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multi-fan-dom-madness · 9 months

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Chapter 19: Dinui (Second Chances - Hunter x reader)

Dinui. n. gift.

Chapter Summary: The life or death situation spurs you into action.

Chapter Warnings: canon-typical violence; FLUFF

Word Count: 3,730

A/N: I hope the 70k leading up to this moment has been worth it <3

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You stumble as the Marauder lifts straight up from the ground, just barely catching yourself on the wall, knee slamming into the metal frame of the jump seats. Eyes watering, you shove away from the wall and, seeing Phee already at the gunnery, scramble to the cockpit. You have no sight lines on the Redthorn from here. Terror and anger clash in your veins, the yawning void of night warring the searing heat of the dawn.

“Nav!” Omega slams into you, her arms squeezing around you.

“Hey, kid.” You shuffle along with her latched to you, trying to keep your balance as Tech yanks the ship’s controls to the side. “Tech, we’re rendezvousing at Rintonne.”

“Might I advise against returning to a place we have already been?” he says, voice tight with concentration.

You grip onto the back of his chair. “Tell Hunter that.”

He grunts in acknowledgement, his knuckles white where he grasps the ship’s yoke. As gently as you can, you unwind Omega’s embrace from your midsection and nudge her towards one of the passenger seats. She goes without protest. Through the front viewports, green blaster fire continues to scream, the three TIEs shooting past the Marauder. Ice floods your system.

“Phee!” you yell.

“They’re targeting the Redthorn!” she replies. The durasteel floorboards vibrate with discharged energy as the ship’s guns open fire. “I’m doing what I can!”

“I can assist with that,” Tech mutters. His hands dart over the controls, giving Omega quiet instructions on buttons he can’t reach. You hover one hand over the comms. If the situation turns for the worse, you are ready to open the channel to...to do what exactly, you’re not certain.

The Marauder’s main engines cut out and Tech jerks the yoke hard to the left. The moonlit, dusty world of Nixor spins by, dizzying in its ethereal beauty. There is no sign of the Imperial ships or your own, but you’re able to push back the rising tide of terror with the knowledge that so long as Phee is still firing, there is still something to fire at.

“One down,” calls Phee. “The other two are regrouping. We need to get outta here.”

“Not without the others,” you growl. Louder, you say, “Keep those TIEs distracted. The Redthorn needs to make the jump first. It can’t withstand enemy fire for much longer.”

“You need a better ship,” Tech says.

His comment stings, even though it shouldn’t. With a shake of your head, you shove the feeling away. “It was fine when I wasn’t being chased across the galaxy.”

He has no response for that. Instead, he throws the lever, powering the engines back up. Your shoulder nearly dislocates as the ship shoots forward, arm snapping taut, and you grit your teeth.

“Tech, Nav?” Omega says. She points at the proximity radar, where several more triangular glyphs have appeared. “We’ve got incoming.”

“Kark it all!” Abandoning the comms, you unshoulder your pack. The blender rattles as you slide the bag across the floor, and then you dart through the ship to take the gunnery ladder two rungs at a time. Phee glances over her shoulder as you climb up.

“Came to watch the show?” she asks with a loose smile.

You bark out a laugh. “Hardly. Came to help. More fighters inbound.”

Braced against the sticker-decorated wall, you can only watch with growing trepidation as Phee takes aim at the TIE fighters still circling the Redthorn. Your two ships are making progress—the surface of the planet below rapidly withdraws as the ships climb. But you fear it isn’t fast enough to escape the new wave of fighters you can just barely make out against the starry night sky. Phee is a good shot—you’ve seen her do impressive things with a hand blaster, let alone ship guns—but the TIE pilots swoop and swerve and circle faster than even she can keep up.

To your surprise, the Redthorn, limited though her capabilities may be, manages to land a few critical hits on the wings of one of the TIEs. You send a silent ‘thank you’ to the Maker, or the Force, or whatever, for Wrecker’s good aim.

“Nearing the edge of the atmosphere,” Tech calls from the cockpit.

“Copy!” you and Phee say at the same time. With weary grins, you both refocus on the battle raging just beyond the three-inch thick transparisteel of the gunner’s mount.

