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It’s Centaxday, meaning several things on the small planet of Pabu. Firstly, Omega's senior classes run long during the second day of the week. Secondly, Wrecker does a double shift down at the docks—both the morning trawler charter, and then dock administration in the afternoon. Thirdly, Crosshair usually helps Wrecker with all of this, plus whatever it is that Crosshair usually does.
Fourthly, Hunter gets to catch up on the kriffing laundry.
The house is blissfully quiet this morning. Living in a house, owning a house, is still a novelty to all of them. It’s nothing like their older, long-gone homes. It’s a fixed point, a finite area. It’s a gift from the Pabu council for the Bad Batch’s service to Pabu.
By this point, Hunter basically believes it. All of it.
Such thoughts drift through him often, especially in the more quiet hours. They hum through him right now, like a hearth, as he folds a shirt with practiced precision. Last one of Wrecker’s pile. Mission accomplished. Hunter picks up the separate stacks—there are four of them—and loads them all neatly into the laundry basket. Then, he picks it up and balances it against his hip.
This finally breaks the house’s silence. But it’s not Hunter’s middle-aged body complaining, or somebody coming home. It’s Batcher. She springs to her feet as Hunter lifts the basket, paws scrabbling, body doing that full-dog wiggle that starts at the shoulders and ripples all the way to her tail. She lets out a sharp, hopeful huff and darts towards the doorway, then back to him, then toward the doorway again.
Hunter snorts, the sound fond despite himself. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” He shifts the basket higher on his hip, steadying it with his forearm. “Almost walk time. You’ll live another five minutes.”
Batcher answers this grave injustice by sitting directly in his path, staring up at him with an intensity that makes Hunter remember she is a Tantiss hound.
Hunter exhales through his nose, shaking his head as he steps carefully around her and out into the corridor. His voice drops without thinking, gentler, pitched just for her.
“Soon as this is away. Soon.”
She trots at his heels as he heads toward the linen cupboard, nails clicking softly, tail sweeping side to side like a metronome set to impatient. When he stops to open the cupboard, she bumps his calf with her shoulder, a reminder. A promise. A schedule she intends to hold him to.
Hunter nudges the door open with his foot and starts slotting stacks into their places, muscle memory taking over. Behind him, Batcher waits—vibrating with contained excitement, eyes locked on him like the next step is obvious to everyone except, apparently, him. The whole laundry affair took all morning—washing, drying, folding—then it only takes a few moments to put the spoils away. After that, the basket is tucked away on the bottom shelf in the same cupboard. Hunter nudges it down and into its designated spot, except, something is in the way. Sighing, he crouches down to find Wrecker has stored a box labelled STUFF in the way. Another sigh escapes Hunter. He tugs the box out, which is heavy, and shakes his head as he exits the cupboard with it.
He tuts at Batcher like she will share his disdain for this crime. ‘Stuff’ is not stored in the linen cupboard with their clothes. What if it leaks? What if it smells?
Batcher, however, takes this noise as instruction to launch into their lunchtime walk. She shoots across the hardwood floor like a missile, darting in front of Hunter and towards the front door. He shifts to avoid stepping on her paw, his foot catches on her, his balance wobbles with the box in his arms, and—
The world tilts.
He tries to twist with it, tries to take the fall on his knees like instinct demands, tries not to crush the box—
But his back seizes up.
An old injury, middle age, or bad luck. It doesn’t matter. All the same, it clamps down like a fist inside his spine. White-hot. Sudden. Paralysing.
He hits the floor badly. Hunter’s left arm takes the brunt of it, then the box slams down on top a moment later.
Something gives with a snap that’s sharp enough to take the breath out of him.
Hunter curls around the pain instinctively. His back seizes up again with the movement, and the worst part is knowing exactly what that kind of pain means.
No. No. Not again. Not today. Not here.
Hunter tries to push himself up with his good hand and get his legs underneath himself. His back screams. His arm screams. His breath falls apart, chopped into short, thin strips that don’t reach his lungs properly. He ends up half-sitting, half-slumped against the door frame of the linen cupboard. His legs are outstretched in front of him messily, but he dares not move those again either.
“Okay,” he manages, barely with any voice. He closes his eyes, begging a plan of attack to form. “Okay– it’s fine, it’s–”
It’s not. He’s stuck. On the floor. Alone.
