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frostycatblr-fandom-files · 15 hours

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The Closet

Summary: The Wolfpack is sick of the constant arguing between you and Wolffe, so they take matters into their own hands. Surely if you and the Commander were accidentally locked into one of the supply closets, you’d come to some sort of middle ground, right?

Well, there’s one thing they’re forgetting… you’re claustrophobic.

TW: small spaces, claustrophobia, panic attack

Word Count: 4.7k

-> Reader uses she/her pronouns - masterlist can be found here <-

“It’s the perfect plan!” Boost exclaims, slapping the table in front of him for emphasis.

The mesh hall is relatively crowded today, many hungry troopers finally getting some time to relax after another tough mission. Despite the loud chatter of the room, Sinker keeps his voice low.

“I’m not sure,” he concludes with the shake of his head “it sounds risky and Wolffe is in a bad mood as it is, I don’t want this to make him worse”.

At the other side of the table, Boost shares a mild look of annoyance with Comet. “C’mon Sarge, this solves all of our problems!” Comet replies with a whine. It took him and Boost the past week to come up with this plan, putting more time into it than they’d like to admit.

With a deadpan voice, Sinker replies “Oh so this will end the war? And kill Dooku? And wash the gunships? Each and every problem we have will be instantly solved if we lock them in a supply closet?”.

Boost shrugs, trying to stay optimistic “You never know”. Sinker scoffs, rolling his eyes at his brother.

The plan was simple but Comet and Boost couldn’t do it alone. They needed Sinker for this to work. Sighing, Boost leans across the table “Look, all you have to do is get her into the closet on the lower deck, that’s it”.

Sinker is still unsure. “We’ll get the Commander, shove him in there, lock the door and ta-dah! Job done” Comet adds.

This doesn’t sound like a good plan. Sinker knows that but it is enticing. He’s not sure if he can handle another mission full of you and Wolffe’s bickering, the two of you proclaiming you can’t stand the other.

Missions would be much easier if you both avoided each other but no, despite the constant arguing you two engage in, you will still insist on being near one another, whether that be sharing the same holomap (which is an absolute nightmare to witness) or standing next to one another in a briefing (which leads to you interrupting him and vice versa for the entire. damn. briefing.).

Sinker wants to say no, to put a stop to his brother’s shenanigans but would this do any harm? Maybe if you both got the opportunity to confront one another and get all of this arguing out of your system once and for all, then you might come to some sort of middle ground and let bygones be bygones.

“If I agree to this…” he begins and Boost impulsively throws his fist in the air “Yes! You're in!”.

“I said if…” Sinker says sternly “if I do this then the two of you have to wash the gunships”.

Boost nearly falls off his seat “H-how many are you expecting us to wash, Sarge?”.

“I want four done by the end of the next rotation”.

Although Comet has never experienced a heart attack, he’s sure this is how it feels “What?! Four? C’mon Sinker, be reasonable”.

He folds his arms “Boys, if you want my help then that’s what it’ll cost ya”. Exchanging looks to one another, Comet huffs “Fine, we agree”.

***

The sound of your name makes you look up, eyes wide as you scan the corridor. Manoeuvring through some troopers, Sinker comes into view.

Closing your datapad, you give the Sargeant your full attention, a relaxed smile on your face.

“Sinker, what can I do for you?” You ask.

A flicker of sympathy crosses Sinker’s face as he answers “Well, I was just wondering if you could help me get some batca patches from the supply closet. There’s a whole box in there but, well, y’know me, I accidentally pushed them behind the shelving unit and now they’re stuck between that and the wall. Do you think you could get them for me?”.

“Yeah, sure,” you reply, so quick to help that it makes the ball of guilt in Sinker’s stomach grow “lead the way”.

While usually you and Sinker always find things to talk about, he’s strangely quiet during your walk to the lower deck. It’s not something that alarms you but instead, it worries you.

It’s no secret that things have been intense lately. The missions have gotten deadlier, injuries are harder to aid and the Separatist army seems to be growing more and more by the minute.

Even something as simple as accidentally knocking some bacta patches behind a cabinet seems like a dire problem nowadays.

“It’s that one, just up ahead” Sinker slows his pace, pointing at one of the closets.

“You’re not coming in?” You quirk an eyebrow, slowing your pace to match his.

“Hm? Oh… uh, no I have to go help the General with something… sorry, I should’ve said that beforehand” he scratches the back of his neck, preferring to look down at the floor.

“That’s ok, you go on ahead, I’ll take care of this” with a firm nod, you open the door to the closet and disappear inside. Once Sinker’s certain the door has fully closed behind you, he lets out a long sigh. Kriff, that was harder than he thought it would be.

The inside of the closet is dark, the dim lights taking a few seconds to boot up. In your time serving the GAR, you’ve been on a multitude of ships, covered with the most cutting edge technology and yet in each and every ship, the closets are always neglected.

They’re a second thought in comparison to the other elements of the ship. Cluttered floors, racks that are full of various stock that are probably out of date, a musty smell in the air, dull lights that are incapable of doing their sole purpose. It’s not a place you want to be for a long time.

Trying to look behind the metal shelving units, you mumble a curse. It’s dark behind the cabinets with barely enough space between them and the wall for you to fit your arm through.

Stooping down, you reach into the darkness, trying to find this damn box of bacta patches so you can quickly leave again.

You’re so invested in finding the box, you pay no attention to the voices outside. “Why would the General want to meet me in there?” A voice says and without missing a beat, another voice replies “I’m not sure, Commander, I thought it was best not to ask”.

Behind you, the door opens but with the position you’re in, it’s hard to turn around and look. “I haven’t found it yet,” you call out “kriff, how far back did it fall?”.

The person doesn’t reply.

“I know you’re really busy just standing there and all, Sinker,” you huff “but I’d really appreciate some help”.

“Sinker?” the voice scoffs, making you freeze. Clumsily removing your hand from behind the cabinet, you stand up straight and come face to face with Commander Wolffe.

You have to admit, you didn’t think you’d come this close to him, your chest almost bumping against his as you sway backwards to give him some space. “Oh! Commander-“ you start but Wolffe talks over you.

“I know us clones all look the same but the last time I checked, Sergeant Sinker has silver hair and both of his biological eyes”. You can hear the venom in his voice, his tone laced in sarcasm as he continues “Just a tip, so you don’t mix people up next time”.

You can’t help scoff, retorting “Mix people up? I wasn’t even looking at you! Am I just supposed to sense how many biological eyes you have?”.

“You should look whenever someone enters a room,” Wolffe begins to lecture you “that’s protocol 101; always be aware of your surroundings”.

“My apologies, Commander, I didn’t realise I came here to get a lesson in GAR protocol” you snap back. This is a usual occurrence whenever you and Wolffe are near each other, neither of you backing down and arguing until you’re separated by the others.

With the rolls of his eyes, Wolffe gestures towards the door “Just go, I have an important meeting in here”.

“With pleasure” you mumble, trying to move around the Commander without walking straight into him or colliding with the multiple cabinets.

Wolffe leans to the side, huffing loudly just to make sure you know this is a bother to him, giving you space to step over one of his legs and move to the door.

Your fingers brush against the control panel to the door, lighting it up. Nothing happens. You wait a few moments before doing it again but this time you press harder on the panel. Still nothing.

“Huh…” you crease your brow, repeating the action for a third time.

You hear some movement behind you and Wolffe turns his body to face you, peering over your shoulder at the control panel. With his critical gaze on you, you try again but to no avail.

“Are you pressing it hard enough?” his voice is gruff and surprisingly close to your ear.

You jerk your head away from him “Jeez, are you trying to make me go deaf? Of course I’m pressing it hard enough!”. With extra force, you press down on the control panel again.

Nothing.

Wolffe rolls his eyes, reaching his arm around you and trying it himself “Obviously you’re not if the door isn’t opening”. Stabbing his finger at the control panel, you hear a small “...oh” from behind you when the door still refuses to open.

“Move over, let me have a proper look at it” Wolffe puts his hands on your shoulders, abruptly guiding you away from the control panel as you both switch places in a shuffling motion.

Now with Wolffe closest to the door, you lean against one of the cabinets, firmly planting your hands on the cool metal.

You can feel your face becoming flushed, a surge of warmth spreading across your cheeks. The door will open, of course it will. This is just a small malfunction, that’s all. And then you can leave this stupid closet and never come back here again.

Trying to distract yourself, you decide to subject yourself to small talk with Wolffe.

“So, why are you here anyway?” you ask, your grip tightening on the shelves as if you’re bracing for impact.

Wolffe keeps his focus on the control panel, fiddling with it as he answers “The General wants to meet me in here, says it’s something important”.

Are you hallucinating or did he just say the General? Clarifying, you ask “General Plo wanted to talk to you… in a supply closet?”.

“That’s what I said”.

“And the General said this to you himself?” you pry, trying to ignore the loud thudding of your heart.

“Not exactly” putting his hands on his hips, Wolffe pauses his investigation of the control panel “hmm, it was Comet and Boost. They said he wanted to meet me here”.

You force out a small laugh “And you believed them? Really?”.

Wolffe says something you don’t quite catch, something in Mando’a. Running his hand down his face, he gives the control panel a death stare for good measure.

“The bad news is the door is locked from the outside, so I can’t open it from here but the good news is the maintenance droids run on a tight schedule so one of them should be…” glancing over his shoulder at you, his words fail him and for a moment, Wolffe’s taken aback.

The puzzled look on the Commander’s face makes you feel even worse, an overwhelming feeling of dread consuming your senses. “What? What is it?” you question, your tone a little too confrontational but thankfully Wolffe doesn’t bite back (for once).

“Why is your face so red?”.

Your stomach twists in directions you’re not sure it’s meant to, utterly embarrassed by such a question. Averting your gaze, your eyes lock onto the shelves that line the room, so cluttered it feels like they’re swarming you.

If you reach your arm out, you could touch almost any shelf. Could you do that beforehand? Is the room getting smaller?

With the surprisingly gentle call of your name, Wolffe brings your attention back to him, his hands out in front of him as if he’s trying to tame a wild animal. “Just tell me what’s wrong,” he coaxes, moving closer to you “are you hurt? Is that why you're in here?”.

With his hand a mere inch from touching you, you flinch, pressing yourself deeper into the cabinet as you screw your eyes shut. It’s not that you don’t mind being touched but the thoughts of feeling such a dominant presence as well as the cramped aura of the room makes your stomach churn.

“No, no, I don’t like this room,” you blurt out, voice beginning to shake as you continue “everything feels too tight, it’s all too close, I-I don’t like it”.

Wolffe can handle fighting battle droids, kriff, he can even hold his own against a sith but this? He knows he’s out of his depth but Wolffe also knows this isn’t the time to freeze, not when it’s you. Right now, you need him and he’ll be damned if he doesn't help.

He notices your tight grip on the shelves, your knuckles turning white as if you’re holding on for dear life. “Do you want to sit down?” Wolffe keeps his voice uncharacteristically soft, stooping to the ground in the hopes you’ll follow.

Hesitantly opening your eyes, you scan the floor below. It’s covered in loose, discarded items that once sat on the shelves but have since been looked over and forgotten.

Is there any part of this closet that’s clean? That doesn’t feel crowded? Your head pangs, pain lingering across your forehead.

You let out a whine. Wolffe keeps one of his hands stretched out to you, opening his palm wide “Don’t be stupid about this, let me help you”.

You don’t think he can help, in fact you don’t think anyone can help you right now. But then your gaze meets his. Wolffe looks up at you with calm, hopeful eyes, his rough exterior and brazen nature slowly melting away.

You try to take a deep breath but the tightness in your throat makes it an impossible task. You don’t want to take his hand, you don’t even want to look at Wolffe right now, the embarrassment of your involuntary actions making you feel worse. But what other choice do you have? It’s not like you can walk away, you can barely take a step forward without face planting a cabinet.

Nervously nodding your head, you take his hand. Wolffe tentatively encloses his hand around yours, watching your reaction closely. At any sign of further discomfort or even the slight jerk of your hand, he would let go, not wanting to accidentally make matters worse.

“Good… finally, you actually followed an order” he jibes, the subtle smirk on his face letting you know he’s not purposely dissing you. Although this is a comment you’d usually roll your eyes at, you weirdly find comfort in his typical teasing.

With his hand to steady you, you slowly lower yourself to the ground. “There you go,” Wolffe comments “were you hurt? During the last battle?”. He knows you said it’s the room causing this but he doesn’t see how that’s possible. Not unless this was somehow caused by an injury you sustained in battle, one that’s only rearing its head now.

You shake your head, though that only makes you feel dizzy. “No, no… i-it’s too tight, this room, I need to get out,” you reply through laboured breaths.

Keeping one hand enclosed around yours, Wolffe uses his other hand to reach up and try the control panel again. He sighs when nothing happens.

Letting out a small whimper, you slip your hand out of Wolffe’s, using both of your hands to pull your knees up against your chest as you hang your head low.

You’ll never hear the end of this. Out of all the clones aboard, why did it have to be Wolffe in here? The one person you know will bring this up at a later date just to get the upper hand in an argument.

What makes it worse is that you know he’ll only view you as being weak after this. Wolffe is a man that’s been through so much in his life, surviving a countless number of battles, disasters and attempts on his life. The heavy feeling of shame makes you hold onto your knees tighter. Wolffe is such a strong soldier and here you are, crumbling because of a locked door.

The soft sound of your name drags you away from your internal self-criticism, followed by a poking sensation on your leg.

Barely looking up, you see Wolffe prodding your knee, repeating your name again as he adds “I can’t help unless you give me something to work with, tell me what I can do”.

Wolffe has always had mixed feelings about you but that doesn’t mean he wants to see you upset. Sure, you’re stubborn… and feisty… and a headache to work with but in fairness, you’ve always been there for the Wolfpack.

After a tough fight, you’ve helped them bandage up. When you don’t have full faith in a plan (usually one of Wolffe’s) you’ll create a backup plan for when things inevitably go off track. Even on those quiet rotations, when memories filled with loss and regret begin to flood his brother’s heads, you’re there, listening to them. You’re a comforting presence in many of their lives, even Wolffe’s.

But don’t even ask him to say that out loud. That’s never going to happen.

He pokes you again “C’mon, it’s not like I’m going anywhere… even if I wanted to”. You huff out a laugh, though that proves harder than you initially thought, your dry mouth making the laugh sound more like a cough.

If you don’t get out of here soon, you think you might get sick, the anxious feelings in your stomach continuing to gnaw away at you.

“I… I need to get out, I need to leave” with newfound determination, you begin to stand.

The second you plant your feet on the ground, you know it’s a bad idea, feeling your muscles tremble. It’s as if you can feel each and every one of your nerves twitching, your body involuntarily trembling with panic.

Wolffe is quick to follow suit, trying to stand without knocking into one of the shelves. “Woah, take your time” he says a bit more sharply than he anticipated.

“No, let me leave, I need to-“ before you can even finish your sentence, your legs go from underneath you. You drop, about to crash back onto the ground when Wolffe catches you, scooping you up in his arms.

“What did I tell you?” He mutters with a huff, fully enclosing his arms around you as he lowers you back down to the ground. “Stay low,” he orders “the last thing either of us need is you fainting and smacking your head against the floor”.

You thought the feeling of someone else near you would make this worse, adding a new layer of suffocation to your mixture of emotions. But it’s actually kinda nice, the warmth radiating from Wolffe acting like a warm, welcoming blanket of comfort.

Being in the professional setting of the GAR for so long, you’ve forgotten how soothing physical touch can be at times. Although your reaction is subtle, Wolffe notices how you faintly lean into him, your head a mere few inches from resting on his chest. He watches you for a moment, studying your face.

Thankfully, you have your eyes closed again so he’s not worried you’ll catch him staring at you. Even though you’re in the middle of a panic attack, you look more relaxed than usual. Or at least more relaxed than how you usually are around Wolffe.