Without a moment to spare. The second wave of fighters hits—hard. Your mouth goes dry as you watch green blaster fire clip the top curves of the Redthorn, your ship dipping in the air for just a moment from the impact. Phee’s returning fire chases that fighter away, just in time for another ship to move in.

One of the TIEs loops back around the Redthorn and opens fire directly at the Marauder. You flinch as green fire burns into your retinas. The blasts impact the rear shields in a dazzling burst of technicolor electrical discharge. Cursing, Phee swivels the gun around to follow the TIE, but it’s gone before she can properly react.

And then you’re free of the gravity well. Below you, the atmosphere scatters across the sandy planet, the dark, menacing shapes of the TIEs in hot pursuit and, farther off, the looming shadows of the Destroyers still in orbit. A few hundred feet away, the Redthorn seems to stretch in place, before flashing into hyperspace.

“They’re clear!” you shout. “Tech, get us out of here!”

“Destination?

“Anywhere but here!” You leap down the gunner’s ladder, pain rocketing up your shins. “Skip, jump, just get us out of here!”

The hyperdrive engine whirs to life from deep in the ship’s innards and rattles into your very being. For a terrible moment, you worry that one of the fighters shot out the drive; it’s never taken this long to prime. Just as you reach the cockpit, the stars elongate and disappear in a dazzle of blue-white light.

You’re free.

Panting, pain aching in your legs, you slide to the floor in the doorway. Omega swivels around to face you from where she’s strapped into a seat.

“Tech,” you say between breaths, “if we make more than one jump, can we throw them off?”

“We should already have thrown them off,” he says, pushing buttons to turn off alarms you hadn’t even realized had been blaring. “But if it will make you feel better.”

“It will,” you say. Thudding your head back against the durasteel wall, you stare up at the blinking green doorway light. “How did they find us?”

“We don’t know they were there for us,” Omega says. She unclips from the seat harness and joins you on the floor.

You hum in acknowledgement, but in your heart, you know the likelihood of that level of coincidence is slim. Not impossible, but highly improbable. “Tech, what do you think?”

“I am not certain,” he says. When he turns the pilot seat to face you, he pushes his goggles up to rub his eyes. “There is not enough data. We cannot rule out the possibility that they tracked us.”

“The information we stole from that base,” Omega says.

“What about it?” you ask.

“Maybe that’s how they followed us.” She shrugs, glancing up as Phee approaches. “Or maybe it was really just by chance.”

“Whatever the reason,” Phee says, stepping over you and Omega to sit in the co-pilot’s chair, “it’s done and over. We’ll meet up with the others, and then you’ll get your surprise.”

Swallowing, you share a glance with Omega. Despite her youth, she’s seen more—and knows more—than you sometimes give her credit for. She gives you a slight shrug. She trusts Phee; you trust Omega.

“Right.” You sigh, lolling your head in Phee’s direction. “What did you need to do on Nixor anyways?”

Phee sighs and draws a hand over her face. “Had a contact reach out with a potential artifact that I’ve been hunting for. Turns out, the cheapskate already sold it to a higher bidder.”

“That doesn’t sound fair,” Omega says. A frown creases her brow.

“It isn’t,” Phee agrees.

“Well, do we at least get to know the surprise now?” you ask.

Despite the threat of the Empire still looming over all of you, she smirks. “That’s not how surprises work.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” you grumble. The sight of your pack, bulging with your belongings and weighed down by the torn, moth-eaten sheet, stirs you to your feet. Groaning, you stretch your back, several vertebrae popping. “I got you all a few things before...well, before all that.”

Squatting next to your pack, miraculously nothing seems to have broken, not even the blender’s glass body. Tucking Tech’s new book under your arm, you work to disentangle the delicate golden chain of Omega’s new necklace from a thread. Your tongue pokes between your lips as you concentrate; it would be just your luck to snap the chain. It takes a moment, but the snagged thread works free, and you enclose the necklace in your fist. Both clones look at you with curiosity sparkling in their eyes despite the situation.

You hold out the book for Tech. He accepts it, turning it over in his hands like he’s never seen one before. When he opens the front cover, his eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the printed ink pressed into the flimsi. “Navigator, I...I am at a loss for words.”