Echo is with Rex in some far away sector. Wrecker and Crosshair won’t be home until late afternoon. Omega is at school. Nobody else is coming by the house today.
He doesn’t have a comm on him. He was doing laundry, for kriff’s sake. He’s an adult man with years of combat experience and he’s stuck on the floor of his own house with a hurt arm and a back that’s reverted twenty years in one twist.
Except, he’s not quite alone. Because Hunter opens his eyes to see Batcher’s nose inches from his face, big yellow eyes blinking at him. Her ears tilt back at the sound of his harsh breathing.
“I’m okay,” Hunter lies immediately. “I’m– just give me a second, girl– I’ll–”
A fresh bolt of pain stabs through his back, sharp enough to drag a noise out of him he didn’t mean to make—a strangled, panicked sound he hates himself for. This should all be a distant memory by now. It was a distant memory.
Batcher’s entire posture changes at the sound. Now, she circles Hunter once, like she’s scanning him. Then she noses at his uninjured shoulder. When he flinches, she huffs. It’s a low and worried sound.
“Batcher… it’s alright, I just– I need a minute–”
Hunter’s voice wavers, betraying him.
Apparently this is all of the evidence the hound needs, as Batcher decides she’s in charge now. She moves in closer, pressing her forehead against Hunter’s ribs. The pressure forces his breathing to shift, more deeply and more slowly.
But the weight also makes his back spasm again. A strangled breath escapes him involuntarily.
“Hey– hey, girl– wait, don’t–”
Batcher steps over either side of his outstretched legs.
Hunter’s breath hitches and he protests, “Batcher, wait– careful–”
She turns slightly, then gently settles her full body weight across his thighs, pinning him, grounding him in place like she’s done this for him a hundred times.
“Oh. Okay. Alright. You… You’re doing that,” Hunter whispers shakily. “Okay.”
He tries to breathe around the pain, around the fear, around the humiliation of it all.
His hand—the good one—finds her fur. His hand knows the shape of her already, and he soothes himself patting her boxy head. Batcher stays absolutely still for all of this, ears flicking only when his breath hitches.
“Good girl,” Hunter breathes, more to steady himself than her. “Stay there. Just… stay there a minute.”
Hunter pats her for quite a while. The repetitive motions help to even out his breathing. It also gives him something to do while he waits for the pain to go down. Eventually, he can tug his injured arm closer to himself, although the effort makes his eyes sting. And it’s not with tears, but with the shock of pain and this after so long. Or… maybe it is tears. Either way, afterwards, Hunter has to lean his head back against the wall, close his eyes, and compose himself.
Now it’s onto the next problem.
Raking in a deep breath, Hunter says, “Batcher. Listen.” A small mercy is that his breath is steadier than before. “I need you to go get someone.”
Batcher doesn’t move. She doesn’t even acknowledge him. She remains rooted to the spot; her weight across Hunter’s legs, her head resting against his chest.
Groaning, Hunter pushes her lightly with his good hand, the one that has been patting her. The muscles of his back engage to compensate and it hurts. He grits his teeth, hissing out his next words.
“Batcher. Go. Fetch Wrecker. Crosshair. Omega. Anyone. Just. Go.”
She presses down more firmly and gives a stubborn little grunt.
He exhales through his teeth. “You’re supposed to be clever.”
He tries again, but the pain in his back and his other arm spikes as soon as he shifts the wrong way. His vision flickers at the edges. The room tilts for a second.
Batcher immediately noses his ribs again, forcing him to stop moving entirely.
“Don’t– don’t do that,” Hunter grunts, his breath hitching. He thought he was more steady now, but, apparently not. “I’m fine. I’m not going to fall over. I’m already on the floor.”
The joke doesn’t land, unfortunately. At least, Hunter doesn’t think it does. It’s hard to tell with a hound.
Regardless, Batcher still doesn’t move.
And still, Hunter is stuck. He knows he’s stuck. He’s hurt. And also, he’s not entirely okay about it, so apparently Batcher feels compelled to stay. The lurca hound has always been in tune with people’s emotions, in particular Omega and Crosshair. But this is a first for Hunter, which is probably why she’s refusing to budge. Maybe, instead, he needs to try a different angle. Work with her a little, rather than against her.
So Hunter pitches his voice down lower. More softly. He lets all of the things twisted up inside him speak.
“Hey. Go. I need one of them. Please.”
Batcher lowers her head, presses it firmly against his stomach, and refuses.
