again and one foot hangs haphazardly over the side of the mattress.
He looks ridiculous. Something warm blooms in Crosshair’s chest and escapes as a laugh.
The sound – or perhaps the smell of caf – earns him a muffled, “Cross?”
The warmth becomes an aching need to touch. He crosses the room in a few quick strides, pausing to deposit the mugs onto the bedside table before he gently pries the pillow away from Hunter’s grip.
Hunter’s eyes blink open blearily as Crosshair climbs back into the bed next to him.
“What time is it?” he asks – or at least, that’s what Crosshair thinks he’s trying to say. The words themselves are lost to a yawn.
“Sit up,” Crosshair orders gently instead of answering. “I brought you caf.”
Hunter obeys and accepts the mug gladly, letting his eyes fall shut as he takes a sip.
“I love you,” Hunter declares.
The way he says it – so simply, like it’s the most obvious thing and yet still worthy of mention. He never hesitates, never sounds unsure. The words come easy, even half asleep.
Crosshair doesn’t know how to say it back. He feels it, of course, has done since they were cadets. And he wants to return the words, wants to say them with the same ease that Hunter always does. There are only three of them. They shouldn’t stick in his throat the way they do, somehow both too big and still not nearly enough to say everything he feels.
So he does what he always does and makes a joke of it.
“Are you talking to me or the caf?”
“Yes.”
Crosshair snorts. Hunter smiles in that way that says he knows what Crosshair really means and Crosshair – well, he loves him all the more for it.
The caf is a little too hot on his tongue. Crosshair drinks anyway. The mug he selected for himself is his favorite, obviously handmade and misshapen in a way that makes it comfortable to hold one-handed despite the prosthetic that Crosshair is still getting used to.
He suspects Hunter had a hand in the mug’s appearance in their cupboard. He’s also pretty sure Hunter would play dumb if asked.
Hunter leans against his side and folds into him when Crosshair throws an arm over his shoulder, like they were always supposed to fit together this way.
Minutes pass in comfortable silence. Crosshair drinks them in with every mouthful of caf. They never would have been able to do this during the war; even their downtime was shared with mission planning or prep. The few moments they were able to steal for each other were brief and hurried, never enough.
But this time isn’t stolen. It’s theirs.
“No plans today,” Hunter comments as he nears the bottom of his mug.
“Nope.”
A mild hum as Hunter takes another sip. “Could have slept in, then,” he points out with the mug still raised.
Crosshair pinches his side in response. Hunter’s resulting glare might be more intimidating if it weren’t interrupted by another deep yawn. Or maybe not, considering the little tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
It’s not all that early, really. The rest of the house will wake soon. Wrecker will be the first – it’s his turn to make breakfast – and Omega will follow soon after, lured by the smell of food. By the time Tech stumbles out of his room, the house will be alive with enough chaos that Hunter would have gotten up on his own anyway to join the fray.
Crosshair doesn’t bother to point that out.
“Yeah,” he says instead, “but this is better.”
Hunter hums again in agreement and twists a little to nuzzle against Crosshair’s jaw, lips brushing over day-old stubble. Crosshair turns into the touch, catching Hunter in a proper kiss, slow and lazy.
A door opens down the hall, the sound of old fashioned squeaky hinges catching Crosshair’s ear as the kiss breaks.
“That’ll be Wrecker,” he says needlessly.
Hunter reaches over Crosshair to deposit his now-empty mug on the table but makes no move to get up.
“Yep,” he agrees and settles back into Crosshair’s one-armed embrace, apparently unconcerned with the start of the day.
Crosshair is happy to follow his sergeant’s lead once again, setting his mug next to Hunter’s and pulling the man a little closer.
“Five more minutes?”
“Make it ten.”