“That’s a first,” you tease with a small smile. “You’re welcome. I thought you might enjoy it.”

“I shall,” he affirms.

Omega nearly vibrates with excitement as you beckon her closer. She tries to peek between your fingers at her gift, and you laugh.

“Close your eyes, kiddo.”

She acquiesces. You turn her around, loop the necklace around her, and clasp it at the nape of her neck. The marquise turquoise stone rests overtop her tunic, gleaming in the light of hyperspace.

“Alright, Omega,” you say, “open your eyes.”

Her hopeful expression falls when she realizes your hands are empty. When you gently nudge the stone around her neck, she follows the movement, her hand clasping around the necklace with a gasp. “What is it?”

“Go look.” Smiling, you jerk your head toward the small ’fresher, its tiny, cracked mirror the only place she’ll probably be able to get a good look at herself. She darts off, and only a moment later her squeal of delight reaches you. You call, “You like it?”

“I love it!” She scampers back, holding the stone in her palm to show Tech. “Tech, look! What kind of rock is that?”

Tech, already several pages into the book, adjusts his goggles to see better. With a small smile, you gather your pack and wander out of the cockpit. On Wrecker’s bunk, you nestle the blender amongst his blankets, hopeful that he’ll find it the next time he rests; on a hook by the data centers, you drape Echo’s new scarf, the deep red matching well with the ship’s interior. Satisfied, you linger in the midst of the ship, listening to Tech rattle off facts about Omega’s necklace.

Your eyes fall on Hunter’s bunk. After situating your pack underneath it so it’s out of the main walkway, you clamber onto his rack and burrow beneath the blanket. The thick, scratchy fabric smells like him: musky and smoky, faint traces of carbon residue, and a surprisingly deep spice, remnants of his body wash. Nestling deeper, you curl onto your side and tug the blanket up to your face.

Exhaustion whispers to you, spreading warmth through your body like a second blanket, but your mind is still wide awake. Hunter consumes your thoughts, Omega and Tech’s conversation fading from your awareness. Memories float to your mind’s eye. That very first argument, all those months ago. How he tended to your blaster wound, supported you during the entire walk to Cid’s, and then ran after you when you tried to leave. All of the missions he insisted you pair up with him—at the time you had assumed he wanted to keep an eye on you, but now, lying in his bunk, enveloped by his scent, you wonder if he had other motives, too.

You avoid the painful memories, glossing over Iridonia in favor of Coruscant, how he’d pulled you into a hug that time, and every time since. The way he put on his gift without hesitation, the breath he shared with you in the dark, his hands on your body. His admission in the Redthorn’s cockpit. The stone that now lies secure in a pouch, digging into your hip. Electricity skitters down your spine as you recall the look in his eye when he gave it to you, heat warming your insides. Even now, separated by Maker only knows how many light years as you both hurtle through hyperspace, you feel the faint tug in your sternum, the one that points you towards him. Towards home.

You fall asleep with a smile playing over your lips.

You convince Tech to make two more jumps before setting course for Rintonne, and you’re now on that second jump. You’ve lost track of how many hours you’ve spent in hyperspace this time. Aside from the nap in Hunter’s bunk, you’ve dozed at least once in the jump seats, too aware of Phee’s presence in Tech’s orbit to remain around them for very long. You’re currently in the cockpit again, Phee having gone to the ’fresher a few moments ago. Omega disappeared to her bunk some time ago. You figure that whatever she’s getting up to, you’ll find out soon enough.

The flash of Tech’s cam draws your attention back toward him. He’s already devoured the book you bought him, and is now in the process of scanning it to make it more...Tech.

“How long till we make the final jump?” you murmur.

Tech flips another page and holds his cam steady, the flash leaving an afterimage in your vision, shaped like him. He says, “Approximately a standard hour.”

You hum. “Think you’ll finish that before we get to Rintonne?”

“Doubtful,” he says. “I have another project to work on that takes priority.”

Though you only retain about half of what Tech explains to you about his projects, you still want to know, wanting him to feel included and important. “What’s the project?”

“That.” He points toward the doorway.