Hunter lets out a breath that shakes all the way down his spine. He tries again, “The others won’t be home until later. I… I can’t sit here all day.”
Batcher presses harder against him, almost protective, almost saying, Yes, we can.
And so Hunter sits there, and loses track of the time. It’s not dramatic—nothing sharp, nothing cinematic. Just… a slow slide, like someone dimming the lights in his head one bulb at a time. Pain becomes distant. Somewhere far off. Like it belongs to another version of him; across a field, behind a wall. He’s aware of it in the way someone’s aware of a storm rolling in on the horizon. His breaths come slow. Too slow, maybe. Shallow but rhythmic. His eyes stay half-lidded, unfocused on a patch of ceiling that starts to blur into shapes if he stares at it too long.
Batcher shifts once, maybe twice, but stays pressed across his legs. A weight. A reminder. The only thing he doesn’t drift completely away from.
He feels her breathing. That, more than anything, keeps him tethered.
The back spasms ease eventually, not because he’s any better but because the muscles burn themselves out.
His arm, though. At some point it stops throbbing and just… seizes up. It becomes a locked, stone-heavy stiffness from wrist to shoulder, a kind of rigid pain that feels like someone poured cement into the joint and let it dry. He tries to shift it once and a violent jolt rips up his arm and into his shoulders. His vision whites out with it. He stops breathing for a second.
Batcher makes a low, distressed keen.
“Okay,” Hunter rasps, so faint he barely hears it himself. “Okay. No moving. Got it.”
He lets his head tip back against the wall. Feels the grain. The warmth from the day’s sun. Hunter closes his eyes again. Not to sleep—he’s too upright, too uncomfortable, too aware in the sense of strange little islands of sensation—but to stay suspended. To not feel everything at once. To keep afloat on the heavy thread of Batcher’s warmth.
Waiting for someone to come home and pull him back the rest of the way.
Centaxday passes like any other.
Crosshair sees Wrecker off to sea at dawn, assists Beryx with morning deliveries, checks on Omega at school, then rejoins Wrecker in the afternoon to patrol the dock. The island is baked pleasantly in the early afternoon sun by the time hometime washes around. They make a stop at the market, collecting some food parcels and pleasant conversation. Then it’s a short walk home.
It’s mundane. It’s something that Crosshair took time to get used to. But now time is pressed into his skin, and his heart is more settled into its rhythm.
And yet, Crosshair pauses with one boot on the threshold to their home. Wrecker walks into the back of him, making an offended noise. His hands come up to Crosshair’s shoulders and complain even more, “C’mon, Cross, I’m starvin’!” But now Crosshair pays him no mind, his eyes narrowing, tracking the dust particles in the air inside. The house should greet them. It always does. There should be a presence, or the evidence of one, if Hunter has gone out. There should be a thump of paws, a huffing breath, the soft chaos of Batcher skidding over polished boards because she’s remembered, again, that she has legs.
Instead, there’s nothing.
Wrecker picks this quiet up a second later.
“What is it?” Wrecker asks, already suspicious.
“Something’s wrong.”
As if on cue, Batcher barks from somewhere inside the house. It’s like a huff-huff sound, not a noise Crosshair has heard from the lurca hound often. Not at all in recent years. It makes his stomach lurch, and the momentum of the floor falling out from under him pushes Crosshair forward. Wrecker follows, setting down their things on the closest available surface.
They follow the sounds of the dog, their boots too loud in the sudden narrowness of the house. The hall bends towards the rear, and Crosshair registers the hallway, the half-open cupboard door, and a small crate tipped on its side like it’s been in a fight.
And then he sees Hunter.
Hunter is slumped on the floor, back against the wall, legs stretched out messily like he’s tried to sit up and failed halfway. His left arm is tucked against his chest, held too carefully. His right hand is braced on Batcher’s head, fingers sunk into her fur like he’s anchoring himself to something solid.
Batcher is draped across his thighs like a sandbag.
Hunter’s face is drawn in the dim corridor light. His eyes are open, but there’s that distant, glassy edge Crosshair knows too well. Pain does that. Panic does that. Being left alone with both does it worse.
Crosshair drops to his knees in front of his brother without thinking. It’s pure reflex, a body memory older than any of the peace they’ve built on Pabu.
“Hey.” His voice comes out rougher than he intends. “Hunter.”
