Archive of Our Own

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ Accidental Keldabe Kiss ⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Crosshair had a remarkable talent for making you want to commit murder before breakfast.

It was a gift, really. A rare and deeply irritating gift.

"You're going to strip the threading."

You closed your eyes. Counted to three. Decided three was too generous.

"Good morning to you too, Crosshair."

The sniper stood opposite your workbench, one shoulder resting against the cargo hold's bulkhead. A toothpick shifted between his lips as he watched you wrestle with the mounting bracket of a modified slicing probe. He had been there for the better part of ten minutes. Doing absolutely nothing.

Except irritating you.

"Didn't ask for your opinion," you added.

"Didn't offer one."

You lifted your head.

He looked pointedly at the tool in your hand. "Stated a fact."

You considered throwing it at him. The temptation was considerable. Instead, you loosened the bracket, adjusted the contact plate, and tightened the screw.

It slipped into place perfectly.

You gave him a triumphant look. "There."

Crosshair raised one eyebrow. "Impressive. Only took you three attempts."

"Remind me why we keep you around?"

"Someone has to hit what the rest of you miss."

"Funny. I thought it was because Hunter felt sorry for you."

His eyes narrowed. You smiled.

From the other side of the cargo hold, Wrecker snorted into his ration bar.

Crosshair pushed away from the wall. "Careful."

"Or what?"

He approached the workbench, all long limbs and quiet arrogance. "Or you might discover that mouth of yours is writing checks your skills can't cash."

You leaned forward. "That's a lot of words for someone who spends most missions lying on his stomach."

Wrecker lost it. The resulting laugh was loud enough to make a loose panel rattle.

Crosshair's expression didn't change, but the toothpick between his lips shifted.

"Oh, that's it," Wrecker wheezed. "She got you!"

"Shut it," Crosshair muttered.

You grinned. Victory was sweet.

Brief, unfortunately.

Because Crosshair reached past you, took the slicing probe from your workbench, and turned it over in his hand.

You stared. "Excuse you?"

He ignored you, inspected the exposed contact pins, then picked up a narrow driver from your collection.

"Crosshair."

He adjusted something.

"Crosshair."

Another small turn.

You stood. "Put that down before I—"

He placed the probe back on the bench. "Your secondary contact was misaligned."

You looked at it. Then at him.

He nodded toward the indicator light. "Test it."

You wanted to refuse on principle. Instead, you connected the probe to the diagnostic port.

A clean green light blinked.

You stared at it.

Crosshair's mouth curved. "You're welcome."

"I hadn't thanked you."

"Wasn't expecting you to develop manners overnight."

He turned away. You watched him walk toward the weapons locker, irritation still prickling pleasantly beneath your skin.

Then you looked at the probe.

The secondary contact had been loose since your last assignment. You hadn't mentioned it to anyone. You were reasonably certain Crosshair hadn't seen you working on that particular component before.

Which meant he had noticed the problem some other time.

And remembered.

You stared at the green light a moment longer. Then cleared your throat.

"Crosshair?"

He stopped. Didn't turn around.

"What?"

"...Thanks."

A pause.

His head tilted slightly. Then he continued toward the locker.

"Try not to break it again."

You rolled your eyes.

There he was. The unbearable bastard.

You were smiling when Hunter entered the cargo hold. He stopped just inside the doorway, looked from you to Crosshair, then to Wrecker, who was still chuckling.

"Do I want to know?"

"No," you said.

"Probably not," Crosshair added.

Hunter exhaled. "Good. Gear up. We've got a job."

The truth was that you had grown rather fond of the Marauder's particular brand of dysfunction.

You had been attached to Clone Force 99 for long enough that you no longer felt like an outsider. Officially, you were a combat systems specialist. Your work involved slicing secure networks, sabotaging enemy infrastructure, and making sure heavily fortified installations stopped being heavily fortified at inconvenient moments for the Separatists.

Unofficially, you were the person Tech argued with about circuitry, Wrecker recruited into increasingly questionable bets, and Echo relied on whenever something required a combination of creative programming and questionable legality.

Hunter trusted you in the field. That had taken time. His trust was not given lightly, but once earned, it was solid.

And Crosshair...

Well.

Crosshair was Crosshair.

You had a system. You insulted him. He insulted you. Sometimes one of you won. More often, Hunter interrupted before either could claim victory.

There were rules to it, though neither of you had ever bothered discussing them.

Crosshair could call you a di'kut when you made a stupid decision. You could tell him where to shove his toothpicks. He could mock your shooting. You could remind him that his personality would probably frighten off a rancor.

But when something actually mattered, the jokes stopped.

Like the time you caught him favoring his left shoulder after a mission. He denied being injured. You left a fresh bacta patch beside his rifle anyway. The following morning, the patch was gone.

Or the time you fell asleep at the workbench while repairing a damaged control unit. When you woke, someone had draped a blanket over your shoulders and turned off the overhead light.

Crosshair was the only one still awake.

He denied everything.

You didn't believe him.

Neither of you mentioned it again.

That was usually how it went. A quiet kindness. An awkward moment. Then the hurried return of sharp edges.

It was easier that way. Far easier than acknowledging the peculiar warmth in your chest when he stood close, or the way your attention seemed to find him in every room.

You didn't know what Crosshair thought about those moments. He gave very little away.

Although, once, when you'd been laughing at something Wrecker said, you looked up and caught him watching you from the cockpit doorway.

Not scowling. Not smirking.

Just looking.

He had held your gaze for a fraction of a second before turning away.

You thought about that far more often than you cared to admit.

The mission was supposed to be straightforward.

This, you had learned, was what people said shortly before everything went to hell.

"Vardos Minor," Tech announced, bringing a holomap to life above the briefing table. "An industrial moon currently being used as a Separatist manufacturing and communications outpost."

A cluster of refinery towers appeared in blue light, surrounded by service roads, loading platforms, and an enormous central processing complex.

"Republic intelligence believes the facility contains a tactical relay coordinating droid movements across several neighboring systems."

Echo folded his arms. "So we steal the deployment data."

"Precisely. Then destroy the uplink."

Wrecker brightened. "Destroy?"

"After the data has been retrieved," Hunter reminded him.

"Yeah, yeah."

You studied the hologram. The relay was shielded, but its defensive network had been built around an older industrial control system.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

"That shield generator," you said, pointing toward a separate platform on the eastern side of the complex. "It's running through the refinery's original distribution grid."

Tech adjusted the display. "Correct."

You leaned closer. "If I get into the maintenance console, I can shut down the shield and reroute the overload through the power couplings. No need to plant charges inside the main building."

Tech considered that. "An efficient solution, provided you can bypass the security protocols."

You gave him a look.

He nodded. "Yes. I suppose that is why you are here."

"Nice to feel appreciated."

Crosshair made a small sound from where he stood behind Hunter.

You didn't bother looking at him. "Whatever you're thinking, don't."

"Wasn't thinking anything."

"A rare occurrence."

His toothpick shifted.

Hunter raised a hand. "Enough."

He highlighted a tall crane structure overlooking the eastern platform.

"Crosshair, overwatch. You've got a clear line across the maintenance approach."

"Copy."

"You'll cover her while she gets the shield down. The rest of us will draw the main force west and get to the relay."

You looked toward the sniper. He was examining the map.

Not you.

"Try not to miss," you said.

"Try not to give me a reason to."

"Such faith."

"Experience."

Hunter dismissed the hologram before the discussion could deteriorate.

"We drop in twenty. Check your gear."

Everyone moved.

You remained at the table for another moment, memorizing the access routes.