Omega beams at you, her arms full of...something, a blanket haphazardly wrapped around whatever’s inside. Confusion sweeps through you as you glance between her and Tech. Carefully, she carries the bundle to you and deposits it at your feet, then perches on the arm of the chair you’re curled up in.

“What’s—”

She nudges your arm. “Open it.”

Quirking one eyebrow, you take one more moment to scrutinize both of their expressions. Finding nothing but barely contained excitement on one and quiet amusement on the other, you shrug. You lean down and flip the blanket back.

Your confusion deepens. “Clone armor?”

Except, it’s not like any clone armor you’ve seen. Where the Empire’s clones still wear identical sets of gleaming white plastoid, and where the squad’s armor is dark-washed gray in unique configurations, this set is a lighter gray despite being the standard style. You lift the helmet and peer at your reflection in the black visor. The furrow in your brow seems exaggerated by the helmet’s curve.

“When we were on Coruscant the first time, we ran into some...resistance,” Tech explains. “This was Echo’s idea.”

Omega nods. “We wanted to wait to give it to you, but with everything that just happened, I wanted to make sure you have protection.”

The corners of her eyes crinkle as she smiles at you. In your center, that strange feeling of everything shifting a few inches in the wrong direction lurches. You tug the girl into a hug, tears welling up and threatening to spill over.

“Thank you,” you whisper against her hair. You catch Tech’s gaze and smile. He nods in response before dropping his eyes from yours.

“D’you like it?” Omega asks, voice muffled from being squished against you.

You take a moment to look at the armor again, but you already have your answer. “I do. I really do. Thank you, ’Mega.”

“I have more paint if you want to add colors,” she says. “Same colors as the others wear.”

Releasing her, you can’t hold back the smile that breaks over your face. “I’d love that.”

“Before you proceed with decorating, I will assist in ensuring everything fits properly,” Tech adds. “I have studied how to manipulate plastoid without compromising its structural integrity, so making certain pieces conform to your non-clone form should be relatively simple. And I already added padding to the helmet to be sure it fits.”

You blink at him. “How do you know my head size?”

“I have accurate measurements of the entire squad,” he says, so matter-of-factly that you almost feel silly for asking.

You apply the last brushstroke of teal to the helmet just as the ship drops out of hyperspace. Setting the helmet down, your eyes scan over the full suit of armor, spread across the ship’s floor. Orange, yellow, and teal pop against the light-wash gray, marking you, finally, as a full member of the squad. Once the paint sets, you will be official. You’re unexpectedly nervous for that moment. What if they change their minds? What if Hunter changes his mind?

But as the ship touches down in a clearing not unlike the one you’d been in the first time you visited Rintonne, and you catch Hunter’s gaze through the viewports, your anxiety melts away. His eyebrows lift and he nods once at you.

You can’t get out of the Marauder quick enough.

Wrecker claps your shoulder with a booming laugh as soon as your feet touch solid ground. “Nav, I love ya, but your ship—”

“Needs work, I know, big guy,” you say, rubbing your shoulder. “There’s a surprise for you on your bunk.”

His eyes widen, mouth falling into a perfect ‘o’ before he bounds up the stairs, nearly bowling Tech over. Giggling, you turn back across the clearing.

Hunter stands on the Redthorn’s ramp, helmet seemingly still in the ship, all his weight settled onto one foot as he gazes at you. Despite the breathtaking scenery around you, all you can see is him. Around his wrist, the rock bracelet sits between the joint of his bracer and gauntlet. Your heart soars. But now, actually back in his presence in full daylight, you suddenly feel like you can’t move, rooted to the spot the same way the trees around you are, the wind sighing through you, around you, within you. Your mind wars with itself: he said he needs time; you need him.

Phee nudges your shoulder as she comes down the ramp. “Go to him.”

“But—”

“Nope,” she says, giving you a wink. “Go. Trust me.”

Suddenly the roots are gone, as though they never existed. You try to walk, but by the time you’re halfway across the clearing, you’re running, sprinting, propelled along by the gravity linking you together. Hunter remains where he is, and it’s not until you’re at the base of the ramp that you realize he’s hiding a smile.

“Hi,” you pant.

“Hey,” he says, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “You all okay?”

