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“It’s too early for this,” Hunter mutters to himself as he wills the caf machine to hurry the fuck up and dispense a mug’s worth of salvation.
It’s not even o’ six yet according to the hand-painted chrono on the wall. It’s an old thing, one that has to be wound by hand and ticks away the seconds audibly. Normally Hunter doesn’t mind the sound but with his growing headache, he can’t help but want to pitch it out the kitchen window.
Not that the chrono’s absence would really do anything to alleviate his suffering. And he probably can’t toss all three of them out the window.
The caf machine gives one last pathetic sputter to announce it’s finally finished. Hunter retrieves the mug and spares a thought to adding a shot of the Corellian whiskey. With regret, he decides it’s probably too early for that too.
He does indulge with a little bit of cream and two spoonfuls of sugar tipped into the mug. Desperate times, and all that.
Back in the living room, Wrecker is waving a pillow around, still trying in vain to send the smoke out the open window. Bless him. He’s the only one of Hunter’s brothers who doesn’t deserve to be throttled.
The other three, however.
Crosshair and Tech are at each other’s throats – or would be, if Echo hadn’t placed himself bodily between them, his hand on Tech’s shoulder and his scomp poking into Crosshair’s chest. He’s clearly not helping the situation, shouting almost as much as the other two.
Two months, Hunter thinks mournfully. That’s all they got. Two months of peace and quiet and basking in Tech’s safe return and the limitless future laid out before them all. Two months before they went back to behaving like the overgrown tubies Hunter knows they will always be.
The sun is barely peaking up over the horizon outside. Hunter brings the mug to his lips and pauses to breathe in the rich scent of the caf, just strong enough under his nose to overpower the acrid smell of burned wires and upholstery as he tries – and fails – to pretend he is anywhere else. The caf itself is too hot when it hits his tongue. Hunter drinks anyway. It’s the least of his problems this morning.
Perhaps if he enlisted Wrecker, Hunter muses, they’d be able to at least get Crosshair through the open window. That wouldn’t really address the underlying problem but it would solve the noise. Hunter is prepared to settle for that.
Then again, Echo might take umbrage with that particular method of conflict resolution and that would only result in more yelling.
Omega comes up beside him, obviously trying to smother a round of giggles over their brothers’ antics. At least someone is enjoying this. She doesn’t even seem bothered to be awake at such an absurd hour.
In fact, she seems suspiciously optimistic when she rocks forward a bit, drawing herself up to her tiptoes and lifting her chin with big, innocent eyes.
“Can I -”
“Don’t even think about it,” Hunter says before she can finish the question. “You’re too young for caf.”
Omega pouts visibly and drops back to her heels, defeated. It’s adorable. He’d tell her so but it would only make her pout harder.
Batcher is darting around the fight in the center of the room, obviously distressed by chaos she can’t just bite. Hunter understands. He almost misses the days when most of his problems could be solved with a blaster.
Though his blaster does have a stun setting. He puts a pin in that idea.
The screaming match in the middle of the room rises in both pitch and volume – huh, when did Crosshair learn to swear like that in Huttese? - and Echo looks like he’s about ready to give into an overwhelming urge to knock both of the idiots over the head. Hunter wonders how much of this their neighbors can hear. Probably a lot, since Wrecker’s still got the window open.
There goes whatever good reputation they might have managed to cultivate. The whole island will know about this by noon.
Hunter sighs, loudly. No one pays him any mind.
This was easier when he could pull rank or threaten them with temporary duty with regs.
Maybe he could volunteer them to scrape barnacles off fishing boats for a few days. Shep’s always looking for some extra manpower there. It would keep them out of the house, at least.
“You know,” Omega says and there’s that suspiciously innocent expression again. If he didn’t know better, Hunter would think she learned it from Crosshair. “The tapcaf should be open in a few minutes.”
The kid sure knows how to pick her moments, Hunter decides with both pride and exasperation as Crosshair finally pushes past Echo and shoves at Tech, who appears unphased when Echo manages to drag Crosshair backwards by the collar of his sleepshirt. It won’t be long before Echo loses complete control of the situation and Hunter bore witness to enough cadet squabbles to know he doesn’t want to be here when things devolve further.
“Get your shoes,” he tells Omega, who brightens at her victory.
Hunter flashes a quick regroup battle sign at Wrecker. He suppresses the urge to complain over the way Wrecker drops the pillow the ground carelessly where he stands. Considering it’s supposed to go on the chair that’s still smoldering with the remains of Tech’s ruined datapad, it’s hardly the primary concern right now.
Their brothers don’t even notice when the three of them slip out the door with Batcher in tow, Omega and Wrecker already chattering happily about the prospect of flatcakes. It’ll take until they’re halfway up the island before the fight is out of Hunter’s earshot but his headache begins to dissipate almost immediately.
Flatcakes and another cup of caf, he decides. Maybe two. And a nice long stroll around the beach after. Omega will like that.
And maybe, if he’s a little luckier than usual, the other three will have tired themselves out by the time they get back to the house.