It wasn't an especially complicated assignment.

Get in. Disable the shield. Overload the power distribution network after Tech retrieved the data. Get out.

Simple.

You had just turned toward the cargo hold when a voice spoke behind you.

"Hey."

You looked back.

Crosshair stood beside the empty briefing table. He nodded toward your utility belt.

"Bring the narrow-tip cutters."

You frowned. "Why?"

"Older industrial wiring. Might need them."

You blinked. You had already been planning to pack them.

"Since when do you care about wiring?"

He gave you an unimpressed look. "Since someone has to think ahead."

You opened your mouth. Then stopped.

He was already walking away.

You watched him go.

That peculiar warmth returned.

Annoying.

Really annoying.

The Marauder rattled through Vardos Minor's atmosphere beneath clouds the color of dirty copper.

Outside the viewport, lightning flashed inside thick banks of industrial smoke. The moon's surface was a maze of extraction pits, refinery towers, and scarred black rock.

The air beyond the hull looked poisonous.

It probably was.

You were fastening your final armor plate when the overhead lights shifted from white to red.

The cargo hold settled into the familiar rhythm of deployment. Wrecker checked his explosives. Echo secured his blaster. Tech ran through the comm frequencies. Hunter stood near the ramp, reviewing the approach one last time.

You pulled on your helmet and checked the seal. Then you reached for the compact slicing kit attached to your belt.

A shadow fell across your hands.

Crosshair.

Fully armored. Helmet on. His rifle was already assembled, the long barrel resting against one shoulder.

You glanced up through your visor. "Something wrong?"

He checked the power setting on his rifle. "No."

"Then why are you looming?"

"You're in the way."

You looked around.

The cargo hold was enormous.

You looked back at him. "Of what, exactly? Your sparkling personality?"

He ignored that. Instead, he adjusted the scope on his rifle.

Then, without lifting his head, said, "I'll be watching."

You paused. "What?"

"Your approach. The platform."

You nodded. "Well, I should hope so. That's the assignment."

He didn't move.

You waited for the insult.

None came.

Slowly, his helmet turned toward yours. His dark visor angled down slightly.

"I've got you covered."

Something about his voice made you go quiet.

Not the words.

The way he said them.

Low. Almost private, despite the others moving around you.

You looked up at him. For a moment, you could see only your own faint reflection in his visor.

"Okay," you said.

It came out softer than you'd intended.

Crosshair held your gaze another second. Then straightened.

"Just don't do anything stupid."

There it was.

You smiled beneath your helmet. "Can't make any promises."

"Obviously."

The ramp warning sounded.

Hunter's voice cut across the hold.

"Thirty seconds!"

Crosshair moved away toward the deployment position.

You watched him settle his rifle against his shoulder.

Your heart was doing something irritating.

You told it to stop.

It didn't listen.

Vardos Minor was worse on the ground.

The wind carried abrasive mineral dust that scratched against your armor. Factory sirens moaned through the haze, and the earth trembled beneath the ceaseless hammering of enormous mining equipment.

Visibility came and went with the smoke.

The Batch moved through the outer perimeter with practiced efficiency. Hunter led. Echo covered the rear. Tech tracked the security network. Wrecker dealt with anything too large to avoid.

Crosshair disappeared early, taking the elevated route toward his designated position.

You didn't see him climb the crane tower.

You only heard his voice several minutes later.

"Overwatch in position."

Hunter acknowledged. "Eyes on the eastern approach?"

"Clear enough."

You crouched behind a row of ore containers, watching two battle droids patrol the service road ahead.

"Clear enough sounds reassuring."

Crosshair's response came immediately.

"Wouldn't be worried if I were you."

"That's because you're not me."

"Thank the Maker."

You smiled.

Then two distant shots cracked through the smoky air.

The patrolling droids dropped.

You looked toward the tower. "Show-off."

"Move."

You moved.

The opening stage of the mission went well.

For approximately six minutes.

Then Wrecker blew apart a security barricade, the factory activated its internal defense grid, and the whole complex erupted into mechanical chaos.

Blaster fire flashed between the buildings. Warning sirens wailed. Somewhere west of your position, an armored transport exploded with enough force to send a tremor through the ground.

"Wrecker!" Hunter barked over comms.

"What? It was in the way!"

"That was our secondary exit!"

A pause.

"...Oh."

Echo swore.

You ducked beneath a conveyor pipe, fighting back a laugh. "Never a dull moment."

"Keep moving," Hunter ordered. "We'll find another way out."

You checked your wrist display.

The eastern maintenance station was less than a hundred meters away. You could see the upper platform through the smoke, a raised stretch of durasteel overlooking a deep loading basin. A narrow service staircase led up to its control panel.

Three B1 battle droids guarded the entrance.

You crouched behind a support column.

"Crosshair?"

"See them."

A rifle cracked.

One droid fell.

Another shot.

The second collapsed.

The third turned just in time to lose its head.

You stepped out. "Subtle."

"You're welcome."

"Didn't thank you."

"Didn't ask."

You shook your head and crossed the service road.

Above you, machinery groaned. To your left, steam erupted from a damaged pressure valve. The factory smelled of scorched oil, hot metal, and something bitter beneath the smoke.

You pulled your slicing probe from its case.

"Tech, I'm at the station."

"Excellent. Connect to the auxiliary access port. I will guide the bypass remotely."

You climbed the stairs.

The platform vibrated beneath your boots.

You knelt beside the console, removed its protective cover, and exposed the wiring.

Old industrial hardware. New Separatist encryption module.

Messy work.

Your favorite.

You connected the probe.

The display flickered awake.

"Hello, beautiful," you murmured.

Crosshair clicked his tongue over comms. "Talking to machines now?"

"They're more pleasant than you."

"Low standards."

You grinned.

Then the first security layer opened.

And the fighting grew louder.

The first encryption layer collapsed without resistance. The second took longer.

You worked quickly, sorting through the maintenance protocols while Tech fed you updated access codes.

A blaster bolt struck the railing behind you.

You ducked instinctively.

A shot cracked from the tower. Something metallic fell against the stairs.

"One on your right," Crosshair said.

"Hadn't noticed."

"Clearly."

You returned your attention to the console. The bypass reached forty percent. Then stalled.

You frowned.

"Tech, they've tied the shield controls into the emergency shutdown."

"That is inconvenient."

"You're telling me."

You opened another diagnostic window.

The Separatists had modified the original distribution grid. Breaking the shield's connection would require manually isolating a second circuit, and the panel couldn't be accessed remotely.

You glanced behind the open casing.

There.

A cramped service compartment beneath the console.

You reached for your cutters.

"Going to need another minute."

Crosshair spoke before Tech could answer.

"Make it quick."

A shot rang out. Then another.

You twisted the first wire free.

"Working on it."

"More clankers coming from the loading bay."

"I can hear them."

"Then you know we're running out of time."

Your jaw tightened. You pulled the secondary connector loose and fed your slicing probe into the maintenance port.

The progress bar moved again.

Fifty-eight percent.

Good.

"Shield's almost down."

A heavy explosion shook the platform. You braced one hand against the console.

Somewhere to the west, Hunter shouted an order you couldn't quite make out. Wrecker's voice followed. Then a burst of static.

You glanced at the smoke gathering beyond the loading basin. For the first time, you felt distinctly exposed.

Crosshair must have noticed something.

"Status."

You blinked. "Mine?"

"Who else?"

"Still attached to all my limbs, thanks for asking."

A pause.

Then, quieter, "Keep it that way."

You looked up.