“We’re good.” You place a foot on the ramp. “You?”

He shrugs, eyes flitting away from yours for a moment to survey the others. “We’ve had worse.”

You take another step up the ramp. “I was worried about you.”

An unfamiliar expression passes over his face, one that you struggle to identify. But then he holds out his hand, the one with the bracelet, and all you can think about is taking it.

You do.

He tugs you gently the rest of the way up the ramp—and then keeps going. It’s not until you’re both fully within the ship’s cargo bay, out of sight of the others, that he halts. The hand holding yours squeezes, twines your fingers with his. Eyelashes fluttering, you gaze up at him, taking him in. He looks exhausted, caked with dust and dirt, sweat dried around his bandana, stubble starting to peek through. His tattoo ripples as his jaw works. But his gray eyes glimmer, bright and expressive and deep. You find your favorite freckle, the one just beside his right eye, and again the strange, three-inches-to-the-left feeling returns.

In this moment, he’s the most stunning thing you’ve ever seen.

Your mouth moves before your brain can catch up. “Can I kiss you?”

You don’t have time to regret the words. His other hand coming up to cup your face, he draws you closer, eyes never leaving yours as he leans in. His lips brush against yours.

“Oh stars,” you whimper.

Eyes sliding shut, you stand on your toes to kiss him properly. He groans, deep and rumbly in his chest. He releases your hand to wrap around your waist and pull you flush to him. Against yours, his mouth is insistent, measured, moving softly as your head spins. His lips are dusty and chapped, but you don’t care. You’ll never care. Digging your fingers into his waist, you press impossibly closer. He tilts your head, thumb rubbing across your cheekbone, sparking a fire that smolders in your lower belly.

When you pull away, head fuzzy with warmth, his eyes crinkle with a smile.

“I know you said you needed time, but I—”

“Shhh, cyare.” He kisses you again, chaste and sweet; you chase his mouth when he pulls back again. “I’m glad you asked.”

Breath coming in labored gasps, you can only nod, heat flushing your entire body. You allow one hand to wander from his waist to his face, tracing the outline of his tattoo. He hums, eyes falling shut. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear, you follow through on the movement, tugging the bandana off of his head. His curls fall into his face, and you sigh in contentment. Carding your fingers into his hair, you gently scratch his scalp and—

He kisses you again, groaning into your mouth. With a smile, you press yourself flush against him, content to remain in his embrace until Omega comes looking for you both.

Taglist: @the-hexfiles @fjordg @idoubleswearimawriter @skellymom

#tbb hunter x reader #hunter x reader #hunter x gn!reader #rhiwrites #second chances #the bad batch x reader #tbb x reader

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multi-fan-dom-madness · 10 months

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Chapter 15: Tsikador (Second Chances - Hunter x reader)

Tsikador. v. to prepare; get ready.

Chapter Summary: You and the squad prepare for the first mission away from Cid.

Chapter warnings: some angst; some fluff; hastily written b/c I'm out of town, and sort of filler-y

Word Count: 2,731

Read it here on AO3!

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You let the boys sleep the rest of the flight back to Ord Mantell. You know you’ll regret the decision, especially with how heavy your limbs feel as you climb down the ramp of the Marauder, but every time you tried to convince yourself up out of the co-pilot seat, your body refused to cooperate. Anxiety had speared you to the chair, immobilizing you more effectively than any binders. At the very least, you had plenty of time to think: to come to terms with Hunter’s ultimatum, to reflect on your deceptions, to ponder what Echo could possibly have wanted you to ask Hunter.

“I thought you all had cut ties with Cid?” you say, stifling a yawn, as you stretch. The Ord Mantell sun is nearing its midday zenith; the warm humidity sticks to your skin, the tarmac heat permeating through the soles of your boots, inviting you to lay out and bask like a lizard. Kriff, you must be more tired than you realized.

“We have,” Tech answers, one finger raised in explanation. “We are here to rendezvous with Phee.”

You glance sidelong at Tech, noting the slight dusting of color in his cheeks. A grin tugs at your lips. “Phee, huh? She got a job for us?”

“Something like that,” Hunter says, pausing on the last step of the ship ramp. “You shouldn’t go to Cid’s alone.”