Hunter blinks hard. Like he has to pull the world into focus before registering Crosshair’s presence and Crosshair’s words. Hunter’s throat works before he speaks.
“Hi,” he manages, and it’s so stupidly polite Crosshair almost laughs. Almost.
Wrecker appears in the hallway behind Crosshair a moment later. He freezes so hard his boots squeak on the floor.
“Oh no.” Wrecker’s voice drops down low, nearly to a whisper. “Aw, no, Hunter. What happened?”
Hunter’s mouth twists ruefully. His gaze flicks down the hall, towards the front door, like he’s looking for the answer on the floorboards. “Laundry,” he says hoarsely, and then, like that’s not humiliating enough: “Batcher.”
Batcher huffs as if she would like to object to being blamed for this crime.
Crosshair’s eyes track down Hunter’s form with this new information. His skin is still clammy-looking, and he’s a bit pale. There’s a bit more intelligence behind his eyes now, and if Crosshair didn’t know any better, he’d say it might be relief in his eyes. His arm is what worries Crosshair. The wrist looks swollen, but the hand looks fine—there is still blood flow. But the way he’s holding it is too exact. He’s not just hurt. He knows he’s hurt.
“How long,” Crosshair asks, his voice low.
Hunter hesitates. His eyebrows pinch together, the effort of thinking making him look younger and older at once.
“I… I don’t know.” Hunter’s voice goes thin on the admission. “A while.”
Wrecker makes a wounded sound. “Why didn’t you call?” He does a once-over of Hunter’s prone form as well, hovering over to Hunter’s opposite side. “Wha’, where’s your comm?”
“I was doing laundry,” Hunter mutters, like the answer should be obvious. Like that makes it less ridiculous.
Which, of course, it doesn’t.
Crosshair watches Hunter’s breathing next. It’s steadier than it could be, but there’s still that tightness at the edges. The way his shoulders are held. The way his good hand keeps petting Batcher in small, repetitive strokes, like he doesn’t trust himself to stop.
For her part, Batcher is currently staring at Crosshair. Her eyes are bright and serious, and at Crosshair’s attention, she gives a short bark, as if reporting, This one is broken. Do your jobs.
“Good girl,” Crosshair says automatically, and Batcher’s tail thumps a few times against Hunter’s shins. She does not move.
Crosshair leans in, careful not to crowd Hunter’s space too fast.
“What else?”
Hunter swallows. His jaw flexes as he circles it. “My back.” He draws a breath through his teeth, pain flaring in his eyes at the effort. “It’s… mostly released. Just hurts. Like… Ugh, I don’t know. Everything hurts.”
The admission would have once pained all of them. Hunter is not a man who enjoys admitting weakness, but time has cocooned him, and he has bloomed into something different underneath Pabu’s sun. Least of all about this, which just seems like an unfortunate accident.
All Crosshair himself feels right now is his resolve. It sets into the lines drawn by time passing. That, and his dislike for seeing Hunter like this again, after so many years.
“Alright,” Crosshair says decisively. “We’re getting you up.”
Hunter flinches at the suggestion. It’s not anything to do with panic, but a reflexive fear. His shoulders tighten and it rolls down the rest of his whole body like a wave.
“No,” he protests immediately. “Not like– not fast. My arm–”
“We’re not marching you,” Crosshair cuts in, gentle only by Crosshair standards.
“We got you. Okay?” adds Wrecker, who has crouched on Hunter’s other side. “One thing at a time. Let’s get ya up first, then we can deal with the…” He gestures vaguely at Hunter’s slumped form.
Hunter’s eyes flick up to Wrecker, and something in his face breaks for half a second. He looks so tired. So stupidly angry at himself for being tired.
“Sorry about this,” Hunter whispers, like this is an inconvenience he’s caused them on purpose.
That is a familiar motion, as is the eyeroll that follows from Crosshair. They haven’t gone through these motions for some time. Regardless, Crosshair keeps his response dry on purpose.
“Yes, well. Next time you want attention, try asking.”
Hunter makes a small, strangled sound that might be a laugh if it wasn’t sitting right on the edge of a shame spiral. Wrecker glares at Crosshair like he’s going to smack him for that, but only gently for Wrecker’s standards. Crosshair ignores this, now focusing on the next problem.
“Batcher,” Crosshair says, nodding toward Hunter’s legs. “Up.”