Whenever he sees you, it’s only a matter of time before you both get worked up, the two of you bickering or making not so subtle jabs at one another. But looking at you now, there’s not a single trace of that annoyance he normally associates with you.

“Just relax, take some deep breaths” he encourages you, using his hand that’s resting on your upper back to give you a gentle nudge towards him. Wolffe isn’t sure how else to let you know it’s ok to relax against him, seeing the option of saying it directly being too awkward.

He gives you a small smile and an approving nod as you do exactly that, letting your body fall against him as you rest your head on his chest.

Your hand comes up to his chest too, clutching onto the firm fabric of his Commander’s uniform, something you’re grateful he’s wearing considering his plastoid armour would be way too uncomfortable to relax against.

With your eyes still closed, you attempt to take some deep breaths, your breathing hitching every now and again. You try to sync your breathing up with Wolffe’s, finding the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest to be a lulling piece of comfort.

The tight sensation that grips your heart doesn’t fade instantaneously but you have to admit, it’s nice having someone close. It gives your mind something else to focus on instead of the cramped room, Wolffe’s presence distracting you from your worries.

The only time Wolffe ever expected you to be this close to him is if you had enough of his shit and decided to swing for him. Never in a million years would he imagine you being so peaceful and close to him.

With your voice coming out as a small whisper, you mumble “Thank you”.

His heart beats faster at your small piece of gratitude, something Wolffe hopes you can’t hear through his uniform. He’s not used to things like this. Give him a blaster and Wolffe can handle himself just fine but holding someone and trying to comfort them? That’s not his strong suit.

Taking a deep breath, you speak again, this time projecting your voice a bit more. “Did you really think you were meeting Master Plo here?” you sniffle, your head still aching but thankfully, the pain’s beginning to dull.

Wolffe has to stop himself from doing another eye roll, not wanting to start a fight or get you worked up again. “That’s what I was told” he grunts.

To his surprise, you let out a small, genuine laugh. It makes his hands twitch, wanting to pull you even closer and relish in your laugh but he resists the urge.

“And who told you that again? Oh yeah, Comet and Boost, two troopers known for their unwavering seriousness and hatred for pranks” you laugh, something Wolffe is thankful to hear again.

“Alright you got me there,” he admits, knowing it wasn’t the smartest move to believe his troublesome brothers “but why are you in here? Did they say the same thing to you?”.

“Actually it was Sinker,” you reveal, getting rather comfy leaning against the Commander “he asked if I could get some bacta patches he accidentally dropped behind the cabinets”.

You can feel Wolffe deflate, puffing out a deep breath “Please tell me you didn’t actually believe that”.

“Why?” You crane your head to look up at him, watching as he tries to suppress his annoyed expression.

Although you’d never say this outloud, he looks nice like this. Looking up at him in this position gives you a great view of his jawline, both of his eyes peering down at you and a genuine smile playing at his soft lips.

Damn, maybe you did actually hit your head. Trying to refocus on what he’s saying, you push any admiration you have for the Commander deep, deep down.

“Because the batca patches are stored on the upper deck,” removing one of his hands from you, he runs it down his face “kriff, you’ve been on this ship for months and you don’t even know where the batca patches are stored”.

While you would normally jeer back a response or scoff at Wolffe’s remark, immediately becoming defensive, you find it hard to do that after everything that’s happened.

You finally feel relaxed again, a calmness settling in your stomach and putting your heart at ease. You’re in no mood to start a fight and frankly, you don’t think you have the energy for it either.

Instead you laugh again. After all, Wolffe has a point. You should’ve known where the bacta patches are kept and if you did then you wouldn’t be in this predicament. It was a silly mistake and at this moment, you can’t find the energy within you to do anything but laugh.

Wolffe chuckles too, appreciating your reaction. Shrugging, he admits “Can’t blame you too much, it was only last week I realised the caff machine in the mesh hall has more than one setting”.

“Seriously?” you laugh again “But the default setting on that thing tastes like droid oil”.

“I know that all too well” Wolffe shakes his head, almost tasting the sour caff on his tastebuds from the mere mention of it.

You open your mouth to speak again but before you can, the door slides open, the bright lights from the corridor making you squint. A droid whirls into the room, taking no notice of you and going about it’s own business.

And just like that, your time with Wolffe is over.

Giving him a small smile, you climb off of him, getting to your feet. Watching Wolffe stand too, a sudden awkwardness hangs over you. Is that it? What do you say now? Thanks for the help but I’ll still call you out the next time you’re a jerk?

Noticing Wolffe’s expression, it’s clear you’re not the only one feeling this way. “Well, I guess that’s that” he nods, gesturing for you to leave the closet. You do so gratefully, shuffling past the droid and stepping into the wide and spacious hallway.

When Wolffe steps out, you’re sure you see a flicker of reluctance in his eyes. But you quickly brush past it, blaming it on your vision still adjusting to the bright lights.

“Are you going to be okay from here?” Wolffe asks, though it takes you a few moments to process his words, Wolffe’s head hanging low and voice just above a whisper. You’re not sure why he’s talking so low, it’s not like there’s many troopers on the lower deck to overhear.

“Yeah,” you try to sound confident in your answer “I’ll take it easy for the rest of the rotation, just in case”. In an effort to persuade him, you give Wolffe a quick smile.

“Right, well you know how to contact me if you need me…” he replies before realising how soft that sounds, immediately breaking eye contact with you and clearing his throat “or just go to the medbay, yes, that’s the better option, do that instead of contacting me. I’m very busy today”

“Busy getting stuck in closets?” you playfully tease, trying to brush past this awkward energy.

He chuckles “Better me than you”. Kriff, that sounds too soft too. Wolffe’s not a tender, warm hearted kinda guy, so he’s not sure why he’s trying to be that around you, even if it’s subconsciously.

Quickly shoving his feelings to one side, Wolffe chalks it up to your rare vulnerable moment bringing out his protective nature. That’s it. The next time he’ll see you, things will be normal, none of this small talk or softened expressions to one another.

With the curt nod of his head, the Commander walks away. It’s true, he does have a lot to do today but if you were to contact again, he’d be there in a heartbeat… even though he’s not exactly sure why he’d feel so much urgency to be there for you again.

You blink a few times, surprised by his abrupt exit. But then you remember this is Wolffe so his sudden departure should’ve been expected. After all, he’s “so busy”. Rolling your eyes, you walk in the opposite direction, deciding to track down Sinker and give him a piece of your mind.

#not my fic #star wars #tcw #commander wolffe #commander wolffe x reader #wolffe x reader #wolffe x you #oops! that's my queue

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frostycatblr-fandom-files · 17 hours

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A little sketch/doodle inspired by this (positively adorable) post from @deserthusbands of Obi Wan putting a big gold star sticker on Cody's chest plate.

The GAR's Golden-boy deserves the biggest of star stickers, after all.

#frostsfanart #star wars #tcw #the clone wars #obi wan kenobi #tcw cody #commander cody #cody #cc 2224 #codywan #traditional art #traditional artist #sketch #mixed media #watercolor #metallic watercolor #micron marker #first time I've drawn another bit of clone armor that wasn't a helmet and I think it turned out pretty decently!#forgoing my art taglist for this one

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frostycatblr-fandom-files · 17 hours

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#media literacy #two ex-friends of mine immediately come to mind... but we're not gonna unpack that.#oops! that's my queue

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frostycatblr-fandom-files · 18 hours

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Egg the Crow in this ongoing story by @levi-venn has kinda stolen my heart, but that's okay.

Egg is a very good crow in a very good story; please go give it a read!

Something quick I doodled while I've still got a stable connection, pardon the photo quality.

#someone liked it; I'm reblogging it! 🩷#scheduled reblog

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frostycatblr-fandom-files · 18 hours

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Prompt 10 with either Fives or a clone of your choice from @the-bad-batch-baroness list of prompts? 👉👈

The Long Way Home [Fives x Reader]

Prompt ten: "Did you feel that?" "Feel what?" "It's starting to rain."

List of all prompts found here [X]. Prompt will be highlighted in blue.

Warnings and Information: Wanting a taste of domesticity the moment he gets shore leave, Fives wants to spend the day with you doing general couple-ly things. A little shopping at the early winter markets of Coruscant, and utilizing every excuse to shower you in all the compliments he can to make up for lost time. When the weather has other ideas regarding your shared plans for the day, Fives is determined to make the best of a less than ideal situation.

This is a general fluff + relationship fic at its core; friendly for all ages this go-round. Reader written with fem!reader in mind, not described save for minor notes about clothing and briefly implied (but not specified) height difference. Fives being a sweetheart. Sprinkling of Mando’a as a treat. As an additional treat, Order 66? Don't know her; Palpatine died and the Republic won the war. 🩷 2nd person POV.

Word-count: 5,912

There's a knock at the front door of your residence, one you've been eagerly expecting most of the morning. You're quick to reach the door, keying him in so he can step inside where it's warm. He's late; which he had warned you about well in advance. And the first thing he offers before his usual hellos is an apology.

A well-practiced one at that, from the warm cadence of his voice, brimming with just the right amount of shame.

“I'm so sorry to keep you waiting, mesh'la, I-”

You tug him close with the collar of his civilian wear (a thick, handmade sweater given to him by Hardcase who had recently taken up knitting since breaking one of his legs - so you're certain to handle it delicately) in a very practiced motion. As expected, it shuts him up just long enough to get a word in while he puts himself nose to nose with you. Practically close enough to taste the words on the others’ lips. “Hey. It's okay Fives. I understand the captain probably needed your help with something, or, you volunteered yourself to help. Again.” Your partner with his well-groomed goatee has a penchant for stepping up and lending a hand to a brother in need, brave and dependable to the end.

Full lips dart apart, the tender flesh brushing over your own lips being this close is nigh impossible to avoid. “Are you teasing or expecting an answer?” Fives asks, hinting to his building confusion below a toothy grin. “Makin’ it hard to tell what you want when I can’t see all of your pretty face.”

That's fair of him to say, you should suppose. “Mostly teasing,” you promise him, at last permitting yourselves to kiss one another as part of the process - brief, chaste, sweet. “You know I wouldn't press you for details if it was classified ARC business.” You never have. Never will until you know the mission has been completed at least; because while you often burn with questions (as is only natural and expected in what was once a friendship, now a partnership) pertaining to his duties and practiced protocols within the GAR, you take the mantra “loose lips sink starships” very close to heart.

Should you ever say something that could jeopardize the safety of the one you love, you’d never forgive yourself.

“No, not ARC business,” Fives offers at last, “I, uh… I told you I was gonna be running late because some of my brothers asked for my help with something kinda last minute.” The palm of his left hand strokes the back of his neck in a self-soothing fashion, a tell of either embarrassment or shame. “I couldn’t bring myself to say no…”

“Young brothers?”

Fives only answers with a nod and an appeasing smile, knowing where this is going.

“Star-struck little brothers wanting to ask what’s it like being an ARC trooper, and how they can train to be just like you?” you muse, exaggerating your train of thought with a couple of taps against your chin with the finger of your non-dominant hand, the other arm wrapped across your body.

It does not slip your notice how his tanned face begins to look a little flushed when you playfully bat your eyes at him for good measure, knowing what that kind of praise does to him combined with the light teasing.

“More or less…”

You giggle, not at him or at his expense, but more the mental image than anything. You can picture Fives, being as eager as he was to come see you now that he had shore leave, getting roped into regaling doe-eyed Clones with lengthy recountings of his service since becoming an ARC. All he wanted to do was peruse the early winter markets with you, the entire idea his from the start; and there he was, at least an hour of his precious free time used up already. All because he was too much of a selfless and wholeheartedly good person for his own good, on occasion.

“I’m sure they appreciated you and Echo doing that.” Fives doesn’t have to mention his surviving squadmate, Echo, to know that the other half of the nicknamed Domino Twins had sacrificed his own time to answer a few (or a hundred, more rather) burning questions. “I’m sure the captain did, too.”

The humble grin is confirmation enough for you. You can continue to tease him later, however - you’re both wasting daylight the longer the two of you choose to linger in your comfortable Coruscanti apartment rather than getting the rest of your things ready. Light coats or other appropriate outerwear still needs to be gathered, the credits you’ve been setting aside for this occasion needs to come out of hiding, and he still needs to collect the rest of his civilian-wear he planned on wearing. There’s only so much space within trooper accommodations for everything he’s accumulated since the start of your relationship. Thick-knit hats, fleece-lined gloves, a scarf in 501st blue, things of that nature.

And boots. It’d probably be wise to grab a pair of all-weather boots rather than tromp the markets in your slipper-socks, no matter how tempting the smooth streets would prove.

Fives is ready far sooner than you, owing to how little he needed to add or change into to be more weather-ready, but he waits patiently. No teasing remarks for how long it takes you to disentangle a simple scarf from all the others, or the childlike nature of repeating the phrase that helped you remember how to tie your shoes even to this day, or any of the other silly little habits you comfortably show in front of him. There’s only a warm, endeared smile to be seen. He’s just happy to be here, to be in your presence after so long, and see all these little puzzle pieces into why he loves you as though for the first time, every time.

“What are you staring at?” you ask with a bemused laugh bubbling up from your throat. Time to time, you struggle to figure your partner out, wondering what can be chalked up to his training and what can be passed off as quirks unique to him. You’ve gotten better with time and practice, being able to discern these instances. “What’s on that beautiful mind of yours, Fives?”

“Nothing more than perhaps the most beautiful person in all the galaxy, cyare.” Fives replies in earnest, dazzling you with one of those smiles that had charmed you since the very beginning. “And how I get to spend most of my first day of shore leave with that person, all to myself.”

Torn between scoffing and brushing him off with oh surely you can’t mean the most beautiful person thing and trying to shield your flushing face from view, so certain your cheeks must be scarlet red with all the flattery, you busy yourself with ensuring your door is locked and secure against unwelcome visitors. There’s been a minor rash of break-ins lately, and you know that a simple door lock won’t do anything to deter the truly determined - only the honest - it always seems to get a bit worse just before large deployments get shore leave… funny how that goes.

At least you get a little help when it can be spared by those serving with the Corrie Guard, given your proximity to the senate buildings here. There was no small amount of surprise the day Commander Fox himself turned up at your doorstep to follow-up with a reported break-in for the unit above your own. He could claim he was there just to ask if you happened to notice anything, and nothing more than that, but you knew better. Working in loose relation to the complex goings-on with the Galactic Senate and the red-clad commander turning up only two hours after mentioning the incident to Fives was too big a coincidence to ignore. (You can only wonder what strings in the line of communication your smarty-pants of a boyfriend had to pull in order to get in touch with Commander Fox, directly.)

A smarty-pants that you had all kinds of preconceived plans to spend the rest of the day with, all to yourself.

The ambling walk to the marketplace offers the pair of you plenty of time to catch up since you last spoke on the comms just over two weeks ago; it was a Zhellday if you're not mistaken.

You don't really bring up your work if you can help it; the problems seem so trivial when you compare them to the frustrations of stamping out those stubborn pockets of Separatist resistance Fives and all his brothers have been dealing with since winning the war just a year ago. A malfunctioning caf-machine spraying your last clean work uniform seems like nothing compared to a desperate firefight against the horrifying, mechanical amalgamations the standard CIS battle droids have become as less and less functional droids become available.

You have to ask Fives to be sure you heard him right after he says it. “Hold on: it had eight arms?”

“Some Separatist-sympathizer - one who's, admittedly, crafty but incredibly elusive - has been a real pain in our shebs for a while now. ‘Case was so badly spooked by the crazy-looking clanker that he fell over backwards on a crate full of smuggled produce.” Fives explains, struggling not to laugh when explaining of all possible ways Hardcase recently broke his leg, it was falling over backwards on a box of illegal fruit and veg.

“He’s okay, right?” you prod, “What'd Kix have to say about the break?”

It's touching to Fives when you show your concern for his brothers, knowing you have genuine interest in their well-being. You always have. When you heard that the production of the cloning facilities were coming to an end on Kamino thanks to Chancellor Organa’s new bill, your immediate thought had been for the young cadets who had not yet finished training.