“I’m not asking any of you to come with me,” you say, a little more harshly than you intend. Taking a calming breath, you shrug. “I just want to talk with her. That’s all.”

Hunter’s eyes narrow at you. He crosses his arms, cocking one eyebrow. “Talk.”

“Yep.” You try for a smile. “Promise. I’ll leave my blasters here if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“You should not be unarmed,” Tech says, “especially considering the incident the last time you were here.”

Shuddering at the memory of that strange man grabbing onto you, you incline your head in acknowledgement. “Thanks for that reminder. I’ll be back within a standard hour. And then you can come with me to my ship if it’ll make you feel better.”

Jumping off the side of the ramp, Omega lands lightly on her feet and rushes to you. “I want to see your ship, Nav!”

You chuckle and ruffle her hair. “Sounds like a plan to me, kiddo. I think I have extra hair dye laying around if you want to touch up the color.”

She turns pleading eyes on Hunter, who attempts to maintain a stoic facade. It lasts approximately three seconds before his arms fall to his hips, and he shakes his head at the sky.

“If that’s what makes you happy, ’Mega.”

Cheering, she gives you a quick hug. As she turns to return to the ship, you grab her shoulder and kneel down. You shrug your pack off your shoulders. Slowly, her confused expression fades into one of shimmering gratitude as you carefully extricate her soldier doll.

“I think she should be back with you,” you say. You press the doll into her hands. “She kept me safe, like you said she would. And now it’s your turn again. Just in case.”

“Are you sure?” Omega asks.

You crook one finger under her chin and press a kiss to her forehead. “Absolutely. I’ve got you all back again. That’s more than enough protection for me.”

Before the tears threatening to spill from your eyes can betray you, you sniffle and quickly stand, heaving your pack onto your back once more. You avoid looking at Hunter. Despite the quiet, tender moment you shared last night, his words, his expectation of walking the straight and narrow, weigh heavily on you.

“Right,” you say, clearing your throat. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Nav,” Tech calls.

You pause, turning, eyebrows furrowed in a silent question. Tech rifles through his pockets for a moment before producing a small, round object. He holds it out to you.

Surprise flits through you. “You kept it?”

In his hand is the cako pod, received from Suqu on Iridonia. Tentatively, you reach out to take it from Tech. The seed is warm in your grasp, and you almost swear you feel your heartbeat in your fingertips against the smooth surface.

Tech adjusts his goggles. “It did not feel right to hand over an object so important to you without you present.”

“Oh.”

He offers you a rare smile, his gaze somewhere left of your nose, and then gestures toward the city proper. “Comm if you get into trouble.”

“Me? Trouble?” You scoff. “Never.”

With Wrecker’s laugh echoing in your ears, you turn and trudge out of the spaceport. Around you, the sounds of mechanics and droids bantering provide a safe, familiar backdrop, the earthy smell of oil and rust in your nose. When you round the corner, the squad no longer in your line of sight, you slump. You rub a hand across your eyes, trying to scrub away the dry, aching feeling. You’re too kriffing tired for this.

At your back, so faint you nearly miss it, you almost sense a tug, an anchor, one that’s been missing since Iridonia. Not for the first time, you wonder if he feels it, too, this strange connection in the Force. Because that’s the only explanation there is for this feeling.

You’re not sure you really believe in the Force. A great, cosmic power that exists in everything around you all the time? Sounds more like gravity and less like some mystical energy field that controls the flow of the galaxy. Maybe they’re one in the same. Shaking your head, you force yourself out of your reverie, your feet carrying you on memory to the entrance of Cid’s Parlor.

Hesitating on the stoop, you fidget with the smooth pod in your hand. Agitation flares and itches under your skin now that you’re here. The stagnant midday heat does nothing to help; rather, the sweat beaded at your temple consumes your entire focus as it rolls down your face. You almost turn back. Almost.

But you can’t walk away without giving Cid a piece of your mind. You spent the silent hours in the cockpit formulating your words, trying to find the balance between not pushing too far and pushing just hard enough at the Trandoshan woman’s buttons. And besides, the squad needs credits. You can’t buy Mantell Mix for Omega on the way back without the money.