Batcher’s ears flick, considering the command for half of a moment. Then, with a grunt, she obeys, and Hunter manages to look amused about this. Now Crosshair glances at Wrecker, instructing him.
“Lift him. I’ll keep his arm and his back straight. Slowly.”
“On it.”
Crosshair shifts closer and slides his hands behind Hunter’s shoulders, bracing him. One hand wanders down further to Hunter’s injured arm, bracing it at the elbow, pinning it to Hunter’s chest. The touches are as gentle as Crosshair can muster.
Hunter’s breath starts to hitch again, the fear rising as movement becomes inevitable. Or because of the pain. Or, does it matter? Crosshair feels it all in the tremor of Hunter’s muscles underneath his hands. The body remembers pain, even if the days have stretched on kindly. This is something Crosshair has had to learn himself.
“Look at me,” Crosshair instructs his brother. He leans around to catch Hunter’s gaze. “Hunter.”
Hunter does. His eyes are glossy, stubborn, and embarrassed. Crosshair’s eyes are unyielding.
There are no words exchanged, but there never has to be. Working as one means Crosshair—or any of the Bad Batch—could read Hunter’s intentions from a mere glance. It was different when the context was life-or-death, or even reconciling what it meant to be out of the fight. They have had plenty of staredowns about these things. This staredown is different. Steadier. A boat mooring to a pier after the storm has passed overhead.
Hunter’s eyes go from glazed over to wet. Crosshair does not break eye contact. Then, finally, Hunter draws in a shaky breath, and he nods.
In succession, Crosshair nods at Wrecker. And likewise, there are no words exchanged. Wrecker slides his arms under Hunter with ridiculous gentleness, like he’s handling glass.
Hunter’s face pinches, bracing for agony.
Wrecker lifts.
Hunter makes a raw sound through his teeth as his weight shifts off the floor. Crosshair keeps a firm hold at his shoulders and arm, guiding him so his upper body stays aligned. Hunter’s body spasms once—a sharp ripple that tears through him and makes his face screw up. Regardless, Wrecker holds him against his chest.
“I got ya, sarge,” Wrecker murmurs soothingly.
“I–I know,” Hunter replies breathlessly, still with his eyes screwed shut.
They move in a straight line, careful steps, no sudden turns. Batcher follows immediately, trotting tight at Wrecker’s heels, whining as if she’s herding them to the couch in the main sitting room. Crosshair clears the end table out of the way with his foot, irritation sparking at the fact furniture exists at all.
Wrecker lowers Hunter down onto the couch slowly. There, Hunter sags into the cushions with a long exhale that sounds more like a relieved groan.
Then Batcher hops up. Before anyone can stop her, she climbs over and settles herself back where she was—squarely across Hunter’s thighs. Her tail thumps, triumphant. Her head turns toward Crosshair like, See? Solved. Hunter’s good hand finds her automatically. He pats her in the same repetitive motion as before. But this time, it’s more in gratitude than in pain. Or, at least, Crosshair hopes it is.
“Batcher,” Wrecker says wetly, to complement all of this. “You’re a good girl.”
Now for the next problem. There’s another glance at Wrecker, and the other clone goes to retrieve their medical kit. Then there’s Crosshair himself who wants to do something, so without ceremony, he slides in behind Hunter on the couch. He is gentle, and he pillows Hunter’s head on his crossed legs, so he doesn’t have to hold himself upright. One arm snakes around Hunter’s shoulders, ready to examine their next next problem. The other hand slides up to card through his hair, because Hunter’s breathing is starting to stutter again and Crosshair knows exactly how to stop that from becoming something worse.
Hunter leans back into him like he’s been waiting for this all day. With the current extenuating circumstances, he probably has.
The former sergeant swallows hard, sighing, “This is stupid.”
Again, no words need to be exchanged here. Crosshair’s fingers simply smooth through Hunter’s curls at his temple, as if to banish the thought. He makes sure to use his flesh hand here, just in case. Hunter gets the idea straight away, sighing with resignation, and he leans into Crosshair’s hand.
Shortly after, Wrecker returns with the medical kit—household grade—and starts to unpack it across the low table in front of the couch. He mumbles to himself, cataloguing what they’ve got, then frowns over at Crosshair and Hunter. He also catches Batcher’s eyes, who wags her tail at his attention, almost like she’s smiling at all of this.
Wrecker asks, “Should we call someone?”
Hunter’s whole body tenses at the suggestion, his shoulders drawing up. His breath catches.