What's going to happen to those little brothers, Fives? All the Clones still developing in the tubes and the nurseries and-

Mesh'la, with any luck, they'll become the envy of the entire GAR. They'll never have to taste war like we have if we squash out the remaining Separatists sooner than later.

Fives gives the cuff to one of the sweater sleeves an experimental tug with a beaming smile. “Kix said the worst of it will be the bed rest for Hardcase. At least he's found a way to keep his hands busy between the physical therapy he has to do, thanks to Dogma.”

“Aww. That was kind of him.” you croon. He mirrors the relieved smile, sharing in your relief that his brother's injury was not as bad as you feared. He begins fishing through one of his pockets for something, saying he has a picture to show you.

“Hardcase made Dogma the ugliest possible blanket using yarn we had scrounged up for him as a way of saying thanks. Thing's got all sorts of colors from baby pink, to brick red, even a smidge of neon yellow somewhere in there.”

Without question, the immaculate bunk within the frame can be none other than Dogma's. Laid out in a uniform manner is a tidily-knit but disorganized rainbow of yarn in every shade of blue and a handful of other colors. (Sure enough, you can pick out the baby pink, the brick red, and the neon yellow Fives previously mentioned.) Honestly, you think it looks ugly only because there's no reason or order to any of the colors. A crisp, sky blue next to the imagined dryness of such a dusty shade of red is a bit jarring, visually.

‘Case was likely working with the colors of yarn as he received them, if his brothers were coming up with loose odds and ends as Fives claims they did.

You voice the question that crosses your mind the more you look at the image in your boyfriend's hand, “Does Dogma actually use the blanket, or is it just for show until it's time to sleep?”

“Wondered that myself.” Fives admits to you with a cheeky wink between thumbing over to the next picture, a still of Dogma tucked under both the GAR-issued blanket and Hardcase’s, “It was so worth pretending to be asleep for forty-five minutes just to get Dogma to go to bed.” Dogma's always been the last to fall asleep within shared accommodations, so for the ARC trooper you're arm-in-arm with to have pulled the oldest trick in the book in order to get to the bottom of a low-stakes mystery, you can only imagine how disciplined you'd have to be to lay so still and silent for that long.

“Why not just ask him in the morning?” you laugh, realizing how simple it would be to do just that rather than go through such efforts to trick someone into going to bed. Fives shrugs noncommittally in response before tucking his personal device away again, now that you're both within earshot of the outdoor winter market.

It's bustling with activity, even for Coruscant. The pressing crowds and all-encompassing noise will make it difficult to carry on catching up in a meaningful manner for much longer.

“Dogma's not much of a talker in the mornings, sweetheart.” Fives says with a chuckle. “Though to be fair, not a lot of us are either.”

Strange… they've always seemed so… talkative and alert whenever you've had early morning communications with Fives. Those bleary-eyed video calls spent simply staring at the other, not too sure what to talk about in particular. The stolen minutes between breakfast in the mess hall and the barracks. (The lunch breaks where you've snuck off somewhere secret and pretended you're sharing the same ration, they've been talkative for certain!) Have you just done a poor job of noticing until now? Or are they better at masking how awake they truly are than you expect? But okay, fair enough.

Now that you were here at the market, you’d be more than a little preoccupied to be thinking about it much longer, with Fives tucking his fingers between yours to prevent both of you from getting separated from the other. It’s rather busy; it must be the morning rush before everyone has to reluctantly shuffle off to work. And you should probably expect to have more than a few elbows - or entirely unaware people - knock into you and Fives while you’re here.

What catches Fives’ eye first is a female Besalisk vendor with armfuls of rain repellers for sale (one for five credits, or two for ten) with a business partner checking news sources for reports on the weather nearby.

“Ah… knew there was something I forgot to check before getting to your apartment.” He says, quickly casting his eyes skyward. Certainly enough, there are rain clouds gradually building overhead. Strange. While it is technically early winter, this time of year typically has a weird, transitional period regarding the weather. Not quite past the sometimes cold and drizzly days of autumn, but still too early to dust off your proper snow coats from where they've been hiding in the back of your closet.

“Let’s get one to be safe.” you suggest with a reassuring squeeze of your hand in his. If you buy one of the repellers and end up never using the thing, then you were over-prepared with little consequence. Having one more thing to carry wouldn’t be that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things, surely. “Hi,” you address the vendor cheerfully, “a repeller for five credits, right?”

“That’s right! Pick whichever one you’d like, dears.” she tells you with a kind wink, thrusting the set of arms bearing all of the rain repellers a little further for your inspection.

Fives wastes little time in selecting a repeller with a sleek and subtle design, something he thinks you’d like, perhaps. He’s incredibly thoughtful in that and many other ways. It’s one of the many parts of him that you ache for in his absence, the fondness for his charisma and slight cheek only deepening when he’s away, aiding in the peacekeeping efforts now that the galaxy is largely free of the Separatists. (How strange that things fell apart so suddenly for them, following shortly after the rather untimely and unexplained death of Sheev Palpatine (that, surely, can’t be related, right?) just last year.) You know he’s not giving up the fight just because they say the Seppies have surrendered, not when there’s still work to be done to make the galaxy safer for everyone.

Fives isn’t still fighting the good fight just for his brothers, but for you too. Every last far-flung outpost they capture, each bubble of resistance they burst, it’s always the same message that finds its way to you, no matter the time and no matter the distance.

For the Republic. For my brothers. For my Kar’ta. Talk to you soon, sweet.

Both of you thank the vendor, and set off on your way, imagining what curiosities and delights could be found by the two of you together on this cold Coruscanti morning here in the intergalactic market. With a cultural hotbed like this - a diverse focal point in the heart of the galaxy with a population of roughly two trillion that is Coruscant - there’s no telling what you and Fives will see, from the familiar to the fascinating.

In a dramatic, sweeping gesture Fives invites you to lead the way into the heart of the market with a dizzying grin, promising to follow wherever you roam.

“After you, angel.”

You’ll only be there for an hour before the increasingly-inclement weather decides to become a little more concerning. Those cotton-soft clouds, planted in the lofty airspace high over even the tallest sentient lifeforms’ head(s), are beginning to appear denser and darker than they were when you set off this morning. Weather reports you peek at while Fives discusses something with a Tatoonine-born vendor suggests you might have another hour before proper rainfall.

“You say the yarn’s a bantha-blend, right?” Fives clarifies, gingerly juggling a few twisted hanks of it in his hands to get a feel for the softness. “Would it work for projects meant for… say, kids?” The vendor’s eyes flick to you, just for a second, and you can imagine what she’s thinking. Your partner catches that too, so Fives clarifies further. “Someone I know had twins last year. Tryin’ to, uh, contribute to a special present for the little ones. Brother of mine got some good yarn from Naboo to represent the mother. I was asked to find something to represent their father while I was here, if I could.”

As could be expected, the yarn-seller is now tittering excitedly about how sweet it is that he and this unspecified brother (who’s definitely either Jesse or Kix) are looking to put together something for this ‘someone they know’ who had twins. Sweet little twins who you’ve happened to see crawling around the floors of the senate building out of the corner of your eye, as a matter of fact. But you’ve been aware of the “open secret” nature of the Skywalker-Amidala twins for some time now, and know you’re supposed to treat it like it’s more of a classified matter than it is in reality.

Yeah, how strange that Senator Amidala and General Skywalker spend a lot of time together. Or that little Luke and Leia show up in the Jedi Temple on occasion, just as a last minute “favor” to the Senator - of course!

“Yes, the yarn should be appropriate for the little ones!” the vendor promises, exchanging the appropriate credits as change from what Fives hands her as payment before gingerly bagging the hanks of bantha-yarn for him. “You’ll find a card with the best care instructions with your purchase inside the bag. Thank you for your business, folks.”

When you've stepped beyond the earshot of the yarn-seller, now again arm-in-arm with Fives as you meander the little sector that seems to be dedicated to all things Tatooine, you feel it's safe to tease.

“You're getting better at lying, Fives.”

“Mesh'la-” Fives warns you.

“Okay, okay… Stretching the truth, if that's what you insist on calling it, mister ARC trooper.” you add.

Fives doubles down on the insistent, close to disapproving tone. “Mesh'la… I've told you several times now, you know why we treat it like a secret.”

“I know, Fives, I was only teasing.” you promise, offering an apologetic expression.

You understand the faux secrecy is largely in relation to the response of some members of the Jedi Council when the inevitable truth about Senator Amidala and not just one child, but two, came to light. There's been a great deal of speculation from the 501st Legion of Anakin Skywalker’s expulsion from the Order; speculation that has them worried. Selfless to the end, the Clones are just as concerned for the fate of their General as they are about their own.

You change the subject as you pass a stall brimming with food-based goods from the Outer Rim planet, a warm, spicy odor cutting through the ambient smell of chilled steel and duracrete surfaces. Looks to be samples of an alteration to bantha steak soup. Something being offered to the market-goers to warm them up as the temperatures fall day by day, or hour by hour.

“Remind me: ever tried any food from Tatooine?”

“Some of it's decent.” Fives admits with a chuckle. “Or, it will at least beat having rations for every meal. But nothing beats your cooking, cyare.”

Your cooking, among many things, is what Fives has been looking forward to most about today, about shore leave. A chance to come home, a chance to catch one another up on the things they’ve missed (things too important or lengthy to say over comms), and a chance for splitting a hearty meal practically invented for sharing with the ones who mean the most to us. Same thing with coming to the market. Fives didn’t want to do a little shopping just to see what was new on Coruscant; he wanted to spend a little time with you away from home first, maybe find something special to buy to mark the occasion.

To be home after so long is a very special thing indeed.

“Hope you’re in the mood for soup tonight.” It’s a little simple, you tell him, but no less comforting or flavorful. “Didn’t know how tired you’d be, when you came home this time.”

“You spoil me.” Fives murmurs lovingly, craning his neck for the moment to plant a sweet, gentle kiss in the crown of your hair and against your temple. His full lips are warm, and where you’ve been kissed seems to glow with that warmth compared to the surrounding chill. “What’d I do to deserve you, kar’ta?”

There’s that word again. Pronounced KARH-ta, as he’s taught you.

It's Mando’a, meaning heart.

“Well, you kept the galaxy safe,” you answer with a sweet smile, “I think that’s a pretty deserving reason, don’t you?”

The warm, heartened smile is all you have to see to know he feels the same way. He helped keep the galaxy safe, yes; of course he should deserve to live a good life with everything said and done. With every bill and law passed towards the betterment of life for Clones after the war, it tastes like the sweetest victory, over and over again. If there was anyone more deserving of thanks, it was the mighty multitude of men who came from Kamino.

As you’re turning the corner of a larger booth within the sprawling outdoor market, Fives mentions that somewhere down the lane he can hear a live performer playing covers of popular songs on what must be a hallikset.

“Must be another one of your little soldier tricks,” you tell him with an impressed shake of your head, “I can’t hear any of that. What’s a hell- hall-? Wait, what did you call it?” How did he pronounce that so easily?

You’re not surprised with many a Clones’ proclivity to be little cultural sponges that Fives seems to have the answer ready for you before you can pull something out of your pocket to search up the instrument he mentioned for yourself. “Halliksets are seven-stringed instruments popular on Naboo. Here, let’s get a little closer.” Fives offers, leading the way ahead to where he hears the music coming from. He wants you to be able to hear it better, to experience it for yourself. Appreciate it fully.

You momentarily pity the player’s poor fingers once you get closer, noting how red with cold they are. Like you, the hallikset’s owner is wrapped in layers between a thick jacket, a gray hood and a long scarf wrapped around their neck. But with the beautiful way they play, plucking and strumming each perfectly tuned string, you wonder if they don't notice, or care. Perhaps the lack of gloves to keep their hands safely warded against the cold is worth it to them for the amount of credits they're pulling in. There's several fistfuls at least, all piled up in the open instrument case.

“Wow… I don't think I've ever seen one before, but it's beautiful; it's a beautiful instrument.” you offer your observation to Fives after spending a few minutes to simply stand and listen to the performer. Buskers, you believe they're called, playing for voluntary donations in public settings.

The busker offers an appreciative grin, playing on smoothly without pausing the performance for even a moment as they bob their head in thanks for your compliment.

“Certainly is, mesh'la.” Fives agrees. He dips a hand into one of his pockets, and adds a couple of credits to the pile in the instrument case. As a way of thanks, the song that was currently being played is masterfully morphed into one of the more familiar military anthems of the Republic, just for a moment.

The performer, a young-looking Twi'lek, has of course recognized that Fives is a Clone, and is hoping to acknowledge what the Republic has done for Ryloth in some small way by playing something a soldier would recognize. Fives is equal parts flattered and amused, even if he himself may never have gone to Ryloth, that he's being thanked and acknowledged like this.

“Heh. You're welcome, kid.”

Putting his free arm around you as you decide to listen to the hallikset a little longer, you and Fives listen to the best recognized music forms of Ryloth start up from the instrument as further homage. You lay your head on your boyfriend's shoulder, leaning into his side a little deeper with a placid smile, drinking in this moment.

Close to an hour later, when more yarn for Hardcase, a few decorative knick knacks for your apartment, and some novelty sweets have ended up among your purchases, someone’s stomach rumbles in complaint shortly before the time you would typically consider having lunch. Luckily Echo has offered to help you locate something by sending you a file to a map of the market with all consumables stalls highlighted and labeled after checking in on how things are going for you and Fives.

While Fives quickly speaks with his brother and squadmate, you check the weather. Steadily, it’s only gotten colder, and in efforts to keep you warmer, Fives has sweetly given up his thick-knit hat for the time being until you come across another stall that offers cold-weather wear. There, he’ll find another hat for himself, suggesting you keep his. The fluffy curls of his clone-standard crew cut have been flattened a bit by the hat, amusingly. As a sweet gesture, you try to fix up his hair for him while listening to what Echo has to say.

Force willing, as it’s only becoming more and more likely that it'll rain, that will be after you grab a quick bite to eat.

(Pantoran food sounds good right about now.)

“Me? Oh, all was quiet on the homefront - busy playing a strategy game against Rex. Until we got ambushed by a couple of giggling womp rats.”

Fives grins like a nexu. “Brothers’ kids or the General’s?”

“Tup’s little boys,” Echo answers jovially between peals of bubbling laughter in the background, “things are getting a bit rowdy here, so you two better go. Enjoy your lunch and the rest of the market; I’ll tell everyone you both said hi.”

“Thanks Echo.”

“We’ll talk later, Echo.” you promise. “Also, I’m keeping your brother all to myself tonight.” Echo’s laugh promises that’s fine by him. He trusts you’ll take good care of Fives, like he takes good care of you in turn. He’ll pass along the information that everyone will see Fives again the following morning. The Clone with the Aurebesh ‘5’ permanently inked on his right temple can only offer an eager smile.

A homemade meal and the promise of staying the night when it wasn’t previously discussed? What better way to end a day than that? Fives walks with a spirited spring in his step, just short of tugging you along after him at first before you match his pace and revel in that excitement together.

Excitement that quickly turns to surprise with the first of the rain starting to fall over the market. There’s a particularly heavy raindrop that lands with an audible spatter on Fives’ left shoulder. He chuckles, the sound somewhere between an amused ‘of course…’ and a nervous ‘uh-oh’. He’s patting down his deep pockets for wherever he’s stashed the rain repeller purchased earlier, since it could very well start raining steadily by the time you reach one of the food stalls that peddles any Pantoran cuisine.

“Did you feel that?” he asks, eyes flicking skyward between some of the many imposing, glinting skyscrapers that make up the surface of the ecumenopolis. It’s a small relief that you’re not quite out in the open, like you would be if the market had taken place in a location like Monument Plaza, at the least. If the rain got intense, fast, Fives could easily squeeze the pair of you into a dry alcove somewhere in the absence of the repeller now in his hands.

“Hm? Feel what?” you wonder just before you feel another droplet glance off your own coat. “Oh.”

