Hi! Could I request a Crosshair x Reader? The reader was a medic in the GAR and would occasionally be called to treat the Bad Batch and loved to over-the-top flirt with Crosshair. After Order 66, the reader treats him after the fall of Kamino, and is reunited again on Tantiss?
Thank you for the request!
Because I’m evil I made this really sad and tragic - hope you enjoy!
⸻
Warnings: Injury, death, angst
When you first met Crosshair, he was bleeding all over your medbay floor.
Not dramatically, of course. That wasn’t his style. He’d taken a blaster graze to the ribs, shrugged it off, and sat on the edge of your cot like he couldn’t care less if he passed out.
“You should’ve come in hours ago,” you said, kneeling to check the wound. “This is going to scar.”
Crosshair’s eyes barely flicked toward you. “Scars don’t matter.”
You raised a brow. “To you, maybe. I, on the other hand, take pride in my handiwork.”
His lip curled in the barest ghost of amusement. You took it as encouragement.
You started showing up whenever they did. Crosshair got injured just enough to give you an excuse to flirt outrageously. You called him things like “sniper sweetheart,” “sharp shot,” and once, when you were feeling particularly bold, “cross and handsome.”
He rolled his eyes, glared, told you to shut up more times than you could count—but he never really pushed you away.
You weren’t blind. You saw the way his gaze lingered when you turned to walk away. The way he always sat a little too still when you touched him—like he was trying not to feel something.
⸻
You pressed the gauze a little firmer than necessary against Crosshair’s side.
“Careful,” he grunted.
You smirked, dabbing the bacta. “Sorry, sniper. Didn’t realize your pain tolerance was that low.”
Crosshair didn’t dignify that with a response. Just narrowed his eyes at you and clenched his jaw.
You loved getting under his skin. The other clones were easy to treat. Grateful. Polite. But Crosshair? He glared like you’d personally insulted his rifle every time you patched him up.
It made him interesting.
“You know,” you added, taping down the final dressing with a wink, “if you ever want me to kiss it better, just say the word.”
Crosshair exhaled sharply through his nose—something between irritation and disbelief.
“You ever shut up?”
You leaned in close, your voice dropping to a purr. “Not for you.”
And then you walked off, grinning to yourself, because Crosshair might’ve looked annoyed, but you caught it—the way his eyes lingered just a second too long.
You never expected anything from it. It was just a game. A slow, stupid, hopeful kind of game.
And then the war ended.
⸻
The transition from the Republic to the Empire didn’t faze you at first.
Same job. Same uniform. New symbol on your chest.
You weren’t naïve, just tired. The war had dragged on for years. Maybe peace, even under control, wasn’t the worst thing.
Besides, you were just a medic. You weren’t in charge of policies or invasions. You fixed what was broken. Saved who you could. And in your mind, the war was finally over.
You didn’t question the new rules. Not then. Not when Crosshair disappeared. Not even when Kamino began to feel… emptier.
When the call came in that Crosshair had returned—injured during the fall of Kamino—you were the one they requested. Of course you were.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you were just a medic, doing your job. Nothing more.
But when you saw him again, lying on that cold table, soaked in sea water and rage, something shifted.
“You’re quiet,” you said as you cleaned blood from his temple.
He didn’t answer.
“You could say something. Like ‘Hi, I missed you,’ or even just a classy grunt.”
Crosshair stared at the ceiling like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“I thought you were dead,” you admitted softly, your voice losing the humor. “And then I thought… maybe that would’ve been easier.”
His gaze finally cut to yours—sharp and cold. “Didn’t stop you from joining them.”
You stiffened.
“I didn’t know what was happening, Cross,” you said. “None of us did. I didn’t even see the Jedi fall. I was in a medtent treating troopers shot by their own.”
He said nothing.
“I stayed. I helped. I didn’t know you’d… chosen to stay too. Not like this.”
His voice was quiet, bitter. “So you’re leaving again?”
“I wasn’t supposed to be here at all. They only brought me in to stabilize you.”
He scoffed. “Figures. You’re just like the rest.”
That sentence struck you harder than any wound you’d treated.
Your hand froze on his bandage. Your throat tightened.
You stepped back.
“You think I didn’t care?” you said, barely more than a whisper. “I flirted with you for years, you emotionally constipated bastard. You could’ve said something. You could’ve stayed.”
