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staycalmandhugaclone · 1 year

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I saw one of your story posts mentioning you might take writing requests for trauma comfort... I've been struggling to write this story myself, and I'm looking for a particular flavor of comfort story.

Everyone seems to always latch on to how Hunter is so perceptive and notices things... but there's things he doesn't notice, even with all his sensitive senses. Particularly when there's not an actual immediate danger with a straightforward solution of "shoot it dead" or "talk to it"

Would you be willing to write something where Crosshair is the one to observe, first notice, and recognize tbe fact their new female member of the team, despite being a very active useful member, is tip-toeing around under the weight of past traumas? Then goes out of his way to take care of someone just as stubborn as he is.

I used to live with abusive housemates. While they weren't physically abusive, they were very creative in every other way of hurting their resident empath and later, attacking my whole family. It took me months after we finally kicked them out, for me to realize that i was literally tip-toeing in my own house afraid to make any noise and break tbe quiet, because i used to get badly berated for even small things like rolling in my office chair to my secobd desk while i did filing and paperwork. I didn't sing or play music for a long time, and i still find myself struggling to talk to people.

I like the idea that Crosshair would be the first to recognize long term behavioral patterns while Hunter is very fast in the uptake with someone who's state has changed in the moment.

You're under no obligation to settle this, of course, so please don't feel pressured! I just love the detailed and thoughtful, realistic way you handle writing about things like this.

My sweet darling, I am so sorry it's taken me so long to finish this. Your request became incredibly personal to me, and I both found myself inspired and struggling with how to respond! I'm honored you came to me with this request - I know how hard it is to admit to being hurt like that. Please be kind to yourself as you heal and know that I'm always happy to offer whatever support I can!

Sharp Eyes, Gentle Hands

Warnings: reference to past emotional abuse, fantasy profanity

WC: 2,253

The silence following the gentle hum of the ramp closing left me sinking beneath a deep sigh of relief. Wrecker had sought me out to say goodbye, and I’d peaked from the little kitchenette of the Marauder in time to wave to Hunter and Echo, but Tech and Crosshair were already out of sight. Still, I found myself treading lightly about the ship as I restocked supplies, updated the inventory manifest, and addressed minor maintenance needs that didn’t warrant Tech’s expertise.

This was the beginning of my second three-month tour with Clone Force 99. I’d been assigned to them as something of a secretary in the hopes of improving their less than ideal track record of finishing their paperwork, but had gradually taken on additional small tasks as time passed. While skeptical at first, the boys seemed to have begun warming to my presence, and I was too eager to maintain that trend, even if I was still only trusted to guard the ship during actual missions.

At present, that extra task consisted of reattaching a cabinet door in the storage room that Wrecker had been a bit too forceful with. After muscling it back into its original shape – mostly – all that was left was to screw it back in. I was so caught up in my work, I barely noticed the hum resonate through my chest, nor the moment that tone gradually gave way to murmured words until, just as I stepped back to appreciate my work, I found myself shamelessly singing aloud.

Satisfied, I gathered the tools and headed into the cockpit to return them. It wasn’t until the shouted gasp tore from my throat, body shying back so violently that I nearly slammed into the wall that I even noticed him. Crosshair wordless lifted an eyebrow at my reaction before returning his attention to the helmet in his hands, fingers skillfully toying with the internal gages as though nothing had happened.

“Um, sorry I-I didn’t realize you were still here.” The apology clawed stiffly up my throat, fire burning across my face. He didn’t bother looking at me as he merely responded with a disinterested grunt. Teeth gnawing against the inside of my lips as I vainly willed my heart to ease its panicked pace, I rushed to quietly place the tools back in Tech’s storage, shoulders tucking firmly about my chest.

“Why do you do that?” The words slipped from his lips almost as though he was talking to himself instead of me, but I balked at the silence that followed, fingers shifting nervously at my sides.

“Wh… do what?” The beginnings of an apology sat like poison atop my tongue, demanding to be voiced in the futile hope that it might defuse whatever confrontation was to come.

“If you’re that scared of us, why did you stay?” His arms crossed his chest, confusion just breaching the innate impatience in those sharp eyes.