It was an odd thing to say.

Before you could reply, his rifle cracked again.

A B2 droid toppled from the upper walkway.

You stared at the wreckage.

Crosshair's voice returned, sharp as ever.

"Eyes on the panel."

You rolled yours. "Yes, Mother."

From the crane tower, Crosshair could see the problem developing.

The Separatists were redirecting reinforcements toward the eastern platform.

At first, it had been manageable. A few B1 patrols. Two security droids. A pair of B2s advancing through the loading bay.

He had dealt with them.

But now the enemy was adapting.

Battle droids emerged from the factory's lower assembly doors in groups. The western firefight was getting worse, and several damaged transport vehicles were blocking the narrow access roads.

He adjusted his scope.

You were still kneeling at the console. The same place you'd been for the last two minutes.

Too long.

He dropped another approaching droid. Tracked the next. Fired.

The familiar rhythm steadied him.

Find. Aim. Fire.

He was good at this.

Better than good.

There was very little Crosshair couldn't hit once he'd decided it needed shooting.

His rifle followed the perimeter of your platform.

Another target appeared.

He fired.

A droid collapsed against the railing.

You didn't even look over your shoulder.

You trusted him to keep the path clear.

He liked that.

More than he should.

"Tech," you said over comms, "I've got the second circuit. Starting the shutdown."

"Excellent. Once the shield is disabled, remain connected until the relay is fully isolated. Otherwise, the emergency systems may restore power."

"Copy."

Crosshair glanced toward the western loading yard.

Hunter and Echo were moving beneath the main conveyor structure, pinned down by a line of B2s. Wrecker was attempting to solve the problem with explosives.

Naturally.

Crosshair fired twice to clear the droids advancing on their flank. Then returned his scope to you.

More movement near the eastern loading gates.

He counted six.

Then eight.

Fierfek.

"You're getting company."

You didn't look up. "Busy."

"Leave the console."

"Almost done."

"That's what you said a minute ago."

"And I was almost done a minute ago."

His jaw tightened.

He shot the first droid. Then the second.

A third ducked behind a cargo loader.

Crosshair shifted position.

"That platform's about to be overrun."

"I know."

"Then move."

"Can't."

He fired again.

"Not a request."

Your voice sharpened.

"Crosshair, if I disconnect now, the shield comes back online and the others get trapped inside."

He knew that.

Of course he knew.

Didn't make him like it.

"Find another way."

"I am finding another way."

A B2 raised its weapon toward your platform.

Crosshair put a shot through its exposed neck joint.

The droid folded.

His comm clicked.

Hunter.

"Specialist, how long?"

You answered immediately. "Thirty seconds. Maybe less."

A pause.

"Make it twenty."

"Doing my best, Sergeant."

Crosshair watched another squad appear.

His finger tightened against the trigger.

One shot. Two. Three.

The droids kept coming.

"Get out of there," he said.

You made an exasperated sound.

"For kriff's sake, Crosshair, worry about something more important!"

His jaw clenched.

Something more important.

He had a dozen things he could have said to that.

None of them belonged on an open comm channel.

Instead, he bit down on his toothpick.

Hard.

And fired again.

Ninety-three percent.

You leaned closer to the display. The console's cooling fan whined beneath the strain of the override.

Ninety-six.

Your wrist display flickered green.

"Come on..."

Ninety-eight.

The shield indicator flashed.

Then went dark.

You let out a breath.

"Got it!"

Tech answered immediately. "Shield collapse confirmed. Maintain the connection. I am accessing the central uplink now."

You grinned beneath your helmet.

"See? Told you."

Crosshair's reply was dry.

"Congratulations. Now move."

"Tech needs another few seconds."

"Of course he does."

You were about to respond when something beneath the console clicked.

Not electronically.

Mechanically.

A small, sharp sound.

You paused.

Looked down.

A red light blinked inside the open maintenance housing.

Your smile vanished.

There was a narrow cylinder mounted beneath the secondary power relay. You hadn't noticed it before because it had been concealed behind the industrial wiring.

A charge.

Wired directly to the isolation circuit.

Your stomach went cold.

"Tech."

"Yes?"

"There's an anti-tamper charge on the relay."

Silence.

Then, "Disconnect immediately."

You reached for your cutters.

The indicator flashed faster.

You could see the trigger mechanism now.

A pressure contact.

Removing the wrong wire would set it off. So would allowing the circuit to close.

You had seconds.

Maybe less.

"Fierfek."

Crosshair's voice cut through your comm.

"Leave it!"

You made a decision.

There was a chance. A narrow one.

If you severed the trigger line before the relay discharged, the charge would become harmless.

You reached inside.

The console chimed.

The red light became solid.

Your breath caught.

Too late.

You threw yourself backward.

"Charge!"

The explosion swallowed the rest of your warning.

For a moment, Crosshair saw nothing but white.

The blast tore through the eastern platform with a force that shook the crane beneath him. His rifle jumped against his shoulder.

Fire rolled across the maintenance station.

A section of the walkway broke free and fell into the loading basin, dragging a shower of twisted metal behind it.

The comms dissolved into static.

Crosshair braced himself against the railing.

His scope was useless.

Smoke filled the entire eastern approach.

For several seconds, he simply stared.

Then he adjusted the magnification.

Waited.

The smoke moved slowly.

Too slowly.

"Specialist, report."

Hunter.

No answer.

Crosshair searched the platform.

"Report."

Tech's voice joined the channel.

"I'm not receiving her telemetry."

Crosshair shifted his rifle to the left. Then right.

Nothing.

A broken support beam emerged through the smoke.

Part of the console.

A section of railing.

He kept looking.

"Overwatch, what do you see?"

Crosshair didn't answer.

His finger rested beside the trigger.

He could feel his heartbeat against his armor.

Too fast.

Too loud.

He tried to slow his breathing.

Tried to focus.

The scope shifted again.

And there you were.

Lying near the edge of the destroyed platform.

Face down.

Motionless.

He recognized your armor immediately. The shape of your gauntlets. The equipment attached to your belt. The thin pale scratch across your left shoulder plate from the mission on Saleucami.

He knew every piece of it.

Your rifle lay several meters away.

One arm was folded awkwardly beneath you.

Your helmet rested against the scorched metal.

You weren't moving.

Crosshair stared.

Waited.

A second passed.

Another.

He adjusted the scope.

Perhaps he couldn't see properly. Perhaps the smoke was distorting the image.

He found your hand.

Waited for your fingers to move.

Nothing.

"Crosshair!"

Hunter's voice sounded very far away.

"Overwatch, respond!"

His rifle trembled.

Only slightly.

Enough.

He tightened his grip.

It didn't stop.

Move.

He stared at your hand.

Come on.

Nothing.

He had seen bodies before.

Too many.

He knew what an explosion could do to someone at that distance.

He knew.

His stomach turned.

He lowered the rifle.

For one strange second, he looked at the weapon in his hands as though he had forgotten what it was for.

Then he slung it across his back.

And ran.

Crosshair barely remembered climbing down the crane.

There was a ladder. A maintenance railing. The hard impact of his boots against metal.

Then the ground.

He hit the loading yard at a sprint.

Blaster fire flashed somewhere to his right.

A B1 raised its weapon.

He shot it without slowing.

Another droid stepped from behind a cargo container.

He dropped that one too.

His comm crackled.

"Crosshair, where are you going?"

Hunter.

He didn't answer.

There was no time.

He crossed open ground, boots sliding through dust and oil, and vaulted over a collapsed pipeline.

Smoke burned against his armor.