He didn’t answer. He just looked away.
And this time, you were the one to leave.
⸻
The Imperial Research Facility on Tantiss was hell in sterile form.
You hated it the moment you arrived. The black walls. The quiet whispers. The clones in cages. The scientists with dead eyes.
But you told yourself you had no choice. You’d seen too much to be let go. You’d signed too many lines, accepted too many transfers.
And if you were going to be stuck in this nightmare, you might as well try to help the ones left inside it.
So you stitched up soldiers with no names. You treated mutations the Empire refused to acknowledge. You whispered comforts to dying experiments when no one else would.
And then one day—you saw him again.
You found him slumped against a wall, one arm dragging uselessly, his uniform half-burned.
“Crosshair.”
He blinked blearily. When he saw your face, he flinched like you’d hit him.
“Oh,” he said. “Of course. You.”
“I should’ve guessed you’d find a way to almost die again.”
You knelt beside him, voice low. “Let me help you.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched you with a raw, wounded anger that made your stomach twist.
“You knew I was here,” you said. “Didn’t you?”
“I heard rumors,” he rasped. “Didn’t believe it. Figured if you were here, you’d have visited. Unless that was too much effort.”
You stared at him. “You think I wanted this?”
“You chose this,” he said coldly. “You always do.”
You wanted to scream. To shake him. To make him see what this place had done to you. What the Empire really was. But Crosshair didn’t want sympathy. He wanted someone to hate.
And you were easy to hate.
Even if the way his fingers brushed yours when you patched his shoulder said otherwise.
Even if you still smelled like the cheap soap he used to mock, and he still remembered exactly how you smiled when you wrapped his wounds.
Even if he was still in love with you—and still convinced that meant nothing.
⸻
Tantiss was built to be soulless—white halls, dead lights, silence where screams should’ve been. You learned how to survive here by becoming invisible.
But now you were doing something dangerous. Stupid, even.
You were trusting again.
Crosshair hadn’t spoken much after that first time you treated him—just short questions, sarcastic comments, clipped observations. But he stopped flinching when you approached. Stopped spitting daggers every time your fingers brushed his skin.
And sometimes, on the rare nights when the lights dimmed and the cameras looked the other way, he’d ask things.
“Did you know what they were doing here?”
“Do you regret staying?”
“Why did you help me?”
You answered every question honestly, because lies were for people who didn’t already carry each other’s ghosts.
And then came her—a ghost you didn’t expect.
Omega.
They brought her in bruised, shackled, but defiant. You knew who she was—of course you did. You knew what she meant to Crosshair even if he’d never say it.
The first time you saw her, you crouched beside her cot and said:
“Name’s [Y/N]. I’m not here to hurt you.”
Omega didn’t trust you, not at first. But you earned it, one moment at a time.
You fixed her shoulder. Snuck her extra food. Sat with her at night when the lights made her cry.
Crosshair was the one who really got her to open up.
She’d whisper across the room in the dark.
“You look grumpy, but you’re not really.”
Crosshair muttered something like “Keep telling yourself that.”
She smiled.
You’d watch them from the corner of the lab. A tired soldier and a fierce little kid, clinging to the only family they had left.
You started planning.
You spent weeks preparing—disabling door locks, stealing access codes, memorizing shift schedules. You taught Omega how to sneak. You warned Crosshair how many guards you couldn’t distract.
The night came fast.
Crosshair didn’t ask questions—he moved like a man with nothing to lose. Omega stuck to his side like a shadow. You guided them through hallways, down lifts, past sleeping monsters in bacta tanks.
You reached the final corridor, the one that led to the hangar.
That’s when he stopped.
“Where’s your gear?” Crosshair asked. “We don’t have time to backtrack.”
You shook your head. “I’m not going.”
He stared at you like you’d just said the sky was falling.
“What the hell do you mean, you’re not going?”
“I’m on every manifest. Every shift schedule. Every system. I don’t make it out. Not without putting you both at risk.”
Omega grabbed your hand. “But we can’t just leave you!”
You smiled—God, it hurt to smile. “You have to. You’re the only ones who still have a shot.”