Crosshair feels it immediately under his hands. He presses his palm to Hunter’s sternum, firm. Grounding. Communicating: calm. His other hand splays out somewhat, keeping Hunter’s head still from its position in his hair.
“Not yet.”
“But his arm–”
“I know,” Crosshair snaps, then softens his voice immediately, apologising with a glance at his brother. “I know. We’ll sling it. Ice it. Get him lying down properly. If it’s wrong-wrong, we call. If it’s not, we wait.”
Crosshair glances down at Hunter’s face, at the tight lines etched there. In response, Hunter looks away, almost like he’s ashamed; like all of this is his failure. So Crosshair brushes Hunter’s hair back again, fingers cradling his temple for half a second, just enough contact to tell him: calm. Wrecker misses most of this interaction as he digs through the kit, cataloguing what they have and what they need. Resolved, he then hops up to retrieve some ice from the kitchen.
Crosshair stays behind Hunter, steady as a brace.
Batcher settles more heavily across Hunter’s legs, eyes closed now that her job is done. Hunter’s hand keeps petting her. Slow. Automatic. A rhythm.
Crosshair’s fingers keep moving through Hunter’s hair.
“You’re gonna tease me later,” comes Hunter’s voice, in the somewhat quiet privacy.
Crosshair scoffs softly, “Maybe.”
Hunter’s shoulders tense again.
Crosshair shifts, sighing, and lets the truth slip out in the only shape he can manage. “Not about this.”
Hunter goes still.
Crosshair’s hand pauses at the back of his head, then resumes, slower. “I’m not… kriff.” He exhales through his nose. “I’m glad you’re okay. That’s all.”
Hunter leans back into him like he can’t help it. Like the words have loosened something he’s been holding too tight.
Batcher huffs in contentment.
Crosshair keeps his arm around Hunter’s middle, his hand in Hunter’s hair, and holds him there as if the war itself might come again if he lets go.
Centaxday’s classes are the worst. It’s not that Omega doesn’t like learning. No, she loves learning. She loves her teachers and she loves being with her peers. It’s simply because she doesn’t get to see her brothers until the evening. Crosshair visits briefly during lunch, but that’s about it. Hunter even misses his usual comm check-in in the afternoon, but she understands, they all lead lives on the island apart from her.
So, consider her surprise when a sheepish-looking Wrecker is waiting outside the schoolhouse at the final bell. Omega loves, loves, loves learning—but she already knows everything about her brothers.
“What happened? Is–”
“Everybody’s fine,” Wrecker tells her immediately. He crouches down to give her a hug, which she will never decline, ever. Even if she soon grows to be taller than her very big brother. But right now, Omega’s suspicion lingers in her touch, spooling more words out of Wrecker, “Just… er, a small accident at home.”
She pulls back to ask incredulously, “What kind of accident?”
“Hunter. He, uh… well, um–”
“Why didn’t you come get me?”
“Ya were at school, kid. It’s fine, he’s fine, I’m just tellin’ you ‘cause I don’t want you to worry so much.”
Omega stares at him, unimpressed.
Wrecker has never been very good at lying. He’s even worse at the kind of half-truth that tries to soothe someone by starving them of the details. He scratches at the back of his neck, eyes darting away from hers, and Omega watches the whole performance with the patient disbelief of someone who has spent her entire life surrounded by him.
“Wrecker,” she says, slow and pointed. “Tell me.”
And so Wrecker does. They walk together as he explains what happened. The path from the schoolhouse winds through the village, all sun-baked stone and the smell of the sea. With the new information in hand, they also stop by the clinic, and Shiri doesn’t object to Omega collecting some supplies for the task ahead. Nor does she ask questions.
When the house comes into view, Omega is… not anxious, not exactly. It’s a hard feeling to explain. She understands, implicitly, that Hunter, and all of the rest, has been through unspeakable things in the name of the Republic. Then, in the quest to save her. And not all of them made it back home. In juxtaposition, life on Pabu is peaceful—like Omega going to school, like Wrecker and Crosshair working at the docks, like having a home to come back to. Omega herself has been through things, seen things, and it’s this… ache in her sternum, right now, that it can still happen here. With no grand circumstances. With nothing to fight for.
Except for what actually matters.