The eastern platform loomed ahead, its remaining supports groaning beneath the damaged structure.

He saw your body before he reached the stairs.

Still there.

Still not moving.

He took the last few meters too quickly, nearly losing his footing on loose debris.

Then dropped to his knees beside you.

"Hey."

Nothing.

He reached for your shoulder.

His hand stopped.

He stared at it.

It was shaking.

Fierfek.

"Hey."

He touched your armor.

Hot. Scorched. Covered in dust and metal fragments.

"Get up."

You didn't.

Crosshair swallowed.

He slid one hand beneath your shoulder and the other against your hip. Carefully, he rolled you onto your back.

Your helmet tilted loosely.

A deep gouge ran across the outer shell. Your chestplate was scored with shrapnel. One of the clasps on your shoulder armor had broken.

He stared at the damage.

Then your helmet.

"Come on."

His voice sounded wrong.

He searched for a pulse beneath the flexible seal at your neck.

The thick material of his glove got in the way.

He tore it off with his teeth.

Tried again.

His fingers pressed against your skin.

He couldn't feel anything.

Or perhaps he could.

His own pulse was hammering so violently he couldn't tell.

He leaned closer.

"Don't."

The word escaped before he could stop it.

He checked your breathing. Watched your chest.

Nothing.

He touched the side of your helmet.

"Don't you dare."

Around him, the battle continued.

He heard none of it.

He had always known where you were in a fight. Even when you weren't in sight, he kept track.

Through the scope. Through comms. Through the familiar sound of your voice complaining about something.

He could find you anywhere.

He had found you now.

And for once, he couldn't do a damned thing.

His fingers tightened against your armor.

A terrible thought began forming.

He refused to finish it.

Then you moved.

Barely.

A tiny shift beneath his hand.

Crosshair froze.

Your chest hitched.

A rough, painful breath rattled through your helmet.

Then another.

You coughed.

Hard.

Crosshair stared.

"Fierfek."

You groaned.

One gloved hand twitched against the ground.

Then moved toward your ribs.

"Ow..."

The sound nearly took his knees out from under him.

He was already on them.

It didn't matter.

He leaned forward.

"Hey. Can you hear me?"

Your helmet shifted.

"...Crosshair?"

He shut his eyes for half a second.

"Yeah."

You coughed again.

"That..."

Your breathing caught.

"...was bad."

He stared at you.

The relief hit so hard it felt unpleasant.

Almost painful.

Then anger rushed in to fill the space.

"You absolute di'kut."

You blinked behind your visor.

"...Excuse me?"

"I told you to move."

You tried to lift your head.

Failed.

"Not... now..."

"You saw the charge."

"I was trying to..."

"You should've left it."

You made an offended noise.

Even half-conscious, apparently, you had standards.

"Oh, shut... up."

His jaw clenched.

You were alive.

Kriff, you were alive.

He slid an arm behind your shoulders.

"Sit up."

"Bossy..."

"Move."

He helped you upright, supporting most of your weight as another cough shook your body.

You hissed and clutched your side.

Crosshair immediately stopped.

"Ribs?"

You nodded.

"Think so."

He adjusted his arm.

"Easy."

You leaned against him, breathing carefully.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke.

Then you looked up at his helmet.

"You left your post."

He stared.

You frowned faintly.

"Crosshair, Hunter's gonna..."

"To hell with the post."

You went quiet.

Something about the way he said it made your throat tighten.

He was still holding you.

His ungloved hand rested against your shoulder.

You could see it trembling.

Only a little.

But Crosshair's hands never trembled.

You stared at his fingers.

Then lifted your visor toward his.

"Hey."

He didn't answer.

"I'm okay."

His helmet remained angled down.

You tried a small smile.

"Mostly."

Crosshair drew in a breath.

It sounded unsteady.

Then both his hands came up.

One settled against either side of your helmet.

You stopped speaking.

His fingers spread carefully over the battered plastoid.

For one uncertain second, you thought he was checking the damaged seals.

Instead, he leaned closer.

And rested his forehead against yours.

Very softly.

The touch was so gentle you barely felt it through the helmets.

Not a headbutt.

Not even a proper bump.

Just the quiet meeting of two armored foreheads.

You went still.

Crosshair's hands remained against your helmet.

He didn't speak.

Didn't move.

His breathing was faintly audible through your comm.

You stared at the dark curve of his visor.

He was close enough that you could see the scratched surface of his armor, the fine dust caught along its edges.

Close enough that the battlefield seemed strangely distant.

You didn't know what he was doing.

Crosshair didn't touch people.

Not like this.

Yet his hands held your helmet with a tenderness you had never felt from him before.

Something warm and uncertain stirred beneath your ribs.

You didn't move away.

Neither did he.

For Crosshair, the instant his helmet touched yours, everything went quiet.

The image of your body through his scope. The smoke. His own shaking hands. The awful stillness.

All of it receded beneath the simple fact that you were here.

Breathing. Alive. Warm beneath his hands.

He knew what the gesture meant.

He'd known it long before today.

A Keldabe kiss.

An old Mandalorian custom carried into the clone barracks by instructors who spoke of home as though it were something worth fighting for.

Crosshair had never given the tradition much thought.

Not until now.

Not until he'd reached for you without thinking and found himself doing something so unbearably intimate that it would have been embarrassing if he possessed even a single functioning instinct for self-preservation.

He should pull away.

He knew that.

He didn't.

Not immediately.

Just one more second.

One more breath.

Then distant voices cut through the smoke.

"Crosshair!"

Hunter.

Closer.

Crosshair went rigid.

Reality returned.

Fierfek.

He pulled back.

His hands dropped.

You blinked at him.

"Cross...?"

"Can you stand?"

You stared.

"What?"

"Stand."

His voice was suddenly sharp again.

Familiar.

Almost.

You nodded uncertainly.

"Think so."

He slipped an arm around your waist and guided yours across his shoulders.

You pushed yourself upright.

Pain flashed through your ribs.

Your knees buckled.

Crosshair caught you immediately.

"Easy, di'kut."

You gave him a weak glare.

"Make up your mind."

"What?"

"Easy or idiot."

His helmet tilted toward you.

Then he made a sound.

A small, rough exhale.

Almost a laugh.

"Both."

You were still trying to decide what to make of that when Hunter appeared through the smoke.

Wrecker and Tech followed close behind.

"There you are!"

Wrecker nearly charged into both of you.

Then stopped short when he saw the state of your armor.

His expression changed.

"Whoa."

You attempted a smile.

"Hi."

Hunter approached quickly, scanning you from head to toe.

"Status?"

Crosshair answered before you could.

"Conscious. Took the blast. Ribs are hurting. Helmet's damaged."

Hunter looked toward you.

"Can you walk?"

You opened your mouth.

Crosshair's arm tightened at your waist.

"With help."

You turned your helmet toward him.

"I can answer for myself."

"Then answer correctly."

Hunter sighed.

Even now.

Even covered in soot, half-supported by an irritable sniper, you apparently couldn't stop arguing.

Tech approached with his scanner.

"Your vital signs are elevated, but not immediately critical. We should perform a more thorough assessment aboard the Marauder."

"Sounds lovely."

Another distant explosion rolled across the complex.

Echo's voice crackled over comms.

"Uplink data secured. Factory overload is active. We need to move."

Hunter nodded.

"Copy. Rally at the ship."

Wrecker looked at you.

"Want me to carry you?"

You glanced at his enormous arms.

Considered it.

Then felt Crosshair's grip tighten slightly.

"No," you said. "I've got help."

Wrecker grinned.