So much for getting lunch…

“It’s starting to rain.” the two of you say at once. And while it’s not quite sleet, it certainly feels close to it every time the stray droplet finds a patch of exposed skin. The idle prattle of buyers and sellers shifts in tone; a few surprised shouts here and there while vendors urgently cover their wares, and a few shoppers brushing past panickedly exclaim that they’re faced with taking the long way home because of street-closures tied to the event-space.

Thankfully that won’t be the case for you and Fives with the direction you came from your apartment, so long as the dispersing crowds allow.

Opening the repeller, Fivers now pulls you closer, trying to fit it over both of you best he can. “Here, mesh’la. Wouldn’t want you to get cold and wet… That wouldn’t be a very pleasant combination, now would it?”

“No,” you agree with a little wag of your head, “buuuut, heading back to my apartment and calling in an order for delivery sure does.”

Fives brings up an excellent suggestion while you busy yourself with making sure all your purchases are safely in your arms before the pair of you about-face and make for home. “With a movie to watch, too, right?” Oh Maker, there are so many films you could choose from to watch; there’s always something new that you learn your beloved hasn’t seen, being so wrapped up in the pan-galactic war and its aftermath. Even films you don’t particularly care for become tolerable when you’re snuggled on some comfortable two-seater together, your head planted against his chest as he runs his hands through your hair in idle fashion.

You’re wholeheartedly in support, already impatient to burrow into that large, fluffy blanket with him.

Cupping his face in one hand, you kiss his cheek best you can as you walk, copying his deliberate stride. “That sounds like a great idea, Fives.” It’s kind of a shame that the weather put a bit of a damper on how long you had in mind about spending at the market, you add with a soft sigh.

He smiles, encouraging you not to let it get you down. “Not gonna let a little rain ruin my first day of shore leave, so long as I get to spend it with you, ner kar’ta.” Fives promises, being his sweet, joking self by downplaying the amount of rain. It’s gotten past ‘just a little rain’ at this point in time, with puddles forming atop the duracrete surfaces, some with multi-color veneers to them where the oils previously soaked into the street float to the top.

As the freezing rain builds in strength, it patters and trickles off the rain repeller in thick rivulets while Fives holds it over each of your heads - it’s kind of a tight fit underneath, but neither mind. Making sure both of you and your purchases remain relatively dry means it’s a slow, steady march back home. It’s probably taking you twice as long to get back home than it was to get there. You could be taking some long, convoluted path, and you wouldn’t mind a bit with the way Fives has one of his arms so lovingly, kindly wrapped around the small of your back, both to hold you close, and to make sure you hear him when he talks.

“I’ve got a few stories to tell from this last deployment, besides ‘Case breaking his leg.” he starts, a note of mirth in his tone. “But there was one thing I kept thinking about, more than anything.” Fives adds, the slow cadence suggesting this is important.

Before you permit your mind to race with the possibilities, the many guesses you have, you bob your head, encouraging him to go on.

“I’m listening.”

He wastes no time, sure of his words, but maybe not how to say them. “I wanted to ask if maybe now’s a good time to… Y’know. We might start thinking about a couple of things, now that the war’s over, and things are getting safer…?” You could practically swoon, knowing what he’s trying to tell you. What he’s thought about while he’s been deployed with those who’ve chosen to remain in service to the GAR for just a little longer, aiming to finish the job they’d been made for.

For the Republic. For his brothers.

For you, his heart.

How would you feel about spending the rest of our lives together, cyare?

“Sounds like a good conversation to have over dinner.” is all you’ll suggest for the time being, bringing his face close once more for another caste kiss with the door of your apartment in sight.

If you’d known he’d had this on his mind just a little sooner, or there was no premature rainfall to dampen your plans, maybe you would have suggested taking the long way home after all, just for the fun of it.

Taglist: @msmeredithrose Taglist form can be found here if you would like to make sure you don't miss a fic in the future. Thank you for your patience, and thanks for reading and requesting. 🩷

[Masterlist] [Requests: CLOSED]

#someone liked it; I'm reblogging it! 🩷#scheduled reblog

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Note

(hi thank you for being understanding about my question and being cool with doing this!) can I ask for headcanons for somethin like movie night with the 501st? Gender neutral reader is fine

Of course babes. 🩷 We can do movie night any night with the 501st!

Warnings and Information: There’s nothing to do in the barracks tonight, and it’s been a long time since anyone’s seen a good movie. So, throw in like fifteen packets of popcorn in the microwave (one at a time, Hardcase) to get this popcorn poppin’, because the 501st + one good friend is having a movie night! (Once mostly everyone agrees on what to watch, of course…) Blankets, pillows, snacks, and cozy Clone cuddle-piles galore~ Who’s falling asleep first? 😴 2nd person POV with an undescribed reader who has a gender neutral nickname. Bullet point format. We’ll use a little Mando’a, as a treat. Fluff and good feelings all around. Everyone’s happy. Everyone’s safe. 💙

Word count: 1,652

The previews

There’s no paperwork to do, there’s no assignment they need to ship out for in the morning, and they’ve gone ahead and tidied up the bed racks for good measure. They could play some Sabbac to kill the time, but they’ve either lost or misplaced more than half the deck, and they don’t feel like the lights and thumping bass of the local drinking hole tonight. (It’s just not quite the same as 79’s…) Nobody really has the energy to do much of anything, but given their purpose and training as soldiers, they don’t often have nights like this where they simply do… nothing. Being idle leaves a gnawing feeling of discomfort for many in the 501st, so they’re trying to come up with a plan.

“Uh-oh. Hardcase has his thinking face on.” someone mumbles, growing slightly uneasy.

“I got it. I’m gonna call someone.” Hardcase declares, punching in one of his favorite contacts on the comlink. This makes the ARC troopers slightly nervous. “Not the Captain, I hope-” Fives chimes in warningly. “With any luck he’s just gone to the mess.”

Hardcase shakes his head, grinning broadly before he punches ENTER on the device. “Nah, I’m not calling the Captain right now, I’m callin’ Ember!”

You’re a favorite of the 501st. At least, that’s your theory.

And through one series of events after the other, you've become well acquainted with them and their antics.

Why else would you possibly need to be commed in the middle of a meal? “Don’t answer that.” Captain Rex advises you. You both barely started eating. It’s not an emergency tone. It can wait. But… maybe you should see who it is, first? “Umm… Hardcase is calling me.” you reply. That means one of two likely scenarios.

Boredom, or trouble.

Specifically future trouble.

(Or he’s in trouble.)

You’re at least going to see how urgently you need to scarf down your meal so the Captain has time to enjoy his for once in three blue moons. “Hello? What's going on Hardcase?”

“Hey little flame, you wanna do something tonight? We’re bored!”

“Define bored…” You’re gonna regret asking that, you’re sure. “And who’s “we” exactly, Hardcase? How many others are listening?” The jumbled cacophony of names and voices tells you it’s mostly Torrent Company, which you pretty much expected. “... hi Echo and Fives… hello Dogma … hey there Tup, I’m doing okay, thanks… yup, just trying to eat a little dinner, Kix…”

So why exactly did he call you, you ask Hardcase, exchanging wary glances with the cobalt captain. What's going on? "Do you know where we can find a lot of popcorn for a movie night? You and the Captain are invited too of course, little flame!"

Grab your snacks…

The bunkroom has been torn apart by the time you and Captain Rex make your way in from the mess hall, and it smells better than you imagined for military sleeping quarters. Lots of beds are missing mattresses, bedding, and pillows. Except for Dogma's. His is untouched, saved for a slight rumple in the sheets. "Boys, we're here! … Where'd all the stuff go?" You step further into the room, and find all the missing mattresses laid side-by-side on the floor near one end of the room, where everyone's either currently wrangling with the holo-projector, or taking down a few posters from the wall to clear the space that will serve as your "screen". Tup spots the pair of you first. "Oh, good. Captain and Ember are here!"

Hardcase is grateful that you found some popcorn for movie night, and that you could come join in for the fun. "There ya are, burc'ya! Just in time to start deciding on a movie!" He offers to get a jump on getting all the popcorn bags popped too, with the promise it's not going to be like last time. Trying to pop more than one bag resulted in a small fire, last time, evidently.

Jesse and Kix are scouring over the descent film selection together, sorting them by type or genre. Action. Horror. Family-oriented. There's- how'd this kids movie end up in here? Eh, no thanks on the war films, we see enough of that. "What about a comedy?" you suggest, rifling through the stack to see what your pickings are there. There's a couple you do and don't recognize, and some that are tied to fond memories from before the war. "This is a good one, I think most of you guys will like it. I used to watch this a lot whenever I needed a good laugh, or some cheering up."

Everyone agrees to give it a shot at least if that's what you recommend. In any case, it'll be difficult to get everyone to agree on one holo, and more than half of men squeezed around you on this giant raft of mattresses, blankets and pillows will probably fall asleep partway through it anyhow.

… and enjoy the show!

"C'mon Dogma, come join us!" you urge with a friendly smile, seeing him return to his neatly-made bunk. "There's plenty of room, I'm sure." Tup and Hardcase, slightly sprawled next to you on your left, would need to move a bit to make it happen. Echo and Fives are sitting nearest the projector, their shoulders brushing against one another with every little movement. Jesse has positioned himself nearest the Captain, who is also beside you on your right. "It's okay if you don't, either. Nobody's gonna force you." you add pointedly, just as you feel someone start to pull his legs under him to go drag his brother into the tangle of limbs and bedding. Maybe he's more comfortable on his bunk. Or perhaps he's not interested in a film right now.

The lights are dimmed, the snacks are passed around, and the film begins.

You only make it fifteen minutes into the film before there's a casualty: Kix, diligent man that he is to make sure all his brothers are taken care of, falls asleep behind you. "Psst! Kix, can you pass me the- oh nevermind. Ember, could you grab the candy under his arm before it melts?" You carefully wiggle it free and pass it up to Jesse before tucking a loose blanket kicking around over Kix. Generally, once Kix is out, he's out, so the group doesn't have to worry about waking him for a while.

Hardcase stays surprisingly still through most of the movie so long as he keeps his hands mostly occupied in some capacity, or has one of his brothers leaning on him in some way. He's a very tactile person, so it's no surprise that he's slowly migrating around the raft of mattresses as each of his brothers either allow Hardcase to fiddle around with stuff he finds in their pockets, or just hold him close in a brotherly embrace for a bit if he's getting too disruptive. (He eventually settles down around the midpoint of the movie, and is one of the few who stays awake through the whole thing.)

Tup pays attention to most of the comedy film, occasionally conversing in whispers with Fives and Echo about their opinions on the jokes until Echo nods off for a bit, and the hushed conversation continues back up again when he wakes up before movie's end. It's Jesse who's not paying much attention to the film, but he's not too disruptive. Jesse almost makes it to the end of the movie before he falls asleep in the middle of scrolling through something on a datapad that's made its way into the nest of pillows and blankets and limbs, his head resting on Captain Rex's knee.

Dogma does eventually join everyone on the floor. You suspect he was starting to feel a little left out, or maybe he changed his mind about the offer you made earlier, growing bored of whatever he'd been reading on his datapad, or deciding he'd give the movie a try. He tentatively makes his way over, and asks if he can still sit by you. "Of course, Dogma. Here, I saved some popcorn for you!" You give him the rest of the bowl you'd set aside for him, unable to get up and give it to him yourself since you've got multiple people surrounding you. (You didn't want Dogma to miss out on the snacks just because he wasn't initially watching the movie with everyone.) "Thanks for saving me some, Ember." Captain Rex reaches behind you and gives Dogma a warm pat on the shoulder. "Glad you joined us, brother." There's an unspoken finally in his words, but he's just glad to see that Dogma didn't end up isolating himself for long.

You and Captain Rex, being firmly in the middle of the mattress pile, end up being the ones who become the human pillows of the group. It's nice to see all your friends having fun tonight, and be a part of enjoying a movie together. No stiff, uncomfortable armor; everyone's either in their fatigues or their blacks, and draped over and across their friends and brothers. Everyone is content and full of maybe a little too much popcorn and other snacks. You'll have a heck of a mess on your hands to clean up, either in the morning, or when everyone returns their respective mattresses to their bunks tonight, too.

Nights like this are how it should be. Everyone's happy and there are signs of trust everywhere you look. Brothers let their sleeping siblings rest on their shoulders, against their backs, their legs, or under their arms without complaint. There are sleepy smiles and shared blankets. Those who stayed awake until the end are now joking happily with one another and their Captain, and you too.

And for a moment, in this night that will become a cherished memory no matter which way this war winds up, everyone you care about is safe.

And what could be better than that?

Don't have a fic taglist for the time being, but I'll likely start one soon if I can figure out how to make those forms some people have since I write a variety of stuff. For now, though, if you'd like to join a taglist for specific types of fics (for example: just TBB-centric or just TCW-centric (or both)) don't hesitate to ask. 🩷

[Masterlist] [Requests: OPEN]

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Tide pools aren't for swimming [TBB x GN!Reader]

Warnings and Information: Second-person POV. No serious age rating. It's just sun, surf and seashells as far as the eye can see. Undescribed Reader with a codename. Coming from an ocean world, we're assuming Clones are excellent swimmers. Someone loses his trunks, though. Minor usage of Mando'a. Star Wars and real-world swearing. Not a relationship fic. Minor proofreading.

Word-count: 2,650

"If the Marshal Commander discovers you lot have blown off your reports, I'm not saving your shebs!" you warn the men as they tramp down the gangplank in a collective rush once they've all found something among the armor and fatigues that will do for swimwear in a pinch. They've gotten it in their heads that while you're all planetside and near a coastline, the whole team is going to the beach for the rest of the day.

You turn to the only man who's not been carried out of the attack shuttle against his will, since Wrecker only has so many arms and hands. "Except for you, Echo. I trust you'll get your report done for Commander Cody in time, as always."

Echo smirks, chest thrown forward with pride. "As always." he repeats. "Aren't you going to go with them, Vantage?"

You bounce your shoulders, keying in the appropriate sequence to retract the steps and seal the hatch once you and the ARC trooper make your exit. "Oh, eventually," you say with a laugh. It's a small white-sand beach surrounded by cliffs. "They can't exactly get far, save for one direction." You made it clear to your squadmates from the jump that you did not wish to go swimming, and laid out your reasons in no uncertain terms.

"Maker forbid one of you begins to drown, however, I will come to your rescue. But if one of you tries to get cute and throw me into the surf, I will give you a tongue-lashing that will leave your ears ringing until next Taungsday. Do I make myself clear?"

"That'd put us at a real Disadvantage…"

"Hunter, for kriff's sake-" You had warned him with an edge in your voice that suggested it would not be wise to test your sense of humor by making playful riffs on your alias. They were all smart enough to take the hint supplied by means of a jabbing elbow from the one with goggles and an ever-recording camera attached to them. "Yes, you made yourself clear, Vantage!" Hunter replied hurriedly.

Maker, these boys behaved like a fraternity straight out of your academy, some days… You did not sign up for that program offered by the academic institution with the intention to be a karking glorified babysitter. Thankfully, they had the sense to perform their duty to the GAR with loyalty and a strong, if improvised, sense for getting the job done.

They were troublemakers, no doubt about it. But galaxy and all her stars, they were your troublemakers. The Marshal Commander has gotten close to reassigning you a few times, but you've stood firm.

"This is as far as I go!" you reply to Wrecker in yet another reminder that you are not wading up to your waist in frigid sea water just to see if the waves can bowl you over. "I'm not fond of swimming where I cannot confidently make out the bottom. You have fun out there, I'm staying here." You twist and grind your heels in the over-saturated sand in a stubborn display. You are not moving. The waves lapping over your ankles is truly as far as you will venture out into the briney deep.

You've seen these men swim before and have the utmost confidence in their ability to navigate the surf. These waves are gentle in comparison to the towering walls of water they've seen from rain-spattered windows looking out of the stilted cloning facility. But it's been drilled into you since you were young that someone needs to watch the water at all times, to never leave someone swimming unattended. The beach offers a decent outcropping in one of the cliffs to serve as a guard tower, almost.