That’s why it all trickles away when she gets home, and Hunter is propped up on the couch, and he’s happy to see her. He looks sheepish as well, like Wrecker did, but it’s all in the service to their own lives. Hunter’s left arm is in a sling, he moves stiffly, and he needs Crosshair’s help to sit up.
For all of that, Hunter smiles at her like it’s just another long Centaxday.
“Hey, kid.”
“Oh, Hunter,” Omega says softly. She hastily crosses the sitting room and sits down next to him. One hand steadies his knee, and her eyes examine him up and down. She smiles wetly, going on, “Wrecker told me what happened, so I bought some more things. We should splint your wrist. And if you want, there’s something to take the edge off.”
Crosshair shifts, sitting on Hunter’s other side. His hand hasn’t left Hunter’s shoulder, the same one he used to help Hunter up from the couch. Crosshair seems to approve of Omega’s actions, something he communicates with a glance at her, then he looks at Hunter.
“Which you are going to take,” he says, indicating the strong stuff which Omega has sourced.
“I really don’t think–”
Crosshair cuts over his protests, “She’s going to have to move it. You want it.”
For a second, Hunter’s expression cracks. Omega sees the clone commando and clone sergeant who has fought countless battles; the man who once tried to tell her that he was nothing but trouble. She has learned that, indeed, he is—but not in the same way he worries about.
“Alright,” Hunter agrees, with a somewhat shaky exhale, “Okay. But you’re sure, kid? I can go to the clinic.”
Crosshair reaches up with his prosthetic hand and lightly flicks Hunter on the back of the head. Hunter makes an offended noise. Batcher does as well, and jumps up onto the couch to nose Crosshair away from the patient. The jostling has Hunter wince but not complain, meanwhile, Omega shakes her head at the whole display. Her brothers are ridiculous. She loves them so much.
Wrecker has to intervene to shoo Batcher down—nicely—and Crosshair has to help Hunter lie back down. There, Omega measures a dose, fills the hypo canister, and dispenses it into Hunter’s neck. They wait for a minute, just long enough for Hunter’s shoulders to loosen by a fraction, for his jaw to unclench, for his breathing to deepen.
Watching this happen, Omega shifts closer, now kneeling by the couch. Around her, Batcher sits next to her, Wrecker sits nearby next to the low table, Crosshair sits on the couch at Hunter’s head. Satisfied, Omega reaches for Hunter’s forearm and then pauses, hovering, giving him the chance to brace himself.
“Ready?” Omega asks.
Hunter’s eyes meet hers. There’s pride there, a stubborn notion, even through the pain. He nods. There’s a faint smile on his face.
Omega supports his forearm first, not the wrist itself—where the swelling is. She slides the limb out of the sling and then slides her hand under the length of Hunter’s arm. She adjusts the angle with her fingers, by millimetres, until the angle is tolerable.
Hunter’s breath catches a few times, at which Crosshair murmurs something to him quietly.
Then the rest is textbook to Omega—she positions a liberated splint board along the underside of Hunter’s forearm, then another parallel along the top, creating a firm cradle. She wraps them together with his arm; even layers which are snug and tight, checking Hunter’s fingertips every few passes like she’s counting he still has five. The bandage slides through her fingers with soft friction. The tape sticks cleanly. The splint boards hold.
Hunter watches her as if she’s doing something miraculous. It’s also probably the painkillers taking a further hold of his system.
Omega tapes the final layer down and sits back on her heels, checking her work.
“Okay,” she prompts, her voice softened by relief, “how does that feel? Can you feel your fingers?”
Hunter indicates in the positive. Pleased, Omega eases his arm back into the sling. With the proximity, Hunter lifts his good hand, and Omega leans in instinctively, letting him catch her wrist lightly. His grip is gentle. Warm.
“You did great,” he compliments her. He squeezes her arm. “Thank you.”
Omega’s lips tremble into a smile. She reaches out and smooths his hair back from his forehead. They stare at each other fondly. They need no words.
Wrecker clears his throat like he’s about to say something, then thinks better of it and reaches for an ice pack, positioning it in Hunter’s grasp with surprising delicacy. Crosshair doesn’t move from Hunter’s side, doesn’t offer anything more than the quiet weight of his presence, but that’s more than enough.
“No more laundry without your comm,” adds Omega, to round out this moment. She isn’t sure if there will be one like it again—and she would prefer it that way. But these things happen, and these things are important.
“Yes, ma’am,” Hunter returns, still smiling.
These things are a part of life, and that’s okay.