"Okay!"

Crosshair said nothing.

He simply adjusted your arm around his shoulders and began guiding you toward the extraction route.

You leaned against him.

He didn't complain.

Not once.

And although you didn't understand what had happened between your helmets, you couldn't stop thinking about it.

Especially when he slowed his pace to match yours.

Especially when his hand moved carefully around the worst of your injuries.

Especially when, for the entire walk back to the Marauder, he never once let you go.

The Marauder had never looked so welcoming.

You reached the landing ramp with your legs aching, your head throbbing, and the distinct feeling that your ribs had been rearranged by an enthusiastic Wookiee.

Crosshair hadn't said much on the way back. He had, however, developed a habit of looking down whenever your breathing changed.

You noticed after the third time.

"Stop that."

His helmet tilted toward you. "Stop what?"

"Looking at me like I'm about to fall apart."

"Wouldn't put it past you."

You frowned. "I survived an explosion."

"Noticed."

"Could at least be impressed."

His grip shifted, supporting you as you stepped onto the ramp.

"Try surviving the walk first."

You would have elbowed him if your ribs hadn't threatened mutiny at the thought.

Inside, the others scattered into their usual post-mission routine. Hunter and Tech headed for the cockpit to review the recovered data and plot a course out of Separatist space. Echo followed after securing the ramp.

Wrecker began unloading equipment, talking cheerfully about the destruction of the munitions complex.

Crosshair steered you toward the medical alcove.

You made it approximately three steps inside before deciding you'd had enough.

"I can walk, you know."

"Then walk."

He didn't remove his arm.

You looked up at him. He looked straight ahead.

You decided not to argue.

For once.

The medical berth was narrow, barely wide enough to sit comfortably on. Crosshair helped you lower yourself onto it before stepping back.

The absence of his arm was immediate.

Cold, almost.

You told yourself it was because your armor was damaged.

He set his rifle against the wall. Then removed his helmet.

You watched him rake a hand over his cropped hair, pushing damp strands away from his forehead. He looked tired. There was a faint streak of soot along his cheek, and the usual severity of his expression seemed sharpened by something you couldn't quite place.

"Helmet," he said.

You reached for the damaged clasp beneath your jaw.

Your fingers fumbled.

Crosshair watched for a second. Then stepped closer.

"Here."

You began to protest.

He raised an eyebrow.

You shut your mouth.

He worked the fastening loose with practiced fingers. One of the seals had warped in the blast, and he had to maneuver the damaged piece carefully before lifting the helmet free.

Cool air touched your face.

You drew a grateful breath.

Then winced.

Crosshair noticed.

His eyes moved over your face.

He went very quiet.

"What?" you asked.

He didn't answer.

You imagined you looked terrible. There was dried blood near your temple, dirt across your cheeks, and a cut just below your hairline where the helmet's interior padding had shifted during the explosion.

Your hair was a mess. Your face felt sticky with sweat.

Crosshair set the helmet down.

"Stay there."

"Wasn't planning on dancing."

He ignored you and opened the medical cabinet.

You watched him retrieve a scanner, antiseptic, gauze, and a few bacta patches.

He'd lost one glove during the rescue. The other came off now, tossed onto the counter beside the supplies.

His hands were steady again.

You were glad.

Although the memory of them shaking wouldn't leave you.

The scanner chirped as he passed it over your chest. He studied the readings.

"Bruising. No broken ribs."

"Fantastic."

"Still going to hurt."

"I gathered."

He moved the scanner toward your head. Another set of readings appeared.

His mouth tightened.

"Concussion."

You sighed. "Can I request a replacement head?"

"No."

"Terrible service."

He put the scanner aside.

Then reached for your chin.

You stopped breathing for a second.

Crosshair tilted your face toward the overhead light. His expression remained focused as he examined the cut near your temple.

"Hold still."

You obeyed.

He dampened a piece of gauze and began cleaning the dried blood from your skin.

The antiseptic stung.

You flinched.

His hand stopped immediately.

"Sorry."

You blinked.

Crosshair seemed equally surprised by the word.

He cleared his throat.

"Stay still."

You tried not to smile.

"Yes, sir."

He gave you a look. Then returned to the cut.

The silence grew.

Not the comfortable silence you occasionally shared while working at opposite ends of the cargo hold. This one felt different.

He was standing between your knees, close enough to reach your face without leaning. You could see the faint scars along his knuckles. The concentration in his eyes. The way he avoided looking directly at you whenever he wasn't checking an injury.

You wondered if he was thinking about the helmets.

You certainly were.

The moment kept returning in fragments. The heat of the destroyed platform. His hands on either side of your helmet. The gentle pressure of his forehead against yours.

It hadn't lasted long. A few seconds, perhaps. But it had felt like something you weren't supposed to see.

Something private.

Crosshair brushed a stray piece of hair away from the cut near your temple.

His fingers caught gently at the roots.

You winced.

He released it at once.

"Sorry," he muttered again.

You stared at him.

He frowned.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Then stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

His eyes narrowed.

You gave him your most innocent expression.

He wasn't fooled.

You were relieved when he returned his attention to the wound.

For another minute, neither of you spoke. Then you cleared your throat.

"You can yell at me, you know."

His hand paused.

"Already did."

"I mean properly."

He reached for fresh gauze.

You watched him.

"About the console."

No answer.

"I should've pulled back when you told me to."

Crosshair said nothing.

You looked down at your hands.

"I thought I could disconnect the charge. The shield was already down, and I figured another few seconds..."

You let the sentence fade.

The reasoning sounded less convincing now. You knew how anti-tamper systems worked. You also knew that once the indicator turned solid, your chances had been terrible.

You'd made a judgment call.

A bad one.

"You were right," you admitted.

Crosshair stopped cleaning.

That finally got his attention.

You attempted a small smile.

"Enjoy it. I'm not saying it again."

He didn't smile.

His gaze remained on the cut beside your temple.

"I'm not angry."

You frowned.

That was unexpected.

"What?"

He resumed working.

"Didn't stutter."

You studied him.

"You're not angry?"

"No."

"Crosshair, I nearly blew myself into the next system."

"I'm aware."

"And you had to abandon overwatch."

"Also aware."

You tilted your head, trying to catch his eyes.

"Then why aren't you angry?"

His hand went still.

For a moment, he looked at you.

Really looked.

Then he set the gauze down.

"I was worried."

Three words. Flat. Almost irritated.

As though he'd been forced to admit something deeply inconvenient.

You stared.

Crosshair's jaw tightened.

"Don't look so surprised."

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

For once, you couldn't find a single useful thing to say.

"Oh."

His eyes narrowed faintly.

"That's new."

"What?"

"Nothing to say?"

You blinked.

He picked up a bacta patch.

You looked away, cheeks growing warm.

"Just didn't expect that."

"Clearly."

He peeled the backing from the patch. Then leaned closer to place it beside your temple.

Your face was still burning.

"Well," you said quietly, "thank you."

His fingers paused against your skin.

"For what?"

You glanced up.

"For worrying."

Crosshair didn't answer.

But his thumb moved once along your cheek before he withdrew his hand.

So lightly you almost thought you'd imagined it.

Tech arrived a few minutes later.

He reviewed the medical scanner, asked you several questions, and confirmed that although you had sustained a concussion and significant bruising, there were no obvious signs of severe internal injury.

You were to rest. Drink water. Avoid strenuous activity.

And, according to Tech, refrain from further explosions for the foreseeable future.

You told him you'd do your best.

He did not seem reassured.

Crosshair listened without interrupting.

That alone was remarkable.