"Pardon the play on your name, Vantage, but that outcropping would serve as a, well, excellent vantage point of the ocean." Tech explains a little timidly. "The rock shelf appears stable enough to support even Wrecker."

"Hey!"

Ignoring Wrecker's offended burst of dismay for a moment, you nod gratefully at Tech. "I wondered. Thank you. But I think I'll have to split my time with Crosshair since our sniper likes to feel tall."

"Ahem…" Crosshair begins in a low, throaty tone, "might I remind you that I'm 1.93 meters tall, compared to Hunter's measly 1.8."

Hunter scoffs, unphased. He's curiously shorter than all, or perhaps most, Clones, but he's never let on that the short jokes bother him in the time you've traveled with them. "Just for that, you're the one who gets to hold Wrecker's hand when he takes his turn on the outcrop."

"HEY!!"

You pinch the bridge of your nose and plant a hand on one hip with a deep, wearied sigh. You can hear Echo chuckling further up the beach, saying you look exactly like a disappointed nat-born parent from a holodrama right about now from where he's sitting. You certainly believe him.

Off to northeast on this little beach a few hours later, Wrecker makes a discovery while he takes a break from the waves. The water is cold, so he's soaking up some sun to warm himself. You, on the other hand, are suffering from the opposite problem as it is currently the estimated temperature high of the day. You're half tempted to let Wrecker playfully throw you into the surf as the next wave comes rolling in for a little reprieve, like he's done for Hunter and Crosshair (and Tech, but only once when he got too close).

But not tempted enough to voice that idea. Maybe you'll go back to the waterline and soak your feet in a moment.

Wrecker makes a request for your attention. "Vantage, look!" You lift your craned neck to meet his eyes upon further beckoning bellows. "These little pits are filled with water, and you can see the bottom! You could come cool off in one of these!" The sun directly overhead, Wrecker uses his large hands to shade his eyes and most of his face rather than amplify his voice so he can squint further up the beach with less discomfort.

"What pits?" Crosshair demands, doing a worse job of masking his confusion than you.

Wrecker points emphatically, spirit hardly dampered by the annoyance his brother levies his way. "These pit-things!"

You decide to see what the fuss is about. Tech trekked back into the Havoc Marauder to relieve himself and no doubt send his report to Cody, so he can't get to the bottom of what Wrecker's discovered for the foreseeable future. While he's far from stupid, Wrecker has a minor form of aphasia as a result of the accident that gave him the scrawling scar and cybernetic eye on the left side of his head. In your time working with them, you find Wrecker has trouble finding the right words to express himself in moments of extreme excitement or exhaustion, on occasion.

You skip across the sand, halfway through your question when you find a delightful surprise. "What's thes- Oh, tide pools!" you exclaim. "Hey, boys! Wrecker found some tide pools over here!" These are indeed shallow enough that you can see the silty surface of the bottom, but with one glance into the tidal pool, you can pinpoint at least three delicate forms of aquatic life.

Admittedly, the only reason you know such a thing is in thanks to either a friend or a family member of yours, though you don't recall who off the top of your head.

Once Tech's joined the ranks around the oceanic pocket, he's excitedly prattling on in his amazement. "Incredible, those are some beautiful sea star specimens!" Crosshair sarcastically remarks he's peeled more interesting things in similar colors from the bottom of his boots, but Tech pays him no mind. "Juveniles, no less! This stage of their life cycle is seldomly documented, so this is an incredible opportunity for scientific contribution."

"Which means we shouldn't swim in these tide pools, Wrecker," you explain delicately; you hate to deflate his sense of excitement, "leaving them undisturbed will give our starry friends the best chance to develop into healthy, strong adults. Besides, there's a species of red sea urchin at the bottom, if you look right there, that you don't exactly want to get close enough to risk stepping on them. Take my word for it when I say it stings like a mother-kriffer. Not even good bacta can touch the pain, for the most part."

You're given a very fascinated look by the bespectacled Clone of the rogue squadron, having surprised him with an instance of your "quiet intelligence". Tech looks like a gulping fish as he tries to find the right words to express his sentiment, and you can't help but laugh. "Tech, take your time to think of your words before one of your brothers mistakes you for a fish and throws you back in the waves again."

He adjusts his goggles in the meantime. "I was unaware you - at least seem to - know so much about these things." It comes across like an insult, or a backhanded compliment, but you know better than that. These are your troublemakers when they're not in Commander Cody's capable hands. You've gotten to know them well, and you take no offense. You only offer a cheeky grin.

"Heh. Someone I know from back home knows their stuff. I've heard a lot about tide pools in my life."

A look of understanding dawns on him. "I see. Well, yes, you are right, Vantage. Tempting as it is, it will be best not to swim in these tidal pools. Or, perhaps not this one. Maybe one of the others will have less developmentally fragile sealife."

Luck is not in your favor on this fine afternoon, as it would happen. Most of these 'pocket-sized oceans' teem with young and larval lifeforms that call the ocean home. They seem to serve as saltwater nurseries. Tiny crabs. Delicate polyps. Even beautiful, silky jellyfish have made themselves home in some of the deepest pools (mercifully, these do not have the capacity for the excruciating sting of other species).

"That's disgusting," you groan, shaking your head at one of the men clad in nothing but a pair of crudely-cut swim shorts that were fashioned from a spare pair of their casual fatigues, "peeing on your brother's leg like a kriffing massiff won't help a jellyfish sting! Where in the galaxy did you hear such a thing?"

"Kamino." Crosshair tells you with a face that would put professional Sabacc players to shame.

"Of course you did. That's on me, I should have remembered that you were all created on Kamino, a damn ocean world. Did someone tell you that as a cadet?"

"You want an answer to that, Vantage?"

You need to quit while you're ahead before you find yourself subjected to more potentially juvenile behavior. "Not particularly, no." You dust off your knees after kneeling over the edge of this particular tide pool, mentally wishing the little jellyfish good-bye. Wrecker's idea of taking a quick dip in a tidal pool hadn't been a bad one, but you weren't counting on Tech finding any 'vacant' enough for a dip to cool off by this point. "I'm gonna go sit in the shade for a bit. Echo, scoot over!"

He scowls, playfully calling back that you need to find your own palm tree to plop under, while making room for you all the same. From here, you can watch Crosshair and Hunter wrestle and grapple with one another in the tide, and keep your eye on Wrecker as he tries to float on his back a little further out. Tech remains on the beach, babbling to himself as he inspects each of these tide pools in depth.

"We're going to be hearing about sea stars for hours… aren't we?" Echo mutters, but there's a warm and gentle smile that contrasts the weariness of his tone, "Which is going to drive them nuts while they try to rush their reports to Commander Cody."

"Don't worry," you tell him, "I can keep him occupied in the cockpit while you make sure the other three get their reports sorted out."

"Gotta say, having you on the team is a real advantage sometimes."

There's commotion down in the water that interrupts your train of thought about asking Echo if he's making fun of your codename, and you fear the worst. Drowning is a silent affair, and two of his brothers are suddenly shouting Hunter's name with mild concern. You kept your eyes off the water for too long, you shouldn't have assumed that the three out in the water could keep an adequate eye on each other. You don't see the curled brown hair and the slip of crimson fabric that serves as a bandana among the three bronze-skinned figures who were playing in the surf.

Wrecker and Crosshair do not seem all that panicked, to your fear and your fury. "Where's Hunter?!"

He surfaces soon after, but he curiously does not stand fully upright in the water. You soon know why when someone's swim trunks find themselves washed ashore with the next wave.

"Oh, there they are. Here, toss them out to me, Vantage!" Hunter does not seem the least bit embarrassed that he's gone from clad in nothing but a pair of swim trunks to clad in nothing at all after a particularly strong wave must have tugged them free from his hips.

You staunchly refuse to touch the trunks, pointedly turning around to avoid getting an eyeful of anything below the belt as Hunter drags himself out of the waves. "Get them yourself, Hunter! Oh Maker, I'm going back to the Marauder. I've had enough."

"Nice going, Hunter." Cross says, slugging his shoulder. "You scared Vantage away."

"I promise I tied them; not like I did that on purpose." You can almost hear the bounce of his shoulders in Hunter's voice as he brushes off the accusation. "C'mon, Van!" Wrecker calls to you from the water. "Don't leave!" He's stopped by both Cross and Hunter from exiting the ocean and chasing you up the beach, warning him that if you're not already in no mood for further oisk right now, you certainly will be if he tries to stop you while he's soaking wet with sea water.

"I'm going to the ship to get towels for everyone," you tell Echo as you trudge further up the beach, glancing at the chrono on your wrist. "I'll be back in a couple of minutes. I'm gonna see if I can't convince Commander Cody to extend the deadline by another day…"

Echo gives you an understanding bob of his head despite the expression of confusion. "How come?"

"Oh, I don't know…" you sigh wistfully as you turn back and look at the water, where to your surprise, Tech has been roped into a game of water-chicken and is now perching himself on Crosshair's shoulders to wrestle with Hunter atop Wrecker's, "something tells me those reports won't get done tonight. They're having too much fun. You should too, Echo."

He shrugs, looking uncertain. "Don't know that seawater would be good for my cybernetics. Sand is one thing, I have plenty of practice cleaning that out." You offer to ask the Marshal Commander for answers as you put in the request for an extension. You're certain he can get in touch with Captain Rex or General Skywalker to outsource an answer for you since you don't have their comm frequencies. "Thanks, Vantage. Still not gonna go swimming yourself, though?"

Echo's given a smile and shrug. "Oh… I might change my mind and at least venture out a little further." You start making your way back to the heavily modified Omicron-class shuttle with a smirk tugging your lips into place to compliment your mischievous tone. "But no promises."

[Masterlist] [Requests: OPEN]

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i brought you a wallpapers with two brothers who are too stubborn not to quarrel for five minutes. <з

#not my art #star wars #tbb #the bad batch #tbb hunter #hunter #ct 9901 #tbb crosshair #crosshair #ct 9904 #oops! that's my queue

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I See You : Crosshair x Fem!Reader

Warnings and Information: Going with a 13+ rating just on account of language in the form of Star Wars and real-world swearing, just to be cautious. Self-indulgent modern AU fic, but you can read it too. This is practice for Crosshair's character as well as something mildly therapeutic. I'm… fine, but not fabulous, y'know? Job hunting is not exactly fun, so I'm just writing out my frustrations. How many Clone cameos can I fit in here? We'll find out together. They're not dead, what are you talking about? Empire gets compared to any one of those multimillion-dollar companies that treat you like shit no matter how good of a worker you are with Palp as the soul-sucking CEO in modernized terms. Rare fic without minor instances of Mando'a, but plenty of my stylistic and narrative use of italics. Minor proofreading.

Word-count: 4,237

The phone rings. You put it up to your ear so fast you nearly drop your cell in your haste to answer, not even looking at the screen. You should've. It would have saved you time, the realization that these people were not reaching out to get back to you about your job application. You hang up halfway into the pitch about repairing damaged products you don't even own.

The lid slams to the washing machine."Oh, fuck me!" you yell, groaning loudly.

You're of two minds; be consumed with your frustrations and take it out on the washing machine, or just clean the paint stains out with your tears. You're sure that'll work just as well as the detergent in order to get out that large smear of phthalo blue. Except, it won't, and the sooner you get this load started, the less time the paint has to set and stain. The lid is lifted.

Footfall softer than falling snow, Crosshair makes his way in from some other part of the shared house, his expression passive as he observes you dunking fistfuls of dirty clothing into the wash-drum. "Is that an invitation or a request?" He at least waited to make his remark until he was certain you noticed him and gave him a trademark "what the kriff do you want?" sort of look.

Knuckles pale as you grip the lip of the machine with one hand. "I'm not in the mood for your-"

"No; I know you're not." Crosshair interrupts you. "But I came to see if you hurt yourself, mostly."

"I'm fine." you snarl, slam-dunking the last of the clothing from the hamper anchored against your hip. "I slammed the lid." A neat brow buckles just a fraction, all the response you get as you push your way past him, returning to the small office that served as your art studio in this house. You're really not in the mood. You were a whirlwind of emotion, most of it negative.

You can feel his eyes from the doorway, trained on the back of your neck as you work. Gosh you made such a mess, you shouldn't have used so much paint thinner. "Go away, Cross. I need to clean up my easel and see if I can't salvage this portrait of…" You stop, breath hitching when you hear Crosshair clear his throat softly. He's directly behind you now, his voice taking on a slightly serpentine quality in its softness.

"Your clean shirt's on backwards, doll."

You shake your head, stubbornly refusing to believe him. "Nice try. Not while my hands are dirty. Tell me again once I get this mess cleaned up."

Wordlessly, Crosshair plucks the runny canvas from its easel and makes sure not to take it beyond the edge of the tarp. Hunter would be disappointed to find a mess on the beautiful hardwood floors so soon after he's treated them. And you'd be disappointed with yourself to give a portrait to an important friend in its current state. What should have been beautiful, angular and geometric lines are little more than a royal mess.

"Just go ahead and trash it for me…"

The same brow arches. "Why?"

"Because I don't want to give Hardcase a painting that looks like that..." you reply, huffing in your disappointment and frustration that you'd gotten so sloppy with your oils. "I said his portrait would be perfect practice for crisp, angular forms with that beautiful pop of blue from his tattoo and this is… far from it."

Your housemate looks at you with mild surprise. As far as mild surprise goes for Crosshair, anyhow. He wouldn't look quite so aghast like Wrecker, or frown quite so deeply as Echo.

"Who are you and what have you done to the Bob Rossified [____] we know and admire? What happened to the happy accidents?" Ordinarily, the comparison to the famous art instructor and television host would have made your face burn brighter than your favorite brand of alizarin crimson paint.

Instead, you scoff at him. "Very funny..."

"I'm serious." Crosshair insists, setting the portrait back on the easel once you've wiped it down, "What's the matter?"

You shouldn't snap at him, but your mouth just runs away from you. "I thought I got a call back from the place I applied to. I was wrong! It was some damn spam call, and I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed. Okay? Happy now?"

The palms of his hands flash in a surrendering fashion to you before he speaks. "I'd say you're more angry than disappointed." Sighing, you take your cleaning rag and do Crosshair a favor by removing the thinned, blue oil paint from his hands after he notices it himself. "Kriff. Sorry."

Gently, you assure him you'll take care of it. That it's no trouble. That he's right, after some thought, "I guess… I am angry. All these places that are supposedly so kriffing desperate for employees sure take their damn sweet time. Or they seem to be hiring everyone but you. It makes me feel… invisible. They should have called me by now! Right…?" Crosshair looks at the calendar tacked to the wall of your little studio, where it's written in your favorite color the day you applied to the art supply store. They definitely should have by this point, he agrees.

"Have they reached out by email?" he asks gently, watching as you take that same cleaning cloth and gingerly wipe down the bottom edge of the canvas. He's convinced you for the time being not to break it over your knee and pitch it into the curbside bin until you at least give yourself an hour away from your brushes to think it over.

You shake your head, "I've been checking every day. Nothing." You now wash your brushes before the paint gums up the bristles, at least. And then you promise you'll lay aside your brushes and go grab a bite to eat with him. "And most places these days, they're likely to actually trash your résumé if you call them to 'follow up' on your application process. That old piece of unsolicited advice needs to die out, pronto. Just because it worked for- for- Agatha and her generation, doesn't mean it works for mine!"

Crosshair snorts.

"What?"

"Agatha?"

"Shut up… I could have gone with Karen and been unoriginal." you grumble, gingerly fixing the arrangement of your fan brush.

Crosshair retorts sarcastically, giving you a playful smirk. "The 1930s called, they'd like to know why you're using such a dated name." Ordinarily, Crosshair stays out of your hair (and your studio) by never bothering you as you work, but it's clear that he's trying to cheer you up, even a little.