Mind made up, you step over the threshold.

The door swishes open. The barroom is nearly vacant, one lone patron hunched over the sticky countertop, snoring. Grimacing, you hurry to Cid’s back office. The door is ajar, light filling the hallway.

You don’t bother knocking, instead barging right in. Cid glances up at you—then does a double take, her reptilian eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Red,” she says. The note of skepticism in her voice sends a flash of grim pleasure through you.

“Cid,” you say. Forcing a tight smile, you continue, “Surprised to see me?”

She recovers quickly, her face falling blank. “Should I be?”

You shrug and, wordlessly, toss the cako pod onto her desk, scattering stacks of credits. The tiny metal pieces plink-plink-plink cheerfully where they tumble to the floor. Cid curses under her breath as she stoops to retrieve the credits.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“What you asked for.” The idea occurs to you to punch her snout, and you cross your arms to resist the temptation. “From Iridonia.”

“You ’spect a trophy or somethin’?” she says.

“I expect the payment we were owed.” Anger tightens in your chest, the smoldering embers anxious to leap into a frenzied blaze.

“You forget that you’re not the one getting paid, Red?”

“I’m only here to collect the payment on behalf of the others,” you say, with all the patience of an overtired adult speaking to a rowdy toddler.

She sneers. “Right. And where are they? They’ve been ignorin’ my holos.”

“Not here, obviously.”

You square your jaw as she appraises you. Your fists clench and unclench under your armpits, nearly hoping she refuses so that you have a reason to act out. If you’d been any less exhausted, you might be concerned at this sudden rise in temper in yourself; as it is, you’re tired, cranky, and ticked off that this woman gets to act like a god on high, meting out rewards and punishments as she sees fit.

She finally shakes her head and counts out credits. Only when the money is in your pack do you allow yourself to breathe normally.

Shooing you, she makes a pretense of ignoring you now that your business is concluded. You grit your teeth and take a step forward. Leaning over her desk, you brace your fists against the wooden surface, eyes narrow.

“I received your message, by the way,” you say, voice low, “loud and clear. Let me give you one of my own: if you even think of selling those boys out to the highest bidder, you better start sleeping with both eyes open, because you’ll never be able to outrun me.”

“Are you really threatening me, Red?” Her hands twitch toward the blaster you know is concealed beneath the desk.

You snort, standing up straight. “No. I’m making you a promise.”

With that, before you can dig the hole any deeper, you pivot on your heel and stride out of the office. As soon as you're out of her view, you dash for the door, energy thrumming in your veins. You don’t stop running until you're in the midst of the marketplace.

You skid to a halt and brace yourself on your knees. Gulping down lungfuls of air, you shake your head at yourself as the agitation finally subsides.

Maybe Hunter was right. Maybe you shouldn’t have gone to see Cid by yourself.

Whatever. What’s done is done. Straightening, you glance around, but no one seems to pay you any mind, the lunch rush crowd parting around your stationary form like water around a rock. At the other end of the market, the Imperial glowboards repeat propaganda about chain codes, “see something, say something,” and occasionally flash mugshots of galactic criminals. Your face is, surprisingly, not among the rotation.

With a sigh, you track down the Pantoran woman’s cart, the salty scent of Mantell Mix guiding the way.

As it turns out, Phee does have a mission for you, but also the promise of something else. Something different. Something better.

Arms crossed over your chest as you study the self-proclaimed liberator of ancient treasures, you lean back against the wall of the Marauder cockpit. You’ve only ever worked with Phee once before, on a larger group mission with Arien, Fod, and Vasi; it had gone...okay. While your impression of Phee isn’t the most flattering, you have to admit that she is charming, in her own way. You’re more than content to remain at the periphery of this conversation.

Hunter, to your surprise, disengages from the discussion; you’re not sure when it evolved into poorly veiled attempts at flirting between Tech and Phee, but by the expression on Hunter’s face, this isn’t the first time. Offering him a half smile, you pat the wall next to you.

“Credit for your thoughts?”

He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. Releasing a heavy breath, he drops his shoulder into the wall to your right, close enough you can feel the heat radiate off him.