When Tech finally departed, the sniper retrieved another piece of gauze.

You watched him clear the remaining blood from your cheek.

He had been quiet for some time now.

You could see that he was nearly finished. The cut was clean. The bruises couldn't be fixed. The dirt was gone.

Yet he continued wiping gently along the same uninjured patch of skin.

Once.

Then again.

You looked at his face.

He was concentrating very hard.

On absolutely nothing.

Your heart made an uncomfortable little movement.

"Crosshair?"

"Hm?"

You hesitated.

Then decided there was no elegant way to ask.

"What was that thing you did?"

His hand stopped.

You lifted your fingers toward your forehead.

"Back on the platform."

Crosshair didn't move.

For a long moment, the medical alcove was silent except for the engines.

Then he lowered the gauze.

"What thing?"

You gave him a look.

He looked entirely unimpressed.

You sighed.

"The helmets."

His expression changed.

Barely.

But enough.

He turned toward the counter and dropped the used gauze into the disposal unit.

"Oh."

You blinked.

"Oh?"

He reached for the antiseptic bottle.

Put it away.

Then closed the cabinet.

You watched him.

"Crosshair."

"What?"

"You put your helmet against mine."

"Noticed."

You stared at his back.

You were beginning to suspect he would rather dismantle his rifle with his teeth than have this conversation.

You looked down at your hands.

"Look, it's probably nothing. I just..."

He stopped moving.

You swallowed.

"It felt like something."

Crosshair remained still.

Then he turned.

Slowly.

His eyes settled on yours.

"It is."

Your breath caught.

"What?"

He exhaled through his nose.

For the first time since you'd known him, Crosshair appeared to be searching for words.

And disliking every single one he found.

"It's Mandalorian."

You frowned.

"Mandalorian?"

"Yeah."

You waited.

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

Then looked toward the doorway.

You almost expected him to leave.

Instead, he said, "Keldabe kiss."

The words were quiet.

You repeated them slowly.

"Keldabe kiss?"

He grimaced.

"Don't make me say it again."

You blinked.

"A kiss?"

"Old custom. Helmets get in the way."

You stared.

Crosshair looked increasingly irritated.

Not with you, exactly.

More with the entire concept of having a mouth and being expected to use it.

"It's not always romantic," he added.

You felt something sink.

"Oh."

He glanced at you.

You looked down.

"Right. That makes sense."

Silence.

Then he spoke again.

"Didn't say it was meaningless."

You looked up.

He held your gaze for a second before looking away.

You waited.

Crosshair drew a slow breath.

"It's something you do with someone who matters."

There it was.

A quiet admission that seemed to cost him more than any wound you'd ever seen him take.

You didn't move.

Didn't speak.

He finally looked at you again.

His expression was guarded.

Almost challenging.

As though he was daring you to laugh.

You couldn't have laughed if you'd tried.

Your heart was beating too hard.

"Crosshair..."

He stepped back.

"You're done."

You blinked.

He gathered the remaining supplies.

"Rest."

You watched him secure the medical cabinet.

He picked up his rifle.

Then stopped near the doorway.

For a moment, he seemed to consider saying something else.

His fingers tightened around the weapon's strap.

You waited.

But whatever it was, he apparently decided against it.

"Don't get up without telling someone."

You nodded.

"Okay."

Crosshair gave a small, stiff nod.

Then left.

You stared at the doorway.

The sound of his footsteps faded down the corridor.

Only then did you realize you'd been holding your breath.

A Keldabe kiss.

Someone who matters.

You slowly lifted your fingers to your forehead.

Your face grew warm.

"Oh, kriff."

Crosshair needed somewhere quiet.

Not the cockpit. Hunter would be there.

Not the sleeping compartment. Wrecker was there.

Not the cargo hold. Too much movement. Too many chances for someone to ask a question he had no intention of answering.

He ended up in his usual place, a raised maintenance platform tucked beneath the Marauder's rear structural supports.

The spot was narrow, half-hidden behind storage cabinets and a cluster of coolant pipes. A short flight of grated steps led up to it.

Crosshair settled against the bulkhead.

One leg stretched out. The other bent.

His forearm rested across his knee.

The rifle lay beside him.

He put a fresh toothpick between his lips.

Then stared at nothing.

Idiot.

He wasn't entirely sure whether he meant you or himself.

Probably himself.

He had explained it.

Actually explained it.

He could have dismissed the question. Could have made some sarcastic comment and left you wondering.

Instead, he'd stood there like a cadet on his first assignment, trying to explain a gesture he'd never expected to use.

A Keldabe kiss.

Someone who matters.

Fierfek.

What a stupid thing to say.

Not because it wasn't true.

That was the problem.

It was true.

Painfully, inconveniently true.

And he'd seen your face afterward.

Surprised.

Quiet.

He couldn't tell what you were thinking.

He hated that.

Usually, you were easy to read. You laughed when something amused you, scowled when someone annoyed you, and had a particularly obvious expression whenever you were planning to do something Hunter would disapprove of.

But back there?

Nothing.

Just that little "oh."

Crosshair closed his eyes.

He had spent months keeping a careful distance from something he wasn't ready to name.

Apparently, all it had taken to destroy that effort was one explosion.

He still saw you lying in the rubble whenever he blinked.

The memory sat behind his eyes.

Motionless armor.

Smoke.

That terrible second when his fingers couldn't find your pulse.

He bit down on his toothpick.

Stopped.

Forced himself to loosen his jaw.

You were alive.

He had checked.

Cleaned your wounds.

Heard you complain.

You were going to be fine.

That should have been enough.

Instead, he was sitting alone, wondering whether he had ruined something.

Crosshair tipped his head against the wall.

It would be easier if you laughed at him.

He knew what to do with that.

He could insult you. You could insult him. Everything would return to normal.

But he didn't want that.

Not entirely.

He wanted the arguments. The ridiculous little competitions. Your smart mouth and your stubbornness and the way you always seemed to know when he needed to be left alone.

He also wanted things he had no business wanting.

Your hand in his.

Your head against his shoulder.

To reach for you without thinking about whether someone might notice.

He wanted to kiss you.

Properly.

That last thought made him open his eyes.

He stared at the opposite wall.

Then muttered, very quietly, "Fierfek."

Somewhere below, the Marauder's ventilation system rattled.

He settled deeper against the bulkhead.

And decided, with absolutely no conviction, that he would stop thinking about you.

Immediately.

You managed to sleep for several hours.

Not particularly well.

But enough.

Tech checked on you again after you woke, and his assessment was reassuring. Your headache was improving, your balance was steady, and your remaining discomfort appeared consistent with the bruising.

He still ordered you to take it easy.

You agreed.

Mostly because arguing with Tech about medical instructions was about as productive as negotiating with a wall.

You changed out of your battered armor and into comfortable clothes, grateful to be free of the weight pressing against your ribs.

Then you sat on the edge of the berth.

And thought.

You'd spent the better part of the last few hours turning Crosshair's explanation over in your head.

It's something you do with someone who matters.

You couldn't stop hearing his voice.

Quiet.

Gravelly.

Reluctant.

He hadn't said he loved you. Hadn't made some grand confession. He'd barely managed a handful of sentences.

But Crosshair had never been a man who gave affection away easily.

He'd patched up your injuries without complaint.

Abandoned his position to reach you.

Held your helmet as though he couldn't bear to let go.

And then, when you asked, he'd told you the truth.

As much of it as he could.

You stared down at your hands.

You knew what you wanted to do.

The realization frightened you a little.

Not because you thought he would be cruel.