Crosshair stepped forward, chest heaving. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Maybe,” you said softly, “but I’m making the call.”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just stared. Like he wanted to remember everything about you—your face, your scent, your voice when you weren’t bleeding or angry.
And then, quietly:
“I should’ve said something. Before. Kamino. You deserved more than—”
“I knew,” you said. “I always knew.”
You kissed him. Once. Brief. Like a secret passed between souls.
“Get her out,” you whispered.
And then you ran back toward the alarms.
⸻
The cuffs chafed against your wrists, biting into raw skin. The interrogation room was colder than usual—designed to break people long before the scalpel touched skin.
You weren’t broken.
Not yet.
Dr. Royce Hemlock entered like he always did: calm, unbothered, surgical. He closed the door behind him with a quiet hiss. No guards. He didn’t need them.
He looked at you like a specimen already tagged for dissection.
“Dr. [Y/L/N],” he said softly, hands clasped behind his back. “You’ve been busy.”
You didn’t speak.
He circled you, like a predator measuring bone width and muscle density.
“You falsified clearance reports. Tampered with door access logs. Administered unauthorized sedation doses. Facilitated the escape of two highly valuable assets. All while wearing the Empire’s crest on your coat.”
You tilted your chin up. “You forgot ‘ate the last slice of cake in the mess.’”
Hemlock’s smile was thin, sterile.
“I misjudged you,” he said. “I assumed your compliance stemmed from belief. But it seems it was convenience.”
“It was survival,” you corrected. “Until I realized survival meant becoming the monster.”
He stopped behind you, his voice like ice against your neck.
“Do you know what fascinates me, Doctor?” he asked. “Loyalty. The anatomy of it. How some will kill for it. Die for it. And how others—like you—will throw it away for a defective clone and a girl with a soft voice and wild eyes.”
Your voice didn’t shake.
“They had more humanity than anyone in this facility.”
Hemlock’s footsteps were deliberate as he moved back in front of you. He looked down like you were an experiment that had failed on the table.
“Your medical clearance is revoked. Your name will be stripped from the archives. You will die here, and no one will remember you.”
You met his gaze. “Then you’ll never know how I did it.”
That made his mouth twitch. Just slightly.
“You think you’re clever,” he said. “But you’re just like all the rest. Sentimental. Weak. Replaceable.”
You leaned forward, blood on your lip, defiance burning in your chest.
“No,” you said. “I’m unforgettable.”
Hemlock pressed the execution order into the datapad.
“Take her to Sector E,” he told the guard at the door. “Immediate termination.”
As the guards hauled you to your feet, you locked eyes with Hemlock one last time.
“You’ll lose,” you said. “Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someone will bring this place to the ground.”
He tilted his head, amused.
“And who will that be? The sniper who tried to kill his brothers? The child?”
You smiled through bloodied teeth.
“They’re more than you’ll ever be.”
⸻
They didn’t let you say goodbye.
They didn’t let you scream.
But you didn’t beg.
You thought of Crosshair. Of Omega. Of the escape you made possible.
And you went quietly.
Because monsters didn’t get the satisfaction of your fear.
⸻
Later, through intercepted comms, Crosshair would hear the clinical report:
“Subject [Y/N] – execution carried out. Cause of death: biological termination. Body transferred to incineration chamber.”
He replayed that sentence ten times before he crushed the headset in his hand.
Hunter didn’t say anything.
Wrecker just placed a heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder.
And Crosshair—who hadn’t prayed in his life—looked out at the stars, and wished he believed in something that could carry your soul home.
Hi! I don’t know if you’re doing requests, if not ignore this. I love your writing! My request would be bad batch x Jedi!reader( can be gen) where it’s their reaction to you having to save them and do a bunch of cool badass force moves to get to them. 🩷
Absolutely— I will gladly take any request x
I hope you enjoy this, I kinda went off on my own little world at the end.
⸻
Bad batch x Jedi!Reader
The op was supposed to be simple: get in, grab the intel, get out.
So naturally, it was a disaster by hour two.
The Bad Batch was cornered inside a decrepit refinery complex, hunkered behind a wall of overturned crates as blaster fire lit up the air. Explosions cracked the walls. Wrecker was bleeding. Tech’s datapad was sparking. Crosshair was out of ammo.
Hunter muttered a curse. “We need backup. Now.”
Crosshair scoffed. “You mean the Jedi?”