"Unless the 1930s is offering me a job," you start, plucking the thin script brush from his dexterous fingers just as he begins to twirl it, "it better not bother me by calling…"

"The art store will call you eventually, I'm sure…" he tells you, the grim frown matching your souring expression. "You love art. You're a creative person. What better person to work at a place like that than someone who could practically recite an episode of The Joy of Painting in her sleep?" You point out, playfully, that Tech could recite an episode of Painting in his sleep just as easily as you. But at least you crack a smile as you do so, so he lets it slide. "Okay, you and my brother." Cross concedes, thinking back to the time the household decided to try a "painting party" to break up the seasonal gloom last December. "Maybe Hardcase and Wrecker too, if the pocket squirrels make an appearance."

Here, you finally chuckle. "Forgetting Fives would be criminal. Or how concentrated Dogma gets."

Cross just nods agreeably, hoping to keep a good thing going. "I wouldn't dare. My point is, you'd be amazing at an art store. They'd be lucky to have a gal like you who gives a kriff about art working for them."

You flash Crosshair a confused and crooked smile as you set down the last of your brushes and tighten the last twist-cap on your tube of oil-based paints. "You think so?" You're surprised how… sincere Crosshair sounds. You had to do a little metaphorical arm twisting just to get him to join you when the only spot left in the living room was a seat on the couch next to Rex.

Cross just nods decidedly. "C'mon. Let's grab a burger or something. My treat." A burger sounds great, you tell him, fixing your shirt so it's not on backwards before you stroll out the door.

Maker above, did he really mean his treat. Crosshair took you both down to the best burger joint in the city, where the two of you ate your respective orders and split a carton of fries with the house seasoning and plenty of salt.

"Oooh, kriff me…" you moaned blissfully, sucking your fingers clean of the granules of salt and seasoning, "these fries hit the spot every time." They're probably your favorite thing here, honestly. Perfect amount of crispness, balanced flavor, and hot; never ever tepid or cold. Cross snags a few more fries from the carton before nudging it your way, inviting you to polish off the rest. "You don't want any more?" you ask, curious. "There's still plenty in there to share."

He offers a lazy shrug, "I'll think about it." He slips his phone from his pocket when he hears a ping, and he hums thoughtfully after reading the message. "... Think I should let Wrecker find out on his own that he's home alone?" You can only shake your head disapprovingly of the wry smile, mouth too full of food to chastise him. While Wrecker and Crosshair weren't afraid of messing around with one another, you worried about it getting out of hand on occasion. "Fine. I'll let him know we're not home so the big guy doesn't worry, doll. In fact…"

Cross types down a message much longer than a simple courtesy "we're not home" text, and then cleans up the discarded burger wrappers and straw sleeves, snagging a few more fries once you say you can't possibly eat another bite. "Good. Not a lot of fun when you go shopping hungry."

"Didn't we just make a grocery run two days ago?" Crosshair shakes his head, then pitches everything into the large garbage receptacle as you grab your things. "Not that kind of shopping then." you determine. There were a lot of possible options, but you didn't have to slog through another massive grocery list, at least. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see." Crosshair replies simply, holding the door for you to follow after as he steps into the parking lot. "I had an idea." Now you really wonder where you're going, or what he has planned. Crosshair and spontaneity get along about as well as a Tooka and bathwater, sometimes.

You have to remind yourself that Crosshair wasn't a complete stick in the mud all the time, and when you first met him, he was still working for the same company that his other brothers had quit once they found out what kind of person the man who ran this multimillion company turned out to be.

First found himself working under some bloke named Edmon down the managerial line, before he was arrested for embezzlement. Then a real asswipe of a superior named Nolan took over, and after someone got hurt really badly on a "company retreat" and Nolan refused to call for an ambulance, Crosshair finally came to his senses about the place.

They don't give a shit about how loyal of a worker you are, just like Hunter, Wrecker, Tech and Echo warned him. They were right all along.

You thought you mattered to us? Please… Someone younger and desperate enough will come in and take your place if we feed them enough honeyed lies!

So Cross stole Nolan's car and drove himself and the injured coworker down to a hospital two hours away from the company retreat. Crosshair had known the guy for less than 24 hours (or something like that), but Mayday's injury helped Cross come to realize that the company was a sinking ship. So he got them both out. Now, Mayday and Cross spend every Sunday night checking in on each other. Cross works odd jobs from home, mostly, and Mayday… Well he was content with not being employed for a while.

The longer Crosshair has been living at home with his brothers again, the more he's starting to get (some of) his old sense of self back. He's no longer couch surfing because he didn't want to deal with his brothers fussing over his choice to remain with the company.

He was never, ever kicked out.

Cross had always been welcome to come back home, with a spare key tucked under the welcome mat if he ever needed it.

You'd been the one to find him letting himself into the house at three in the morning after Mayday talked Cross into going and seeing his brothers. You were "leasing" a room from the brothers at the time, and they had let you know the deal about Crosshair. "Please don't call the police if you ever find someone who's just… let himself into the house. That's our brother. We've been worried about him. He's made choices we don't agree with, but he's still our brother. We care about him."

Of course, Cross had no warning about you, but he eventually warmed up to you in time after you had practically broken Hunter's door off its hinges to let him know that Cross was here and he was tackled into the coffee table by the biggest of his brothers in Wrecker's excitement.

That spare key under the welcome mat now sits on your ring of keys, which you fiddle with in your hands the longer you and Crosshair drive through the city.

"Isn't this the way downtown?"

"Mhm."

"Still won't give me a hint, Cross?"

"No." he chuckles, pulling the steering wheel into a smooth left turn. "You'll see soon enough, doll."

He's taken you to the art store, to your surprise. The one you applied to. Not that specific location you applied to in town, thank the Maker, but the chain, rather. "I haven't been to one of these places in years…" Cross admits softly as he pulls himself out of the car. "Figured while we were out of the house, we'd stop by."

"How come?" you ask. You'd recently just bought a bunch of paint, so it's not like you needed anything in particular, really, maybe just wanted… There was one particularly pricey art supply you've had your eye on and lusting after for a while now, but given your current unemployment status, you're really trying to control your spending. "You got a project in mind, or somethin', Cross?"

Shoulders bounce. "Not really."

"So… what are we doing here?"

"Looking." he declares, steering you into the store by your shoulder. "Lookings always free. So is anything you can apply the five-finger disco-"

"Cross!"

"I'm kidding." he declares semi-defensively, laughing at the expression on your face. "C'mon, doll, you know I'm kidding. Hard to smuggle out a whole canvas or large pack of… whaddya call those markers? Cop-picks?"

Mild mortification turns into bubbly giggles over his decent effort to pronounce the brand name. "Copics. They're called Copic markers. And, they're kind of a scam." He just looks at you with an expression of confusion, so you figure you better explain. "Here, lemme show you." Taking his hand, you lead Cross down to the aisle dedicated to sketch pads, pencils and markers. On the shelves, there's dozens of specialty packs and bundles with quirky names.

Oceanic, "Beach Blast!", and skin tones are all prominently stocked for the summer. Singleton markers are what you're looking for though. You pluck a Copic Classic from one of the slots, and point to the price sticker.

A whopping 9.65 credits for a single kriffing marker. "Keep that in mind," you say, as you scoot down the aisle and show him the stock of Ohuhu brand markers, "and compare it to this." You select a similar color to the Classic in the Ohuhu brand, and tap the price sticker. A far more reasonable 2.49 credits.

He scratches the back of his head and neck. "What the kriff…? Is there a significant difference in the brand or something?" He's not exactly all that artistically inclined like you are, so to him, he's not sure if there's anything he's seeing that warrants such sticker-shock for a damn marker.

"Just the name, really. Copic markers aren't really the end-all-be-all of alcohol-based art markers anymore. Ohuhu branded markers are just as good as Copics, and you get more markers for say… fifty credits in Ohuhus than Copics." you explain, putting the markers back in their respective slots. "I won't bore you with more details that go into it, but that's the bare bones of it."

Cross nods politely to indicate he's listening to you, lifting a pack of art markers off the display to give it a closer look. Once he has satisfied his curiosity, he puts it back and glances at the different sketch pads. "And these probably tell you what they're best suited for, somewhere." You confirm his thought with a simple nod, tapping one of the sketchbooks. Drawing pad, 64 pages best suited for graphite, marker and colored pencils.

"They'll often tell you either on the cover, or on an inside page, sometimes. Depends on the brand."

You're getting the feeling that maybe Cross is looking for something after all, but he won't admit it to you. He keeps asking you question after question as you go down each aisle of the store. If there's a section dedicated to a particular craft you're not very familiar with, the two of you just look at the items in silence for the most part. You're (pun not entirely intended) pouring over all the different resin supplies together when Crosshair asks you another question to break the silence.

"Do you ever show your art online? Some kind of… creative forum, or something? Or is it all just personal projects, like the portraits you've done for Rex and the one you're trying to do for Hardcase?"

You chew your bottom lip for a moment as you mull over what you'll say. "I… stopped. For a long time."

"Why?"

You huff softly, returning one of the unusual resin molds back to the shelf. Little space shuttles and UFOs and such. (Space travel… wouldn't that be something?) "I couldn't get out of the trap of comparing myself to others. I don't know if you could call it imposter syndrome, or anxiety, or what. But I just felt… small. Unnoticed. Invisible." Crosshair frowns, stepping closer to you to allow someone with a large cartful of yarn and children's paint sets squeeze past. She looked like a teacher, gentle and kind and so, so tired. But she gave the pair of you a kind smile as she moved down the aisle and pondered over the different bags of beads one could buy in bulk for crafts.

"That's the second time you've used that word, [____]."

You give him an inquisitive look, surprised by his statement. The rare use of your name. "Wh-what word?"

"Invisible." Crosshair answers, closing that gap between you further when his hand reaches out to cup your face for a moment to scrutinize you, study you. "Is that how you feel?"

"I guess?" you start, but you think a little more, and you find that, yes, sometimes you do feel invisible. "I feel like… people don't… notice me. Like I'm trying to do it all damn wrong. It's been fucking weeks and places won't call me back! Or I'll post things and it gets a handful of interactions when I put the effort into it, but the shit I don't, that's what fucking blows up and goes viral. I don't fucking get it and I… sometimes I just don't know why I bother trying to apply myself when I'm just… invisible and unseen. This shit sucks, Cross." you admit a little bitterly. You take a deep breath and apologize for swearing in the store, in case the other customers can hear you. You apologize again when the tears begin to prickle and well in the corners of your eyes for getting so worked up, but you're just kind of at a loss for what to do next. You've tried so many things… you just feel like you're talking to yourself because no one will answer your applications.

Crosshair doesn't say anything for a while, and you don't take it to heart. He's not the chattiest of your housemates, as you learned a long time ago. Sometimes, he did have things to say, but he wanted to take some care with his words if Cross sensed he needed to be a little more delicate.

And he could be surprisingly good at being delicate when the need arises.

Assuringly, tenderly, Crosshair brushes the tears from your eyes and motions for you to follow him. "I see how much this stuff matters to you. If a stuffy old art store can't see it, just know that I see it. You're not invisible to me, kid. I see you." He's brought you to the paint section, coming to a stop in front of the selection of oil paints in particular.

"I may not understand all of… this," he gestures broadly at the display of thick, silver-foil tubes of paint, and selects a beautiful cerulean blue off the rack, "but I see how much this means to you. You know your shit. You're getting better all the time. I see that. One day, I think people will see that you know your shit too, and you won't have to feel so invisible anymore. But I see you. Hunter, and Wrecker and Tech, and- your friends see you, doll. You've got such a passion for these things… but you're…"

You wait for him to continue for a moment, wondering what he wants to say. You decide to hazard a guess when all he can offer is a soft shrug when he finds himself at a loss for words. "Beating myself up, too much…?" You eye the tube of paint in his hands, and wonder for a moment why he's been taking so many things off the shelves only to look at them before putting them back in their proper place. Tech's told you Cross has sharp eyesight, perhaps more on the farsighted side if anything. (Was he more farsighted than you initially assumed?)

"Perhaps." Cross admits, softly juggling the tube in the palm of his hand. "If nothing else I said sticks with you… I just hope that the fact that I see and recognize your efforts does, doll. I know I'm only one person, but sometimes, just hearing it from one person is all we need."

You feel your cheeks pinch with a little smile hearing him say that. One of those things, one of those times where someone says exactly what you needed to hear when you didn't know you needed to hear it most. "That's… awfully nice of you to say, Crosshair. Thank you…"

"I should give some credit to Mayday," Crosshair admits with a soft laugh, now pulling a tube of cobalt and ultramarine blue off the shelves, "he's the one who's been encouraging me to… do what feels right, if he thinks I'm feeling a little lost between the odd job. And doing what feels right includes helping you restart that portrait of Hardcase if you really think you need to trash the first one."

"Is that why you keep grabbing all those different blues?" you giggle, watching him now idly shuffle three different tubes of blue oil paint in his hands.

Crosshair nodded, making you laugh as he grabbed a fourth tube with a wink. "Yeah. I noticed that you didn't have these blues back at home. And that you use phthalo blue a lot like a certain painter."

"Are you comparing me to Bob Ross again?" you tease, stifling a laugh as you make your way to the checkout together. You've been away from your brushes for more than an hour at this point, and you're itching to get back to the process of creating while you still have the time to do as much as you want; before you're hopefully contracted with a job offer and have less time to dedicate to such things.

"Maybe." he purrs mischievously, ringing up each of the paints before carefully wrapping them up in their own separate plastic bags for the trip home. "If I am, do I get to see you paint?"

You can only shake your head with a gentle laugh. "We'll see, Cross."

That's good enough for him, he says as you collect the receipt from the self checkout machine, just so long as you promised you'd give yourself a little more grace and faith that soon enough, you'd get the job offer you wanted.

Some days will be easier than others… but you'll do your best, you promise. You're pretty sure you can manage that.

[Masterlist] [Requests: OPEN]

Tagging: @the-hexfiles who wanted to see some soft!Crosshair <3

Note from Frost: Apparently Mayday got assigned some kind of "Work Dad who takes care of and looks out for the younger employees" vibes while I was writing this self-indulgent (and mildly therapeutic) quick-fic, lmao. And hopefully, this ends up being good practice for soft!Crosshair down the line, as it comes into play in the next long-form series I'm working on. Yeah maybe it's perhaps a tad too out-of-character, but kriff it.

#someone liked it; I'm reblogging it! 🩷#scheduled reblog

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frostycatblr-fandom-files · 21 hours

Note

Hello! I was wondering if I could request Wrecker x reader where they sneak off really late at night for a cute little walk because they haven't been getting enough alone time. And it's a new relationship, so everything's still all cute and giggly. Maybe they think they are being quiet when they are sneaking back in, but something funny happens and reader is like dieing laughing and Hunter walks in like wtf is going on. Idk, feel free to ignore. Ily ♡

Warnings and Information: No real age warning for this one. 2nd person POV, undescribed Reader that can be read as gender neutral. Little sprinkling of Mando'a. Minor language (everyone say "thank you, Crosshair!"). It’s all the giddiness of a new(ish) relationship with the powerhouse of Clone Force 99 that is Wrecker. 🩷 Impromptu date late at night. Decided on a Modern!AU for this one where (most of) the Bad Batch work as a construction crew, and there's a few cameos of other Clones too. Hope you enjoy what I came up with!

Word-count: 4,544

Setting your bag down on the welcome mat, you thread your house key into the lock with an eager sigh. You're pretty tired. You finally have a free night, thankfully, and you've been away from home all day.

You're looking forward to just vegging out on the couch to catch the season finale of your favorite show for the next hour and crawling into bed as soon as you finish trawling the 'net for other people's impressions of the finale. There's a lot of speculation regarding the dashing rogue of the series, and whether or not they'll finally pluck up the courage to share this big secret the show writers have been dangling over the fans. You just hope some news article doesn't show up in your social media feed only to come along and spoil it in the headline.