Crosshair could be sharp enough to draw blood with a sentence, but you had never truly believed he wanted to hurt you.

What frightened you was that whatever existed between you might change.

The comfortable arguments.

The little favors.

The unspoken understanding.

You liked those things.

You didn't want to lose them.

But you thought of the explosion.

Of the blackness that followed.

Of waking to find him kneeling beside you.

And suddenly, the prospect of never saying anything seemed much worse.

You stood carefully.

Your ribs complained.

You ignored them.

Then you went looking for Crosshair.

Crosshair heard you before he saw you.

Footsteps.

Quiet. Familiar.

He knew the rhythm of your walk better than he'd ever admit. Usually, there was something purposeful about it, even when you had no particular destination. You moved through the Marauder as though you belonged to every corner of it.

Tonight, your steps were slower.

Careful.

He recognized them anyway.

He didn't turn his head. Just shifted the toothpick between his lips and waited.

A moment later, you appeared at the bottom of the maintenance steps.

You looked up.

He looked down.

Neither of you spoke.

Then Crosshair's eyes narrowed.

"You're supposed to be resting."

You held his gaze. "Hello to you too."

"Didn't answer me."

"I slept."

"For how long?"

"Long enough to realize I was tired of lying there."

He gave you an unimpressed look.

"Brilliant medical reasoning."

You almost smiled.

Almost.

His gaze moved over your face, lingering briefly on the bacta patch near your temple. Then dropped toward your ribs.

You knew exactly what he was checking.

"I'm okay, Crosshair."

He made a skeptical sound.

You rested one hand on the railing.

"Can I come up?"

He glanced at the steps. Then at you.

For a moment, you thought he might refuse.

Instead, he sighed.

"Careful."

You climbed the three steps slowly, keeping one hand on the railing.

Crosshair watched the entire time.

Of course he did.

When you reached the platform, you found him sitting exactly as you'd expected. One leg stretched out. The other bent, with his forearm resting across his knee. His rifle lay beside him.

He wore his usual expression.

Cold. Mildly irritated. Completely unreadable.

Except you were beginning to recognize the differences. You knew what he looked like when he was actually angry. You knew what he looked like when he was amused.

And now, apparently, you knew what he looked like when he was trying very hard not to feel something.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Well?"

You swallowed.

"Well, what?"

"Going to stand there all night?"

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Something familiar flickered between you.

You could make a joke. He would answer. You would both retreat behind the usual insults.

For one brief second, you almost did.

Then you remembered his hands trembling in the rubble.

And the urge vanished.

You stepped closer.

Crosshair watched you carefully.

You stopped directly in front of him.

Then, slowly, you lowered yourself to your knees.

His expression changed.

Not much.

Just the slightest tightening around his eyes.

"What are you doing?"

You didn't answer.

Your heart was beating hard. Hard enough that you were almost certain he could see it.

You shifted closer, careful of your bruised ribs.

Crosshair straightened slightly.

His gaze moved between your face and your hands.

"Hey."

His voice was quieter now.

"You all right?"

You nodded. "Yeah."

He waited.

The toothpick stopped moving.

You lifted your hands.

Slowly.

One settled against his cheek.

The other followed.

Crosshair went perfectly still.

His skin was warm beneath your palms. A little rough along his jaw. You could feel the faint movement of his throat when he swallowed.

You'd never touched his face before.

Not like this.

He didn't pull away. Didn't say anything.

Just watched you.

You held his gaze for another moment.

Then drew a small breath.

And leaned forward.

Your forehead met his.

Skin to skin.

Softly.

Carefully.

You closed your eyes.

Crosshair didn't.

Not immediately.

For one stunned second, he stared at you from impossibly close. Your hands cradled his face. Your forehead rested against his.

You were warm.

Real.

Here.

And he had absolutely no idea what to do with that.

His breath caught.

The toothpick slipped from between his lips.

Neither of you noticed where it landed.

A long moment passed.

Then, very quietly, he spoke.

"Do you know what you're doing?"

You smiled faintly. Your eyes remained closed.

"Yes."

His voice lowered.

"Do you?"

You nodded. A tiny movement against his forehead.

"I listened."

Crosshair swallowed.

His gaze moved over your face. Your eyes were closed. Your expression was nervous, but there was no uncertainty in the way you held him.

He stared at you for another heartbeat.

Then asked, barely above a whisper, "You sure?"

The question did something tender and terrible to your chest.

You opened your eyes.

His were still on you.

Watching.

Waiting.

You brushed one thumb gently over his cheek.

"I'm sure."

He didn't move.

You swallowed.

"I know what it means now."

His jaw tightened beneath your fingers.

"And?"

You smiled.

"And I wanted to do it back."

Crosshair stared at you.

For a moment, the familiar sharpness threatened to return. You saw it in the slight narrowing of his eyes. The almost-smirk. The instinct to say something cutting before the moment could become too real.

But he didn't.

He looked at you.

And waited.

You leaned forward again, resting your forehead more firmly against his.

"You matter to me too, Crosshair."

His eyes closed.

The breath that left him was slow.

Unsteady.

You felt it against your face.

For a long moment, he didn't say anything.

Then his hand moved.

One settled carefully against your waist.

The other came to rest at the back of your neck.

He drew you closer.

Not much.

Just enough.

You shifted forward, your knees brushing his thigh.

His fingers curled gently against your skin.

"Di'kut," he murmured.

You laughed softly.

The sound was small in the quiet maintenance alcove.

"That's your response?"

His mouth twitched.

"You were expecting poetry?"

"From you? Maker, no."

"Good."

You smiled.

He kept his forehead against yours. You could feel him breathing more evenly now. The hand at the back of your neck was warm. Steady. It lingered there as though he was still getting used to the fact that you were letting him touch you.

After a while, you whispered, "You know, you could've just told me."

Crosshair opened one eye.

"Told you what?"

You gave him a look.

He smirked faintly.

There he was.

The bastard.

You shook your head.

"You're impossible."

"Been told."

You brushed your thumb along his cheek.

His expression softened again before he could stop it.

"You scared me today," you said.

He went quiet.

You watched his eyes.

"When I woke up and saw you kneeling there, I didn't understand why you looked so..."

You stopped.

Crosshair's jaw tightened.

He knew what you meant.

You didn't make him hear it.

Instead, you said, "I'm glad you came."

His gaze dropped.

For a moment, he seemed to be looking at your hands.

Then he shifted closer.

"Had to."

You smiled sadly.

"Because it was your job?"

His eyes lifted to yours.

"No."

One word.

Quiet.

Certain.

Your chest warmed.

You nodded.

"Okay."

Crosshair studied you.

Then his hand slid from the back of your neck to your cheek.

His thumb rested just beneath the edge of your bacta patch.

He was careful of it.

That tiny detail almost made you cry.

He looked at your mouth.

Then back at your eyes.

You forgot how to breathe.

Crosshair noticed.

Naturally.

His lips curved faintly.

"Something wrong?"

You glared at him.

"No."

"You're staring."

"So are you."

"Better view."

Your face heated.

He looked far too pleased with himself.

You almost gave him a shove.

Almost.

Instead, you leaned closer.

His smirk faded.

Not entirely.

Just enough for the moment to become something else.

His hand remained against your cheek.

You could feel his breath.

Warm.

Close.

You swallowed.

"Crosshair?"

"Hm?"

"Are you going to kiss me, or do I have to do everything myself?"

He stared at you.

Then gave a quiet, disbelieving huff.

"Still got that mouth."

You smiled.

"Unfortunately for you."