“Out of the frying pan, into the fire,” he grumbles.

You chuckle. “I understand. She’s an acquired taste.”

“He’s clearly had no problems with her.”

Humming in thought, your eyes slide back to Tech and Phee. Her fingers brush over his bicep as they talk, and it’s only with tremendous effort that you keep a straight face as Tech seems to visibly short-circuit.

“If he’s happy,” you muse.

Hunter huffs. “Certainly a foreign concept for us.”

His eyes avoid yours. Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you reach out and grab his hand, squeezing gently. His head drops, chin resting on his armor chestplate, but he squeezes back. Your chest loosens as the worry that he’d pull away fades.

“You’ll get there, yeah?” you say.

“I just want Omega to get there,” he says, quiet, contemplative.

Omega’s and Wrecker’s bellowing laughter reaches you as if on cue, the pair having decided a while ago that mission planning wasn’t nearly as fun while still docked in Ord Mantell as in hyperspace. Besides, the Mantell Mix you brought back served to distract them in the first place. The corners of your mouth lift a fraction. Their boisterousness is infectious, crashing through the last bit of exhausted resolve you possess. You thread your fingers through Hunter’s.

He blinks at you, his expression curious, inquisitive, if a little guarded.

“So what is this mission, anyway?” you ask.

With a deep sigh, Hunter shakes his head, brow creasing once again. “Best I can figure, an old Seppie base taken over by the Empire. Low security, low risk, high reward. Some valuable intel stored on the databanks there.”

“Sounds too good to be true.”

“Probably is. Phee’s reputation for good tips is only marginally better than Cid’s.”

“And her conditions? What’s this ‘something better’ she won’t tell us?”

“Kark if I know,” Hunter mutters.

You idly rub your thumb on the back of his hand—his left one, where the skull tattoo continues in what you presume is a full skeleton. The ink is slightly raised, likely having healed improperly, but you like it. It gives his skin texture, character. There’s a scar there, too, faded and long since healed, a puckered tan line that breaks apart the inked metacarpals. Tracing it, you try to catch his gaze again.

“What else?” you ask.

“How did you know?” he says, a wry smile quirking up one side of his lips.

Stars, you think, heart skipping like a grade schooler with a crush. Deliberately ignoring the fact that he can certainly sense every physiological reaction in your body, you shrug.

“Can just tell with you.”

The line between his brows smooths, softens, as he regards you with his head cocked. For a moment, you forget where the conversation is heading, taken off guard by the open expression of emotion from Hunter. Warmth blooms in your chest and rises to your face, and you chuckle nervously.

“Seriously,” you say, “what else?”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

He clicks his tongue. “I want you to be bait so we can get the intel.”

The warmth of embarrassment smoldering in your chest crackles to a raging inferno of indignation. Thumb stilling in its movements, you force yourself to count to five before you attempt to answer.

“Why?”

“Those Imps get one look at your face and they’ll be falling over themselves to capture you for the bounty,” he says.

Kriff, you hate that his logic is sound. You also know that you owe the squad; this is practically the least you could do to start earning their trust again. With your free hand, you smooth down your tunic, adjust your utility belt, fidget with your holster straps.

“And if I actually get captured?” you say.

“We got you off Coruscant,” he says.

You snort. “Right. Where they weren’t expecting resistance.”

He has no response for that except to give you a tense, flat-lipped smile.

Sighing, you nod, knowing you really don’t have a choice. You refuse to sabotage yourself again, your place in this squad never needing to come under jeopardy again. With a gentle squeeze, Hunter releases your hand and pushes off the wall.

You grab his bicep, letting go as soon as he turns back to you. “We taking both ships?”

“Probably a smart idea,” Phee interjects. “Give them multiple targets to shoot at, divide their forces.”

“The Redthorn isn’t made for combat,” you say.

Phee’s warm eyes crinkle in a smile. “Then we’ll just have to do a damn good job, now won’t we?”

You sigh, conceding her point. “I’ll go get the kid.”

“I’ll come, too.” Hunter rests a hand on your lower back, scooping his helmet from one of the seats as you lead the way out of the cockpit. You can’t help the wide smile that breaks out across your face. Maybe things are going to work out easily.

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