“I-I’m not… um, I’m sorry you thought that, but I promise I’m not-” My words died the instant he stood from the chair, helmet laid forgotten atop the seat. My gaze instantly darted to the worn metal beneath us as that too-familiar dread locked around my chest, breaths carefully shallow, silent, lest even that somehow worsen whatever offence I’d already made. But he said nothing in the long seconds that followed, and, hesitantly, I stole a timid glance at him. His brow was cocked, but, still, he made no effort to lash out or reprimand me, merely waited for me to finally grasp his point, and my heart dropped.

“No - I’m sorry; it’s not…” The flurry of excuses tangled over my lips, the beginnings of a tremble just beginning to creep over me. “I’m not… I’m not afraid of you, I’m just… trying to stay out of the way.” I assured him, but he merely rolled his toothpick to the other side of his mouth, those frightfully intense eyes burring into me.

“You practically flatten yourself against the wall when we walk too close to you. You stopped eating the yellow ration bars after Wrecker mentioned they’re Hunter’s favorite, even though they’re your favorite, too. I don’t think you’ve ever instigated a single conversation unless it was to update a report, and even then you act like…” His teeth ground together, words suddenly falling silent. I’d felt myself sinking beneath every wretched observation, shoulders bunching around me, expression carefully blank; waiting.

“Look, I’m not…” When I risked another fleeting look up to him, I was shocked to see his glare turned pointedly away from me, jaw shifting stiffly around unspoken words. “You don’t need to… hide every time we’re in the same room.” The discomfort in the softness he was trying to force into his voice was obvious, but the simple fact that he was making an attempt left me speechless.

“Kriff, I don’t even know what I said that made you so damn timid.” A touch of that impatience returned, fingers snatching the toothpick from his lips, but I knew it wasn’t directed at me, and that made the guilt stirring in my chest all the more prominent.

“It… it wasn’t…” My hands drew together in front of me, thumb absently picking at my nails. “My-my last crew was… pretty strict with me.” I barely breathed the excuse, unable to risk meeting his eyes. “I just… I didn’t want to cause trouble here, too.�� He leaned absently against the back of the co-pilot chair, watching me with a silence that left my skin crawling.

“You realize we share living space with Wrecker?” The skepticism in his blank statement wrenched a burst of laughter from me before I could rein it back, teeth clicking together even as my lips still pulled up into a small smile. For the briefest moment, something like relief seemed to flash through his eyes, and a sliver of that tension slipped from my shoulders.

“We’re not regs.” He continued dismissively. “Whatever osik they pulled with you isn’t how we operate here.”

“It wasn’t regs.” I felt myself tense for some reprimand in the face of my quiet correction, but he didn’t move, gaze watching me silently; waiting. “I was assigned to a mercenary battalion before this.” His head tilted back slightly, eyes narrowing. “That’s part of the reason I ended up here: I requested an assignment with a clone squad, but the regs don’t usually work with freelancers, so…” I motioned subtly toward him, shoulders drawing tight into my chest.

Crosshair was silent for a long moment, expression painfully unchanged. My mind raced for some way to anticipate what he was thinking – was he annoyed to learn the reason I’d ended up with them? Was he enraged that I feared the same treatment from his brothers that I’d received from the mercs? Was he completely indifferent?

Movements unrushed, void of the impatience I’d expected, he retrieved his helmet and started toward the ladder.

“Gonna do a patrol.” He explained, slipping on the bucket. “I’ll let you know when I’m back.” I couldn’t begin to fight the shock from my eyes, the silent gasp from my lips, immediately aware of his unspoken offer: he was giving me space; allowing me a moment to collect myself in the comfort of isolation… and I didn’t have to fret over not realizing when he returned…

“You should sing more often – Echo and Wrecker like that sort of thing.” Again, I found myself utterly frozen, jaw shifting uselessly around words I couldn’t begin to form, but he didn’t wait for a response. With a few swift movements, he was gone.

Things changed after that. Not with any grand or outwardly notable gestures, but it seemed to shift the very dynamic of the squad in the most subtle ways. It started with caf.

It was hardly unusual for the sniper to be the last to force himself into the kitchenette to join us, jaw ground against the early morning grogginess. I was just finishing the breakfast scramble as he trudged to the caf machine. Without a word, he set a steaming cup on the counter beside me before taking a seat with his brothers. I stared blankly at it for a moment, only then realizing that I’d fallen into the habit of waiting for the others to get their own cups before getting some for myself. When I stole a brief glance toward him, he showed no indication that he’d done anything abnormal, head tilted back against his chair with his eyes closed as though he might steal even a few seconds’ more sleep.