His thumb moved once against your cheek.

Then his eyes dropped to your lips.

"Can I?"

The question was so soft you barely heard it.

You nodded.

"Please."

Crosshair leaned in.

And stopped.

Just before his mouth touched yours.

You could feel his hesitation.

The last little bit of distance.

The same man who could take impossible shots without a flicker of doubt suddenly seemed uncertain about crossing a space no wider than a breath.

You smiled.

Then closed the distance yourself.

Your lips brushed his.

Softly.

It was a small kiss.

Almost shy.

Nothing like the arguments or the sharp looks or the endless challenges between you.

Crosshair went still.

Then his hand settled more securely against your cheek.

He kissed you back.

Carefully.

A little awkwardly at first, as though he wasn't quite sure what to do with the fact that you were actually here, kissing him willingly.

You shifted closer.

Your noses bumped.

You broke away with a startled little laugh.

Crosshair opened his eyes.

You stared at each other.

Then you covered your mouth.

"Sorry."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Professional."

You gave him an offended look.

"Oh, shut up."

His mouth curved.

You were still trying not to laugh when he caught your chin gently between his fingers.

"Come here."

Then he kissed you again.

And this time, neither of you missed.

The kiss was slow. Warm. Soft enough to make the rest of the Marauder disappear.

Crosshair's hand slid carefully along your jaw, his fingers settling beneath your ear. His other arm drew you closer without putting pressure on your bruised ribs.

You closed your eyes.

The warmth of his mouth against yours sent a quiet shiver through you.

He felt it.

His breath caught.

Then he kissed you a little more firmly.

Not rushed.

Not demanding.

Just certain.

As though he had finally decided to stop pretending this was something he didn't want.

Your fingers curled gently against the back of his neck.

He made a soft sound.

Almost inaudible.

You felt it more than heard it.

When you finally separated, neither of you moved very far.

Crosshair's forehead settled against yours again.

His eyes remained closed.

You smiled.

For a moment, all you could hear was the ship. The steady hum of the engines. The quiet ticking of cooling metal.

Somewhere in the distance, Wrecker snored.

You couldn't help it.

You laughed.

Crosshair opened one eye.

"What?"

You shook your head.

"Nothing."

He studied you.

Then seemed to decide he didn't care.

His thumb brushed your cheek.

You looked at him.

Really looked.

The sharp lines of his face. The tattoo around his eye. The faint scar near his temple. The expression he was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to keep stern.

"You look different," you whispered.

His eyes narrowed.

"Careful."

You smiled.

"Softer."

Crosshair scoffed.

"Must be the concussion."

"Maybe."

"Definitely."

You laughed again.

He watched you for a moment.

Then, very quietly, asked, "You okay?"

You nodded.

"Yeah."

His eyes searched yours.

"Ribs?"

"Sore."

"Head?"

"Better."

He studied you another second.

Then nodded.

"Good."

You smiled.

His hand moved from your cheek to the back of your neck. He pulled you forward just enough to rest his forehead against yours again.

Another Keldabe kiss.

This one deliberate.

Unhurried.

You closed your eyes.

Crosshair breathed out slowly.

And you understood.

Not all of it, perhaps. Not the years of quiet tradition behind the gesture, or the complicated things he'd learned growing up among soldiers.

But you understood what it meant between the two of you.

No battlefield.

No fear.

No armor.

Just the quiet choice to be close.

You rested your hands against his shoulders.

"I like this," you whispered.

Crosshair's mouth twitched.

"What, sitting on an uncomfortable bit of durasteel?"

You smiled.

"This."

He fell quiet.

Then his arm settled around you.

"Yeah."

A moment passed.

You tilted your head.

"Yeah?"

He gave a reluctant nod.

"Don't make a thing of it."

You grinned.

"Oh, I'm absolutely making a thing of it."

His eyes narrowed.

"Thought so."

You laughed softly, careful of your ribs.

Crosshair watched you.

Then, without another word, he leaned forward and pressed a small kiss to your forehead.

You went completely still.

He pulled back just enough to see your face.

The look he gave you was almost smug.

"Finally."

You blinked.

"What?"

"Shut you up."

Your mouth fell open.

He smirked.

You stared at him.

Then began laughing so hard your ribs protested.

"Ow. Kriff. Crosshair!"

He caught you gently as you leaned forward.

"Easy, di'kut."

"Your fault!"

"Usually is."

You buried your face against his shoulder.

He huffed.

Then his hand settled against your back.

You stayed there.

Your cheek rested against the warm fabric of his undersuit, your body tucked carefully against his side.

Crosshair shifted to give you more room.

His arm remained around you.

And when you eventually lifted your head, you found him watching you.

Not with the familiar mocking expression. Not with the practiced indifference he wore so well.

Just watching.

His eyes softer than you had ever seen them.

You smiled.

He looked away.

A faint flush had appeared along the tops of his ears.

Oh.

That was interesting.

You considered mentioning it.

Really considered it.

Then decided, for once, to be merciful.

Instead, you rested your head against his shoulder again.

Crosshair exhaled.

His arm tightened slightly.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

It was the kind of silence you'd shared before, sitting on opposite sides of the cargo hold or working late while the others slept.

Only now there was no distance between you.

No need to pretend you weren't listening for each other.

No reason to pull away.

Eventually, Crosshair shifted.

"Come on."

You looked up.

"What?"

"Tech'll have my head if you spend the night sitting on a metal platform."

You smiled.

"Concerned about me, sharpshooter?"

He gave you a flat look.

"Concerned about my own peace."

"Sure."

He stood carefully, offering you his hand.

You took it.

His fingers closed around yours.

Warm.

Steady.

You rose slowly, mindful of your ribs.

Crosshair waited until you were balanced before releasing his hold on your waist.

But he didn't let go of your hand.

You noticed.

So did he.

He glanced down at your joined fingers.

For a moment, you thought he might pull away.

Instead, his thumb moved over your knuckles.

Once.

A small, almost absent gesture.

You looked up at him.

Crosshair met your eyes.

His mouth twitched.

"Not a word."

You smiled.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Liar."

"Absolutely."

He shook his head.

Then guided you toward the steps.

You took the first one slowly.

He stayed close.

Not hovering.

Not fussing.

Just there.

At the bottom, you stopped.

Crosshair turned toward you.

"What now?"

You rose carefully onto your toes.

He leaned down before you had to reach.

And you kissed him.

Just once.

Softly.

A quiet little kiss that left his eyes closed a moment longer than necessary.

When you pulled away, he was smiling.

Barely.

But you saw it.

You always saw it.

"Goodnight, Crosshair."

His thumb brushed your hand.

"Night."

You started toward the sleeping compartment.

Then stopped.

Looked back.

He was still standing there.

Watching you.

You smiled.

"Hey, Cross?"

He raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

You tilted your head.

"Next time you want to kiss me, you don't have to wait for a building to explode."

Crosshair stared at you, then gave a low, gravelly chuckle.

"Idiot..." he muttered.

You grinned.

"You're welcome."

He shook his head, but the small smile stayed.

You turned away and continued down the corridor, unaware that his eyes followed you until you disappeared around the corner.

Crosshair remained where he was for a little while longer, listening to the familiar sound of your footsteps fading into the quiet hum of the Marauder.

He didn't need a scope to know where you were.

Didn't need to watch your back or keep his finger near a trigger.

You were safe. You were here.

And for once, the distance between you wasn't something he had to worry about.

Because now he knew you'd come back to him.

The corner of his mouth lifted.

His favorite di'kut.

And he'd be damned if he ever told you that.