"People really need to learn to tag their kriffing spoilers… It's not that hard."

You bump the door open and hoist the bag back over your shoulder just as someone calls out your name.

"H-hey! Wait up!"

You pause in the entryway, cheeks pinching with a large smile. "Hey Wrecker." The way he's doubled over, hands pressed into his knees while he pants for air, you can guess Wrecker had likely jogged over to your place from his. He lives not too far from you, and it's a jog he's made several times before, but it has been a slightly warmer than average day that has only just begun to cool off in the last few hours. Tech, one of Wrecker's brothers, calls the phenomenon the "heat island" something or other. Effect? (If that wasn't right that sounded close enough.) "You okay? Here, come on in. Would you like some water?"

"B-but- Weren't you jus' leaving?" Wrecker manages between slowing pants. He used the edge of his sleeve to mop the sweat from his brow once he's upright, fixing you with a woozy smile when you hook your fingers around his own and lead him inside. "Oh, no, I just got home, actually. How come?" You fill a glass from the cold tap and rummage around the freezer for some ice to make it a little more refreshing. Wrecker just ran so hot sometimes you were surprised he didn't pass out on some of his job sites as a construction worker.

"I- oh, thanks, cyare." Wrecker greedily gulps down a few mouthfuls of water to relieve himself of his thirst, careful not to spill down his front or all over your kitchen floor.

The intimacy of the pet name makes your ears flush with warmth, and your cheeks pinch a little more with a tender smile. "You're welcome."

The worst of his thirst now quelled, Wrecker could explain why he thought he had caught you leaving the house. "I, uh, I came over to ask if you wanted to go do something. Together. Jus' the two of us. Worried that I got off work too late or took too long to clean up a bit and I caught you about to leave. I know it's nearly eleven, but it's been a while since we had a moment to spend time together… just to ourselves." There was good reason for the emphasis on the last three words. In the infancy of your relationship with Wrecker, you have only had one date together that wasn't interrupted in some way by his job, or one of your day to day priorities, or one of his brothers.

You liked his brothers well enough thus far, but sometimes they really needed to learn when to butt out. Or what was appropriate for company.

"Wrecker, have you seen my live specimen?"

"Hunter! One of Tech's kriffing specimens got loose again! Can't find the damn thing!"

"Oh Maker…"

"L-let's leave, cyare. It's not a dangerous specimen or nothing, but it's jus' creepy."

You smiled at Wrecker, and to him, those smiles could have thawed out an ice planet like Hoth twelve times over. Smiles that could get Crosshair, even in his most sour of moods, to return the gesture even for a fleeting moment. "Time just to ourselves sounds very, very nice… What'd you have in mind? I'm down for anything." The minute you pulled him across the welcome mat you decided you wouldn't mind watching the final episode of the season another time. Wrecker was here, and by happy coincidence, your schedules were completely free for the weekend. You could stay up as late as you liked.

"You wanna go for a bite? Or maybe go take a walk?" Wrecker offers. You like the idea of a casual walk, now that it's cooler. You glance at your footwear, a pair of sandals, and think for a moment it'll be smart to put on a pair of closed-toed shoes. "A walk sounds nice," you reply brightly, "You wanna go… uh, how about by the lake in the park?"

Wrecker grins at the idea. He's got such an infectious smile that gives you butterflies in the pit of your stomach and a booming, boisterous laugh that you just loved. "Sure, tha' sounds nice! Been meaning to go see it one'a these days, but I'm busy helpin' my brothers with work most of the week." He'd love to go check it out with you, he says.

Going to the lake took you past Wrecker's house, all dark save for two windows. Tech's, of course, and you believe the second is another brother of Wrecker's who's moved in only recently.

You haven't had the opportunity to meet him yet. You hope to, one day, when he's ready.

"He's… been through a lot. One'a our other brothers thought it might be a good idea if he came and lived with us for a bit. Quieter. Less people."

"How many brothers do you have, Wrecker?"

He had laughed, scratching nervously around the back of his head with a great shrug. "I dunno, honestly. I have a lot of brothers. But, I get along best with Hunter, Tech and Cross… So I hope I get along with Echo too."

"I'm sure you will, Wrecker. You're friendly and kind and sweet… a-and um…" Your mouth had gotten away from you, then. You had only been friends back then, and you'd slowly grown closer, grown feelings for this gentle giant. You were that close to blurting out that you thought he was handsome, cute even, down to the scar and replacement eye that was a result of an accident on one of his very first job sites. He had said your name with that same jovial laugh and winning smile and, jokingly, asked, "What? You gonna say I'm cute or somethin'?"

That's all it took. Just a few months later, here the two of you were, playfully bumping into one another as you entered the park hand-in-hand, making jokes and laughing together.

"No-no-no, that's not what the joke means!" you insisted, feeling the ache in your sides growing the more you laughed until you were nearly breathless. "You realize Cross is messing with you, right?"

"Yeah, 'course I do!" he replies, "But so am I! It's jus' how the two'a us are. It's a lot of fun to purposely misunderstand a joke and see how long it takes before Tech can't take it anymore. Our record was two hours. Hunter even joined in!"

"But I thought he hated it when you and Cross goofed off on your job sites."

Wrecker grins through mischievous laughter. "Naaah. Hunter goofs off on job sites just as much as us when we can get away with it, but he's more… subtle about it. Unless he wants to show off to our older brother Cody. He's a contractor and the one who suggested the job to us; so we try an' behave a little more than usual when he comes to check on how construction is going." Wrecker explains. They've been part of the crew who initially came in to renovate some very old apartment buildings here in this little, growing city, but overnight the sign that had previously said "RENOVATIONS UNDERWAY" for the first few weeks became "DEMO AND REBUILD". Now you know why; Cody's the one who made the call on that, and you wonder why the sudden change.

"Oh, huge infestation that went untreated for too long. I don't remember what Tech calls them or what they are, but Cody said it was gonna be better to scrap everything and build fresh. I ain't complaining!"

That was something you appreciated Wrecker for. He complained about very little. He was often optimistic and in high spirits. Happy to do almost anything he was asked so long as he was with his brothers and didn't have a want of food. All that manual labor makes a person hungry, so it doesn't surprise you to find him snacking on something if he's left to his own devices and the thought comes over him.

Actually, in fact, you hadn't just walked past his house on the way to the park: you briefly came inside so he could throw a few things into the cooler bag he takes to his job sites (he, Hunter and Cross bounced between at least two or three sites if Cody needed a few more hands for something on a particular day) and have a little picnic on the grass with you. You both took care to be quiet so as not to disturb his brothers. Wrecker did however bump into Crosshair in the kitchen, who took one look in the lunch bag and said "Unless you plan on drinking that kriffing disgusting lake water, I suggest you take something to drink, too." before he snatched a few slices of cold pizza from a box in the fridge and shuffled off.

Not much of a talker, Crosshair. But that's okay.

"How's this for a spot?" you ask, coming across a bench after walking roughly one half of the man-made lake. Walking and talking with Wrecker was enjoyable, the late-summer air carried by a gentle breeze across the water was cool and soothing here. Not too far from the water's edge, and you could hear some of the lake life, little frogs, croaking and singing in the reeds and lily pads from here. Wrecker nods approvingly, setting down the cooler bag. "Perfect! Here, made this for you. Sorry if it's a little smushed or if I forgot a condiment."

He offers you a brown paper bag, and inside, you find your favorite sandwich you often throw together when you need a quick bite to eat. "Aww, you made this for me? Wrecker that's so sweet of you, thank you." You bite into it with eager anticipation, and it's definitely the way you like it. "Oh Maker," you moan blissfully, chewing slowly to savor it, "that's a good sandwich." Wrecker smiles bashfully as he takes a seat beside you on the bench, unwrapping his own sandwich.

"Did I-?"

"No, not a single missing condiment." you tell him. Shyness and uncertainty turn to pride for the man beside you.

"Oh, good! I made it kinda quick-like from memory so we could get goin' without bothering my brothers." He takes a bite of his own sandwich, and allows himself to chew thoroughly before he speaks again. "I, uh, I make everyone's lunch in the mornings. Except for Tech's sometimes, he's pretty particular about what he takes to his lab."

You think back to what Tech's job is, but the proper name for it escapes you. "He works in the… preservation department at the local museum, right?"

Wrecker bobs his head as he takes another bite of his sandwich, smaller this time. "Yeah. Works in at least three labs. Real smart. Like scary smart. He'd get bored if he worked in just one lab. And because I don't remember what lab he goes to on what days, he and I agreed it'd be best for him to make his own lunches most days. Oh, I almost forgot! Here!" He reaches into the cooler bag again and pulls out one of your favorite, non-alcoholic, bottled beverages. "That's for you. Can't have a proper picnic without something to drink."

Wrecker's attention to detail, his memory of things he's learned about you only very recently, it all makes you feel giddy and warm inside that he's so incredibly attentive to your likes and dislikes. Other romantic partners, whether they had been potential or well and truly established, had not been quite so aware like Wrecker. What had taken others five months or more to remember that you did not like on your pizza, Wrecker had remembered in just five days.

Hunter had called your name from the kitchen, ready to place an order from a little place new to town called Gregor's Grub-hub and asked what toppings you liked on your pizza, apologizing for not remembering what you had taken from the assortment of pizzas the crew offered to share with you when you stopped by Wrecker's job site to return the comically oversized jacket he loaned you.

"That's okay, I remember!" Wrecker had declared from the couch as the two of you sat together, trying (and failing) to take this board game seriously. It was just so much more fun to bend the rules or try stacking all the game pieces. Whatever silly idea possessing the pair of you was swiftly entertained.

It was just so easy to have fun with Wrecker. He found joy in the little things. And he cared so deeply about his brothers. He cared so deeply about you.

You crack open the bottle, and together the two of you mock-toast to this late-night, lakeside summer picnic the pair of you took on a whim. You're so glad to be out here with him. Just the two of you in the light of the full, silver moon hung in the sky above this beautiful park, serenaded by the frogs and distant cicadas in the trees.

"Thanks Wrecker. Cheers!"

"Cheers!" Wrecker laughs brightly, the sound as bubbly as the lapping waves of water against the shore, and as distinct as the ping from the phone in your pocket as your phone begins to blow up with news about the final episode of the season you originally planned to watch tonight. (Damn. Maybe the dashing rogue will pluck up the courage next season.) You can't even be mad about the spoilers.

You're enjoying this rare evening together with Wrecker far, far too much to be annoyed about that.

"Nice night for a date…" you murmur fondly, leaning into Wrecker's side as you sit on the bench and eat some of the other snack foods out of the cooler bag now that the two of you have finished your sandwiches. "... thanks for the late, lakeside picnic, Wrecker." You giggle softly when he shyly asks if you're okay with a little kiss on the cheek. He kisses the top of your head for good measure as well, emboldened by the smiles and giggles. "Yer welcome. We should do this more often." he says, looking out over the glimmering water with you.

You should do this more often. Maybe the next time you come here, you can take him here in the sunlight and come feed the waterfowl on a day that his brothers could get by without his help. Crosshair didn't need help the clambering up onto the scaffolding so he could do his job as a roofer, but he often let Wrecker help him because it eased his brother's fear of heights, or the fear that Cross was going to fall from the scaffolding again after a really nerve-wracking incident, more rather.

A strong gust of wind had ripped through the construction site before the structure had been secured against the frameworks, and his brother had lost his balance. Wrecker had been there to catch him in the nick of time.

"Maybe it gets under my skin a little that my brothers make fun of me for my fear of heights," Wrecker admitted somberly to you in private shortly after the scare. "But I'd never willingly let my brothers fall. I'll always be there to catch them… if I can."

Once the two of you have finished most of the food from the cooler bag, you diligently pack away all of your trash until you pass by another trash can. "Let's finish walking around the rest of the lake. Then let's maybe call it a night." you suggest. It's too nice a night not to. You just hope the city police don't come along and spoil the moment by suggesting that you need to leave, since park lock-up happens at 12:30. It's only midnight, and the rest of the lake won't take long to walk at a decent pace.

Common opinion is that some of the force can be overly stern, even how the chief of police is characterized as "heartless", but you've come to understand that these officers with red police cruisers (an unusual color choice) are decent men. They're just chronically overworked. You feel for them, now. They're only doing their jobs, however unpopular it might be.

Thankfully, where you'll complete your full circuit of the lake with Wrecker is not too far from one of these entrance and exit gates that are found along the wall of the gated park.

Joking and laughing with Wrecker once again puts a pep in your step, now that the two of you are comfortably full and content with the late-night meal.

Wrecker suggests walking a little closer to the water, just before you leave. Give the lake a closer look, maybe see if he can't get a picture of one of the frogs for Tech. "He could probably tell us all about 'em! Tech loves that kinda stuff… sharing what he learns with people." Wrecker says with a grin as he quickly snaps a photo of a plump frog resting on a lilypad. He's carefully crouched on the edge of the bank in order to get it. You creep down closer to the waterline so you can take his phone for him so he can use both hands to pull himself back up the slightly steep bank. The water is deep here, and you're both hoping to avoid falling in.

"Here, I got it." you offer, holding out your hand.

You slip on a slick patch of grass and mud as you collect his phone, and as luck would have it, the sandal slips off as you stumble and it falls into the lake with a splash.

Wrecker had caught you before you fell in as well. "Gotcha, cyare! Are you okay?"

"I'm f-fine," you assure him with a tiny stammer, glad you hadn't dropped his phone or fallen in. "Just lost my shoe. Thanks for catching me."

"Of course, cyare. Didn't think I'd only be there to catch just my brothers, didja?" He's teasing, of course, but the question makes you flush. No, of course you didn't think that.

Wrecker peers down into the water, trying to see if he could spot your sandal. Man, why didn't you change into something with laces? You'd thought about it and everything, but you were just so excited about spending time with Wrecker that you dashed out the door without giving it a second thought…

A car door closes in the distance. It sounds like it's from a car parked near the gate. Uh oh. What time is it?

"Wrecker, we need to go, I think the-"

He's up to his elbow in the lake water, carefully swishing his arm around while seeing if he can't find your shoe. "Just a second, I'll find your shoe and then we can go cyare." Wrecker promises, trying to settle your nerves. He's so focused on being sweet and helpful that he doesn't hear or notice the officer starting down the path.

"Wrecker, c'mon, it's okay. It's just a cheap little sandal, we really should go!"

The way Wrecker is hunched over the water on his hands and knees in the dim light of the moon, the officer mistakes the position for a starting dive and he calls out in warning. "Hey-! There's no swimming in the lake!"

Wrecker falls in with a great splash, startled. He surfaces shortly, the water up to his chest. Okay, maybe the water wasn't as deep as you thought. "I'm okay!" Wrecker splutters, coughing up lake water. "I found your sandal!"

You turn to the officer now standing on the edge of the lake, glowering down disappointedly at Wrecker. "I'm so sorry, sir," you say, "he was just trying to get my shoe and then I think you startled him an- O-oh, Officer Fox! I didn't realize it was you, I'm so sorry!" Fox didn't realize it was you, either, turns out. He speaks your name with great surprise, then takes another look at the sopping wet figure carefully climbing out of the water with your wet, muddy shoe in hand. "Wrecker?"

"Yup!"

Officer Fox removes his peaked cap and scratches his salt-and-pepper hair with a weary sigh. "... I thought the two of you were a couple of kids or something. Got a call from a "concerned citizen" about some "hooligan youth" in the park. Some busybody of an old man who's constantly inventing problems for me because he has his mind made up that I don't have enough to do…"

You grimace sympathetically. "Mr. Sheev, again?"

"That old bat's still alive?" Wrecker asks disbelievingly. No one's quite sure how old Mr. Sheev is, but he looks like he's been dodging the grim reaper longer than it should be natural.

There's a mutter from Officer Fox that sounds a lot like the word unfortunately before the cap is replaced and he has to do his job.

"C'mon… park's locking up for the night, soon. And since you're wet," he nods to Wrecker, "and you're half barefoot," Officer Fox nods to you this time, "I'll give you a lift in the cruiser."