Then it was the arguing. Echo and Tech’s banter rarely escalated, but when it did, neither were innocent of resorting to shouting on occasion. I couldn’t remember what had prompted the latest disagreement, but their voices boomed throughout the entirety of the Marauder until even Hunter stepped in in a futile attempt to silence them. I’d made the mistake of treading into the cockpit just as things between them began to grow heated intending to merely return Echo’s power calibrator and quickly found myself frozen in the corner, waiting for a safe moment that wasn’t soon to come.

Long after the Sergeant had joined the fray, succeeding only in adding to the chaotic flurry of raised voices, Crosshair stormed down the ladder, brows pinched and lips wrenched into a scowl, but then he saw me, sharp eyes instantly noting the tool clutched in my grasp. Ignoring his brothers, he merely held his hand out to me, motioning for the device. I tried not to let him see the slight tremor in my limbs as I hesitantly placed it in his waiting palm. Saying nothing, he merely nodded toward the ladder. I was halfway through the porthole when I heard the loud thud followed by a shocked cry of pain, and, in the next breath: silence.

That was the last time any of them got into a shouting fit like that around me. Twice, just as tensions were beginning to rise, Hunter went so far as to conveniently find a reason to summon me. It didn’t take long to realize he’d caught on and was too willing to use my presence as an indirect means of quelling tempers. The second time, he shot me a knowing wink, and I found myself biting my lips against the fit of quiet laughter.

When we found a rare moment of calm, Crosshair pressed things a bit further. A fire crackled in the stillness. We didn’t have to return to Kamino for a few days, so we made camp beside a small lake, secluded in a forgiving wilderness. I barely noticed the lithe man lean toward Wrecker, lips shifting almost silently, but then his brother’s eyes shot open, excitement lighting his face.

“You can sing?!” My heart dropped, body instantly going stiff.

“…uh…” Caught, I could only stare at him in shock, gaze darting briefly to see the subtle smirk on the Sniper’s lips before the towering clone was talking once more, pleading.

“Will you sing somethin’?! We hardly ever get to hear music!” The refusal clawed at my throat, aghast at even the thought of denying the innocent delight in his request.

“Wrecker.” The warning in Hunter’s voice was enough to dampen the large man’s glee, and I found myself distraught to see his smile fade.

“M… maybe just one.” I agreed nervously, and the thrilled gasp it earned was nearly enough to ease the frantic racing of my heart. Echo and Tech glanced up curiously, and I had to pointedly ignore the feeling of everyone’s eyes watching me.

The first words left in something nearer to a whisper than a melody, but the hint of pride just threatening to shine in Crosshair’s gaze emboldened me in a way I would never have expected. By the second verse, I left the lyrics dance over my lips. My cheeks were still flushed, blood still pounding through my ears, but I couldn’t dismiss the simple joy as I took in the wonder in Wrecker’s face, Hunter’s quiet smile, Tech’s datapad lying forgotten beside him.

In the days that followed, I’d caught most of them occasionally humming the tune, and, more than once, found myself joining them with a shy grin.

That innate need to tuck into the wall as we passed each other slowly began to fade, but the next few times it happened with Crosshair, he wordlessly touched his hand to my arm and guided me upright. It was never a quick movement, the gentle pressure an invitation instead of an order, and each time, I found my heart racing long after he’d left.

After several weeks of those quiet moments, I intentionally bumped his shoulder with mine in a moment of frightful bravery. The look of pure shock in his suddenly wide eyes nearly sent me fleeing, certain I’d made a terrible mistake, but then his lips curled into grin, breath catching in a silent chuckle. His hand reached up to carefully ruffle my hair before he continued on his way.

It wasn’t perfect. I still found myself unable to find my voice unless someone else spoke first; felt that panicked dread if I set something down too loudly or made simple mistakes, but that fear faded quicker, my responses felt a little less meek as they drew me into quiet conversations more often. It wasn’t perfect, but the patience and kindness they offered allowed me to take those first steps toward making it better.

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