“Don’t say it like it’s a bad thing,” Tech said, wincing as he adjusted his shattered goggles. “They are highly efficient warriors, after all.”
“Well, ours is late,” Echo gritted, shielding Wrecker with a dented durasteel panel. “And I don’t think those guys outside are going to politely wait for her.”
Then, like the Force heard them bickering—
The air dropped a few degrees.
The wind shifted.
And then the main door of the facility exploded inward—not from detonite or a charge, but like something had pushed it in with terrifying, silent power.
Smoke billowed.
And out of it stepped you.
Cloak trailing behind you, lightsaber already humming in your hand, you walked into the chaos like you were late to a dinner party—not a battlefield.
“Sorry I’m late,” you said, lifting your hand.
Three enemy droids shot into the air like ragdolls, slammed into a pipe overhead, and sparked out. “Had a bit of traffic.”
Wrecker blinked. “That… was awesome.”
Hunter stared as you leapt forward, deflecting blaster bolts without looking. “Remind me never to complain about Jedi again.”
You moved like a shadow. One second you were blocking a shot, the next you were throwing your saber, calling it back mid-spin, flipping off a wall, and dragging a pair of guards toward each other with the Force so they knocked heads and dropped.
“Show off,” Crosshair muttered, but there was something weirdly close to admiration in his tone.
“Excuse me?” you called as you force-pulled a turret off its base and crushed it into a ball. “You want to do this next time, sharpshooter?”
“I mean… I wouldn’t mind the view,” Crosshair said under his breath.
Tech, oddly calm amid the chaos, adjusted his goggles with a broken-off screw. “Fascinating. You manipulated five separate Force events within a span of—”
“I’ll send you a diagram later!” you called.
You sliced the control panel, opened the bulkhead, and gestured. “Come on, boys. I’m not babysitting this op all day.”
Hunter helped Wrecker to his feet. “That was… intense.”
Echo gave you a half-grin. “We’d be dead if you hadn’t shown.”
“You would be,” you said smugly. “Good thing I like you.”
“Is that a Jedi flirting?” Crosshair drawled. “Should I be worried about a lightsaber through my chest or a date?”
You raised a brow. “Depends. Are you always this cocky, or is it the blood loss talking?”
Crosshair smirked. “You tell me.”
As the team jogged after you, Tech whispered to Echo, “I believe this is what organic beings refer to as ‘tension.’”
“You think?” Echo grinned, ducking blaster fire as you launched an enemy into a vat of molten ore with a flick of your hand.
“Let’s save the flirty quips for after we’re not being shot at,” Hunter grumbled—but he wasn’t exactly not smiling.
You stopped mid-run, looked over your shoulder, and grinned. “Then pick up the pace, boys. You can flirt after we survive.”
⸻
The air inside the safehouse was still hazy from Wrecker’s attempt at cooking, and someone had definitely patched Crosshair’s blaster wound with duct tape and attitude.
But everyone was alive. And that was saying something.
You were seated cross-legged on a crate, calmly cleaning your lightsaber with the kind of peace only someone who had deflected about 200 blaster bolts could muster. The Force hummed around you, quiet but alert.
Hunter dropped onto the floor nearby, arms resting on his knees. “You always fight like that?”
You looked up, raising a brow. “Like what?”
“Like gravity doesn’t apply to you and you’re mad at every object in a ten-meter radius.”
You grinned. “Only when people I care about are in trouble.”
Crosshair, lounging against the wall with his arms crossed, scoffed. “So, you do care.”
“Don’t get excited,” you teased. “I’d do the same for my hydrospanner.”
Wrecker burst out laughing while Crosshair smirked like he’d just been promoted.
Echo, who was calmly running diagnostics on his arm, chimed in: “I don’t know. I think you’ve got favorites.”
You shrugged. “Maybe.”
Tech looked up from where he was scanning his datapad, eyes sharp behind his cracked goggles. “You know, from a technical standpoint, some of your techniques—particularly the telekinetic manipulation mid-flight—could be extremely beneficial in combat.”
You tilted your head. “Are you saying you want to train with me, Tech?”
He cleared his throat. “For research purposes, of course.”
Echo leaned back against a support beam. “I wouldn’t mind a session or two either. Might pick up a move or two that doesn’t involve being thrown across a battlefield.”