Officer Fox takes you both back to Wrecker's place, watching the two of you from the car as you're huddled on the porch, wrestling with the ring of house keys. Darn things seem to make themselves invisible or slippery when they get the slightest inkling that you might be in a hurry to get inside.

Wrecker says he'll have to mop up the water in a second, trying and failing at threading his house key into the lock with shaky fingers. Lake water was cold and he was soaked to the bone trying to do a kind thing by retrieving your sandal for you.

Fox, the chief of police for the city, calls from the cruiser that Wrecker better get into some dry clothes soon, and not to feel bad about getting the seats wet. "Shit like this happens more than you think. I gotta ask Cody if he's the guy I gotta talk to about getting a proper walking path around the lake… as soon as I'm done with all this other kriffing paperwork. Goodnight." You help Wrecker get the key into the door and thank him for the lift. "You too, Officer Fox! Thank you again!"

As the two of you try to squeeze inside, someone knocks over the coatrack bearing three high-vis vests and a crisp lab coat. "Whoops!" Oh stars, that clatter was sure to wake someone up… It was nearly one in the morning now.

Wrecker's foot slips in the growing puddle of water, and trying to help him, or make sure that he's okay, you yourself trip over the coat rack and fall on top of him with a yelp. Once again, he breaks your fall, and tries to break the nervous tension with a corny joke after you both frantically apologize to one another.

"Guess we're a couple'a angels if we keep fallin' for one another, huh, cyar'ika?"

You can't help it. The joke is so silly and undeniably sweet coming from someone like Wrecker that if the coat rack, and then the two of you falling over and on top of one another didn't wake Wrecker's brothers, your laugh certainly would have. Four pairs of feet plod down the stairs at varying speeds, Hunter the fastest. He's fresh out of bed in nothing but a pair of red and black boxers, face wracked with confusion. Wrecker is soaking wet and smells like algae. And you're now damp after having landed on top of him. Hunter was told the two of you were just going for a walk, how the hell did his brother and his date end up getting wet?

"The kriff are you two doing on the floor?" Crosshair yawns from up the stairs.

"And why are you wet?"

You smile apologetically up at Hunter, "Wrecker fell in the lake trying to get my shoe for me. I was trying to keep his phone dry after he took a picture of a frog for Tech and-" Your eyes dart further up the stairs when you hear Tech excitedly ask "A frog?" from behind Cross, and you spot the brother who must be Echo behind him. He's a little paler and his face is gaunt compared to the others. He looks rather disoriented and anxious after you probably woke him up so unexpectedly.

"Oh… hello there; are you Echo?"

He nods timidly. "I am. And you are…?" He seems surprised to hear you know his name, but he doesn't seem to recognize you. You wait as he carefully makes his way down the stairs, one step at a time. The horrible accident Echo had suffered from was some time ago, but three of his limbs haven't quite been the same since. Minor weakness and numbness, to your memory. You waited until he was closer to put out the appropriate hand to introduce yourself with a polite smile. "Nice to meet you. Officially." Echo manages apologetically. "Sorry, guess I didn't recognize you because I've only ever heard Wrecker talk about the person he's started dating."

You smile reassuringly at Echo, and flash Wrecker a cheeky look when you hear he's been talking about you to his brothers. You're sure he would look just as flushed as you if the light from the kitchen wasn't so dim.

"I'll get a mop and clean up the water," Wrecker promises Hunter when his brother takes a look at the floor by the front door after Wrecker picks up his cooler bag and dumps all the trash into the kitchen's garbage can.

Hunter shrugs lazily. "Nah, don't bother. You two should go shower or something. I'll take care of it. Besides falling in the lake - apparently - was your walk nice?"

"Oh yeah!" Wrecker says with a giant grin that you return when you share a look. "I think the two of us might do it again soon. This time without losing any shoes."

You can only nod and laugh softly in agreement. The next time you go on one of these late-night walks with Wrecker, if this becomes a regular thing in your relationship, you are definitely going to start wearing better shoes with laces.

Note from Frost: The idea of Palpatine being a nosy cranky senior citizen who calls the police over "hooligan youths" having fun came out of nowhere but it tickled me too much not to include it lmao. (Poor Commander Fox...)

[Masterlist] [Requests: OPEN]

#someone liked it; I'm reblogging it! 🩷#scheduled reblog

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frostycatblr-fandom-files · 22 hours

Note

Heeeeeyyyyy

Can I drop a request? (You can say kriff off and I will still love you ❤️)

I'd like a little soft Hunter? Or any clone really if you wanna try someone new.

I had one of the worst days in a long time about two weeks ago. It was the first anniversary of my caretaker's death combined with the worst day at work I've ever experienced. I cried for the thirty minute drive home, and for another 30 curled up catatonic on the couch. I tried to quit my job, called my mom sobbing, it was a very bad time.

Cue some clone comfort? You absolutely do not need to use the details of my bad day, that's just what was going on and inspired my ask.

Anywho, here's two cats as payment:

🌙Hex🔮

Omg of course you can drop a request, Hex, always!! You're actually the first person to make a request too, and I was so surprised I kinda cried. 🥺

Penelope and Baklava are so cute all cuddled up like that too aaaa~

I hope you like what I came up with, sweetheart; and I'm sorry you're Going Through It™ as well, too. I'm currently there for different reasons and it suuuucks so this was extremely cathartic. Hope things will get better soon, love. 🩷

W&I: Minor proofreading and plot. 2nd person POV, undescribed fem!Reader. Emotional angst. Talks and thoughts centered on the loss of a person only described as a "loved one" without explicit mention of relation to you or their role in your life. Can be read as an established relationship fic. Hunter's just being real sweet on you to cheer you up. Little sprinkling of Mando'a. Minor language. No real age rating for this one.

Word-count: 2,383

That's it.

You're done.

You're so over this place.

If one more patron tries to tell me to smile while using some variation of darling or sweetheart, I'll give him teeth alright: in the flesh of his arm, you think to yourself.

It's not exactly an appropriate time to laugh, but if you don't snicker softly to yourself over the thought of such a forbidden fantasy, you're going to cry. You're going to cry before you squeeze through the doors that read EMPLOYEES ONLY and make your way to the machine to clock yourself out of your shift and get yourself home. Who gives a load of Kryatespit if it only earns the customer's ire to have you laughing at him?

Right now, if you had your way, if you gave into your impulse, you'd quit. You'd turn in your uniform, your name badge, and any little piece of company property you'd ever acquired so these soul-sucking middle managers and CEOs can't come around and accuse you of anything.

You didn't want to be here today. You didn't want to get out of bed today. But you couldn't get the time off approved. Some banthashit about too few hands to run the place as it is.

Well maybe if you hired more kriffing people…

"Your receipt is in the bag. Enjoy the rest of your day, sir." When you give the customer his purchase with these phrases you're required to say, it means he can leave now and take his smug attitude with him. Social obligations means he's going to tell you the same. An empty, hollowed out "Thanks, you too." that perfectly encapsulates how you feel inside.

How the hell am I supposed to enjoy today of all days? One of the most important people to me in this galaxy isn't here anymore.

I don't want to be here at this job anymore… I just want to quit.

You keep your head down when you clock-out, and grab your things. You don't return sentiments of farewell from any of your co-workers, and you don't respond to the request to trade shifts with someone for some BS reason. "Hey, c'moooon! Please?! I've got things I wanna do that day!" they whine after you, calling to your retreating back.

Don't we all? I just wanted to stay home and maybe sob into a carton of ice cream while looking at my photos of my loved one. We don't always get what we want.

What you want is to go home. Think of how you're going to call in, or write up your two weeks notice, or just cold-quit while you're sitting in your transport and-

You find an unexpected figure leaning against your transport when you step out into the employee lot, their back to you. What the hell? You begin rifling through your bag for something to arm yourself with, perhaps something like a bottle of cheap perfume you have in there somewhere that you can spray in their eyes, or maybe there's something you can throw in their direction, tell them to scram. Or maybe their after your credits, so you hope you can just tell them to take your credits and not cause you any trouble and-

Looking over his left shoulder, you find yourself staring at the ink of the skeletal tattoo and a side profile framed by waves of curled, brown hair you'd recognize anywhere.

"H-Hunter?"

Hunter turns to face you, his hands fiddling with the knot of his crimson bandana to work it loose. That's when you finally realized why you didn't recognize who was leaning against your vehicle in the growing, deepening purple shadows of the late afternoon. "I thought you'd be a little happier to see me than that," he says with a look that's somewhere between a typical smile and a concerned frown, "but I guess you didn't realize it was me. And I guess I shouldn't have been standing here with my back to you, either." Hunter slips the accessory around his head and reties it with a hasty knot. "Sorry about that, mesh'la."

There's a million questions swimming over the top of your tongue, each one vying to be asked. "Wha-? How did-? Why are you-?"

Hunter does his best to answer the questions he believes you're trying to ask. "Crosshair gave me a lift here so I could drive you home once you got off work." he says, holding a hand out. He's offering to take your bag and the keys to your vehicle. "As for why, well: it's today. I saw it written on your calendar the last time I came to visit. It's been a year since you lost your loved one. I figured you might be just holding it together by the time your shift ended, and… I think I was right." His hand cups the soft curve of your cheek, the pad of his thumb collecting the first tears that have begun to escape the confines of your tear ducts.

Hunter sweetly helps you into the passenger seat, and gets any and all safety belts secured before he himself climbs behind the controls and gets ready to take you home.

"We'll pick up whatever you want to eat on the way home, if that's what you want, cyar'ika." he offers, gently resting the palm of his hand on your trembling shoulder for a brief moment. He's not certain if you want a lot of these gestures of reassuring, physical touch, but it's what he can offer right now so you know that he's there for you.

Right here, right now, as you weep silently into the sleeves of your work uniform in the passenger seat, Hunter is here for you. And he's not going anywhere until he's either satisfied with his efforts to do his best to lift your spirits, or until you ask him to leave.

Remnants of the comfort-food you'd requested are either tucked away with the rest of your leftovers, or swept up and deposited into the kitchen trash by Hunter when he makes the offer to do a bit of tidying up. Gentle murmurings that he doesn't want you to worry about it, he'll take care of everything.

He'll take care of you. Hunter's not going to judge you for your tears. Or for telling him how you wished you could have reamed out this difficult customer. Or for how you shout in your episodic instances of anger, calling your manager a spineless and incompetent little twit who needed to get their act together and quit being so cheap and to hire more people so you're not running yourself so karking ragged.

Nor does he admonish you for how silly it was that you're complaining about the rip in your clothing made by the thorns found in one of the bushes outside your house, or easily you fall apart into a mess of tears at the gentle hand on your shoulder when he joins you on the sofa once again.

"Could this day get any worse?!" you sob, your face hot with anger and grief, and your voice thick and choked with the respective emotions.

Hunter is patient and endlessly perceptive; tucking your body just right against him, the way you need him right now. "C'mere, cyare… You've certainly had a pretty thorny day… And I don't blame you for simply just having enough of it all. I don't blame you at all." he promises, sweetly and softly peppering your face in tender kisses with the intention of comfort.

"I've been having a lot of thorny days lately…" you admit with a stutter, burying your face into the material of his shirt. Hunter smells like sun-warmed cotton and the heavy tang of seawater. Of course now you can't tell if you smell hints of his homeworld on him, or if that's the dried tear stains from earlier. When the two of you simply sat in the parked vehicle once you'd gotten home, Hunter leaned over the center console so you could weep into his shoulder. You'd dialed up your job, ready to tell them that they needed to find someone else, but you couldn't go through with it. Not then, anyways. You haven't been able to make up your mind, either.

Hunter rubs little circles with his thumb into your shoulder blade as he holds you close, saying that he's sorry to hear you've been struggling lately. That he's sorry you're having hard days. "I just want them to stop!" you sob softly, feeling his fingers gently caress the back of your head, and the deep rumble in his ribs as he asks you to take a deep breath, promising that he's here. That he'll help however he needs.

If you breathe him in deeply enough, you could probably find something from all of his brothers. Something sugary that he was offered a bite of to share with his brother as Wrecker indulged his sweet tooth. The rich blend of caf Tech was partial to lately, that could give him the jitters when Hunter drank it by mistake. The smooth notes of the polishing agent Crosshair spoiled his Firepuncher with because he swore nothing else would do. The faint whiff of synthetic lubricant that must mean Echo had performed upkeep on his prosthetics today or the day before.

"There we go," Hunter says softly in praise, feeling the frenzied beating of your heart begin to slow and your tears eventually peter out, "it'll be okay, cyare."

You sniffle, mumbling softly into Hunter's chest. "I'm just so scared that it won't. And I feel silly for feeling so scared..." His arms stitch just a little tighter around you in return when you pull yourself against him, feeling his breath against the top of your head. You just feel so small in your sadness today. But in his arms, the way you fit just right…

The way he's so steady, you feel so loved and protected when you're at your most vulnerable.

Hunter hushes you, pulling the hair back from your face with a gentle touch once you sit up again. "Tech would probably tell you that that fear is a natural and normal part of life, and that there's no use to feel silly about it. And, even if the way he'd probably say it isn't so gentle, he'd be right. How you're feeling today - angry and upset about your job and wanting to quit, and how much you miss your loved one - is all very thorny and uncomfortable, and no one likes feeling like that. But it's normal. And it's nothing to be ashamed of. And I promise you, I'm here to help. However I'm needed. However long you need me to hold you and make you feel loved while you're feeling down."

The gentle reminder is just what you need. You're not dealing with this alone. That if you're going to quit your job, Hunter would do whatever you asked of him to help you get ready to sever those ties if you felt it was time. That even though you're left with a hole in your heart with the passing of this loved one who was very important to you, Hunter doesn't expect his presence to merely fill it like it's nothing.

That's the marvelous thing about the human heart.

It can hold so much love for so many people if you let it.

You're certain your eyes look so swollen and red. You're certain you'll find more tears to shed when the thorns of grief find their excuse to make you weep once more, but right now, Hunter's hands have carefully and kindly cleaned away the last of them. He's so gentle and sweet on you, right now.

"Hey… what if," Hunter begins, offering in a soft, low voice between the kisses he stamps in the crown of your hair and trails down one side of your jaw to the other, "you changed out of your uniform, and we found something to watch together now that we've had something to eat? Something silly. Maybe something romantic. Or both. Whatever you want, cyare. I don't care what it is." he promises.

You fiddle with the frayed and torn edge of your clothing that had been caught on the thorny plant outside. "What if I just want more cuddles after I change?" Hunter laughs gently, nodding as he reluctantly releases you so you can slip into something comfortable and try to end this day on a happier note.

(You're going to have to send Crosshair a message later to thank him for doing Hunter a favor by giving his brother a lift and dropping him off.)

"Whatever you want. Especially if that's more cuddles." Hunter says once more with a warm smile, hooking your pinky fingers together so he can hold some part of you just a moment longer. If you found comfort in his touch and wanted more of it, he was happy to provide.

You're pulled back into Hunter's arms when you come back to the living room after you've thrown on a comfortable pair of clothes, finding yourself wrapped up tight. He's so strong, like all of his brothers, and every ounce of it is devoted to comfort and consoling you right now.

Hunter is so warm and comfortable, and you're so emotionally drained that it's hard to resist the act of nuzzling one cheek into his chest and closing your eyes to simply relish this quiet moment. You don't know what you want to do, but you just know that you need this. Hunter knows it too.

People need a good hug now and again. This galaxy could be so cruel and thorny to the people who mattered most to us, that sometimes what they needed most was an act of deliberate softness to remind them everything would be okay. That the bad times will pass.

That while our hearts yearn and grieve for the ones we miss the most, the room we had for them in our hearts will always remain no matter how long they've been gone.

And the people we love in the here and now will fit themselves next to that jagged space and trim back the thorns, if we only ask.

[Masterlist] [Requests: OPEN]

#someone liked it; I'm reblogging it! 🩷#scheduled reblog

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