“I think I should go first,” Hunter said mildly. “Since I’m the one who has to keep all of you alive.”
Wrecker raised a hand. “Hey, I want to train with the Jedi too!”
You looked around at all of them. “Let me guess… you all want to train now?”
“Better than watching Crosshair try to flirt,” Echo muttered.
“I don’t flirt,” Crosshair said flatly.
“You stared at their hands for five minutes straight,” Hunter pointed out.
Crosshair didn’t deny it. “They’ve got good saber grip. It’s tactical.”
You smirked and slowly stood, clipping your saber back to your belt. “Alright. We’ll start tomorrow. One at a time. You’ll get a feel for the Force, and I’ll see who whines the least when they land flat on their back.”
“I never whine,” Crosshair muttered.
“Good,” you said with a wicked grin. “You’ll be first.”
Wrecker fist-pumped. Tech adjusted his datapad like it was a test. Echo and Hunter shared a look that said, We’re all going to die.
You stretched your arms and turned to leave.
“Oh,” you added over your shoulder. “And if you’re all so eager to get closer to the Force… don’t forget it can read minds.”
Five men froze. Completely.
You didn’t have to look to know exactly which ones had immediately panicked.
Yeah. You were going to have fun with this.
⸻
You stood in the middle of the field, arms crossed, calm as ever.
The Bad Batch lined up in front of you like misbehaving cadets at a very weird summer camp. Wrecker was bouncing on his heels. Crosshair looked bored already. Echo was trying to focus. Tech was holding a notebook. And Hunter—Hunter was watching you like he was trying to anticipate your every move. Again.
“Alright,” you said, voice light. “Rule number one: you are not Force-sensitive. So stop trying to feel it. You’ll just give yourself a migraine.”
Tech quietly lowered his fingers from his temple and put his notebook away.
“Instead,” you continued, pacing in front of them like an instructor, “we’re going to focus on reflexes, awareness, and how not to swing a lightsaber into your own leg.”
Wrecker raised his hand. “Wait—do we get lightsabers?”
You blinked. “Do you want to lose an arm?”
Wrecker grinned. “Kinda depends on the story I can tell after.”
Echo muttered, “Maker help us.”
You tossed a training baton at Crosshair, who caught it one-handed with zero enthusiasm.
“Let’s see how you handle this, sharpshooter,” you said, smirking. “Try to block me.”
Crosshair rolled his eyes. “I don’t need a magic trick to win a duel.”
You raised your training blade. “That’s cute. Try to last thirty seconds.”
What followed was the most stubborn, cocky, and utterly chaotic sparring session you had ever experienced.
Crosshair lasted eighteen seconds. He blamed the sun.
Hunter was fast, perceptive, and nearly knocked you off your feet once, but then got distracted when you smiled at him. He never admitted it.
Echo was calculated but got annoyed when you used a Force push to trip him mid-roll. “Not fair,” he growled, flat on his back.
“I told you I’d use it,” you shrugged.
Tech kept trying to guess your next move based on logic. Unfortunately, you were using the Force. And chaos.
“I have a theory,” he said, face-down in the grass.
“I’m sure you do.”
Then came Wrecker.
“Alright,” he said, grinning like a kid about to break a toy, “gimme your best shot.”
You dodged his first three swings. The fourth came very close.
“Easy, big guy,” you huffed, ducking under his arm. “This is training, not deathmatch—”
“Oops!” Wrecker slipped on a rock, stumbled forward, and you had to Force-jump to avoid being pancaked. You landed behind him, breathing hard.
“That was… impressive,” you managed.
“Did I pass?” he asked, hopeful.
“Pass? You almost Force-chucked me into next week!”
“Cool.”
Later, as the group collapsed in a sweaty, bruised heap under a tree, you sat cross-legged nearby, sipping from a canteen.
“I’ll admit,” you said with a sly grin, “you’re all… slightly less hopeless than I expected.”
“High praise,” Echo muttered.
Crosshair lay back, arms behind his head. “So when’s the advanced class?”
You tossed a pebble at his head. “Never.”
Tech looked up from scribbling notes. “I would still like to record your movement patterns. Possibly… for private analysis.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Private?”
Hunter cleared his throat, cutting in fast. “I’d be up for a meditation session. Just us.”
You blinked. “You meditate?”
“I do now.”
Wrecker sat up. “Wait, I want to meditate too!”
“No, you don’t,” Echo sighed.
You lay back in the grass beside them, arms tucked under your head, eyes half-closed. “You know… for a bunch of non-sensitive, chaos-wielding commandos… you’re not so bad.”
Crosshair, eyes closed, smirked. “Careful, Jedi. Keep talking like that, and we might start thinking you like us.”
You smirked back. “I do like you. I just like kicking your asses more.”
Pabu, post-series finale.
⸻
Pabu was alive in a way Crosshair didn’t trust.
It didn’t hum with ships overhead. It didn’t reek of oil and war. It didn’t echo with the weight of command or the thrum of tension beneath every breath. It just… was.
Seagulls circled the docks at dawn, squawking like idiots. Kids yelled, feet slapping on sandstone. The trees rustled in an offbeat rhythm that never stopped, and the air always smelled of sea salt, grilled fish, and ripe fruit fermenting in the heat.
He hated it.
Except he didn’t.
⸻
The people here didn’t stare at his missing hand. They didn’t ask if he’d lost it saving someone or killing someone. They just noticed, nodded, and shifted baskets or tools so he could carry them with his off hand.
He still hadn’t told them his name.
You were the first person to say it out loud.
“You don’t look like a Crosshair,” you said, half-laughing, barefoot on the edge of a weatherworn dock. “You look like someone who’s trying very hard not to care what anyone thinks, but secretly cares a lot.”
He gave you a long, unimpressed stare. “You talk too much.”
“And you sulk too much.”
That got a smirk out of him.
⸻
Your home sat along the middle tier of Pabu, tucked between wild flowering vines and one of the best views of the ocean. You’d lived there your whole life—grew up learning tide patterns, storm warnings, how to fish with traps and nets and patience.
You never once said “thank you for your service” or asked what Crosshair had done in the war.
You just asked if he wanted to help you set crab traps or throw stones into the water.
Sometimes, when the wind died down, you sat beside him on the cliff paths and told him stories. Not important ones. Just the kind that reminded him the world was still turning. That people still existed without orders.
One night, after a heavy rain, you gave him a glass bottle.
It had been washed up on the beach—inside, a note: “If you’re reading this, you’re alive. And that’s enough.”
“Found it when I was sixteen,” you said. “Kept it. Never opened it until this year. Figured I’d give it to someone who needed it more.”
He held it in his one hand for a long moment. The glass was warm from your touch. The note inside felt… real.
“…Thanks.”
You smiled. “Was that hard?”
“Extremely.”
⸻
He hadn’t gotten a prosthetic yet. Couldn’t bring himself to.
The scarred stump still ached when the air pressure shifted. Sometimes he looked at it and imagined the rifle he used to hold. The precise balance of metal and bone. The impossible stillness.
Now, he shook from time to time. Not from pain. From stillness.
He didn’t tell you that.
But you saw it anyway.
“Everyone here’s missing something,” you said, gently, one night beneath the low firelight. “Some people just hide it better.”
He didn’t answer.
So you leaned your shoulder against his.
Just… stayed there.
No pressure. No performance.
He stayed too.
⸻
It wasn’t until days later—when he instinctively caught your elbow as you slipped on a mossy stone, one arm wrapped around you to steady your fall—that something cracked open.
You looked up at him, breathless and close.
“You always this chivalrous?” you asked.
“No,” he said. “Just with you.”
And for once, he didn’t pull away.
⸻
The knock came softly. Not the kind meant to wake someone—just a hesitant brush of knuckles against wood. As if whoever stood behind your door wasn’t sure they should be there.
You were already awake.
Pabu was quiet at night—so quiet, sometimes it felt like the island held its breath while the sea whispered to the cliffs. You liked that silence. Usually. But not tonight.
Tonight, something in you itched.
You opened the door barefoot, hair tangled from tossing in bed, lantern in hand.
And there he was.
Crosshair.
Bare-chested in loose sleep pants and boots, as if he’d thrown on the first things he could grab. No weapon. No cloak. No sharpness in his eyes—just shadows.
You blinked, taken off guard. “Crosshair?”
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t look at you, either.
He was staring past your shoulder, jaw tight, that missing hand hanging stiff at his side like he forgot it wasn’t still whole.
You lowered the lantern a little. Let the soft light reach him without pressing too close. “You okay?”
Silence.
You could hear his breath—too fast, like he’d been running or trying not to.
He shifted. Like he was about to speak.
Instead, he shook his head.
And still didn’t leave.
So, you stepped back. Just one step. Just enough.
“…Come in.”
He hovered in your doorway for a second longer. A soldier waiting for permission.
Then finally—finally—he moved.
The door closed with a soft click, and the weight of him filled your small space like a storm.
He didn’t sit. Didn’t talk.
Just stood there, arms at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
You crossed the room, pulled a blanket from the couch, and held it out—not with pity. With choice.
“Take it or leave it.”
His eyes flicked to you then.
A flicker of something… human. Something wounded.
He took it.
You sat on the floor by the open window, letting the sea breeze move through the warm room, and waited. Not for a story. Just for him.
Eventually, he joined you. Knees drawn up, the blanket over his shoulders, that haunted look still tucked behind every line of his face.
“I had a dream,” he said. Voice low. Raw.
You didn’t interrupt.
“They left me,” he added. “I was… screaming. And no one turned around.”
You watched his hand. The one hand. Clenching.
“I couldn’t even hold my rifle. Couldn’t fight back. I just stood there. Worthless.”
“That wasn’t real,” you said gently.
His jaw flexed. “Felt real.”
You leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded. “Sometimes the past grabs you like that. Won’t let go until you rip it out by the roots.”
He looked at you. Noticed the way you weren’t looking at him—but near him. Close enough he could speak. Far enough he didn’t feel cornered.
“…Why’d I come here?”
You tilted your head toward him.
“Because you didn’t want to be alone.”
Silence again.
Then softer—softer than you thought he could manage—he said, “You make it easier. Breathing.”
You smiled, small and true.
“Then stay.”
And he did.
He didn’t touch you. Didn’t sleep.
Just sat beside you while the tide rolled in, and the lantern flickered low, and—for the first time in a long, long time—he let himself rest.
Not as a soldier. Not as a weapon.
Just a man.
Bruised. Tired. Still here.
And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to survive it alone.
⸻
The scent of eggs and something burning pulled you gently from sleep.
You blinked against the golden light spilling through your window, warmth already seeping into the room. Birds chirped somewhere up in the palms. The sea whispered low and lazy outside.
And in your tiny kitchen—Crosshair.
He stood shirtless, the thin blanket you’d given him still draped over his shoulders, bunched awkwardly at the elbows as he tried to manage a small pan one-handed.
You sat up slowly, watching him fumble with the spatula in his off hand. Every motion was too stiff, too careful, like he was trying not to admit how difficult this actually was.
There was a tiny line between his brows. Concentration. Frustration.
A hiss of oil popped.
He flinched.
You slid off the bed quietly and crossed the room barefoot.
“…Need help?”
“No,” he said instantly—too fast.
You smiled, stepping closer anyway. “You sure? Because your eggs look like they’re losing a war.”
He didn’t glance over. “I’m adapting.”
Your voice was soft now, near his shoulder. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I’m not.”
He was. But you didn’t push.
Instead, you reached past him to turn the heat down a little. Let your fingers brush his wrist—not enough to startle. Just enough to say I’m here.
He didn’t pull away.
That felt like something.
You leaned in, your voice like the morning breeze, warm and teasing. “For the record… it smells better than it looks.”
He gave a low snort. “I’ll keep that in mind, chef.”
And that’s when you did it.
You stepped in close, reached up gently—and kissed his cheek.
Just a press of lips. Soft. Unrushed. Not asking anything from him.
He went completely still.
You could feel the tension in him coil tight—but not in fear. Not anger. Just something… undone.
You pulled back slowly, eyes searching his face. “Thank you,” you said, voice barely a whisper. “For being here.”
His gaze dropped to you. Quiet. Intense. Like he was trying to make sense of you.
“…Didn’t think I’d want to stay,” he admitted, voice hoarse.
“And now?”
Crosshair looked down at the half-burnt eggs. The soft light catching the curve of your cheek. Your hand still barely brushing his.
“…Still don’t.”
A pause.
“But I think I will.”