#Hunter has zero context for what Crosshair has gone through

[smolbean-17]

How have we forgotten that Crosshair almost killed Hunter while freed from the chip’s influence?

“Hunter never wanted to go back for Crosshair, the audacityyy!”

Who in their right mind would want to go back for a sibling who tried to stab them to death. Honestly. In what real world scenario would that actually happen.

[ilcuoreardendo-fic]

Staring Contest

When you walk into the barracks to ask sergeant Hunter about some requisitions to transfer gear from the flagship Phalanx to the Marauder, the room, which had been eerily quiet, erupts in a raucous mixture of jeers and cheers, the sound practically vibrating the walls.

All in good fun. You can feel that in the Force. The battle had gone well and the troops were taking a moment to wind down from the adrenaline. Though through what means, you weren't entirely sure.

Looking toward the center of the room, you watch Deck shake his head and push away from a stack of crates set between him and the Bad Batch's sniper, introduced to you as Crosshair, who smirks like a tooka who's just gotten into the cream.

Next to you, Cerrix passes a couple of cred chips to Tech, who slips them into one of the many pouches on his belt, touches a forefinger to the bridge of his goggles, then swipes something on his datapad.

"That's five, zero," Tech says. "Who's next?"

From somewhere in the crowd of 7th Legion troopers, you hear an eager shout of "The commander!" followed by a wave of murmured agreement.

Every face in the room turns to you and if you were any less sure of yourself, you might find that intimidating.

Instead, you glance at Cerrix for an explanation. "What's going on?"

Cerrix rolls his eyes. "One di'kut bet another di'kut he couldn't out stare Crosshair and it's become a whole thing. You could win us back some money, commander..." Cerrix tone turns hopeful.

"Ha! These guys need all the help they can get." The boisterous voice you recognize as Wrecker's.

You look to Crosshair, who stands, arms crossed, rolling a toothpick slowly between his lips, sizing you up. His eyes are narrowed, calculating and you can practically feel the weight of his gaze on your skin. Something in it tweaks your competitive side.

"Hm." You hand your datapad to a grinning Cerrix. "Okay. I can do that," you say, as you head toward Crosshair, your men parting around you like water as you step up to the crates.

You take a cleansing breathe, letting it out in a soft chuckle as A'den, who you're half surprised to see in the crowd, leans close, whispers in your ear, "Get him, commander," before moving to hold up a wall, letting the rest of his brothers crowd in around you.

"Right," says Cerrix, "I've got eyes on Crosshair. Who's got the commander?"

"I do," the voice is warm and smokey. Sergeant Hunter; after your first meeting, you'd recognize his voice anywhere. He comes into view, standing just behind Crosshair, where he can watch your face throughout the contest. He gives the tiniest nod of his head.

"Okay," Cerrix continues, "first one to blink or look away loses. Draw is at four minutes on the timer." Cerrix motions to Tech, who taps his datapad and gives a thumbs up.

"No Force tricks," rasps Crosshair.

You smile. "I don't need Force tricks. Tech, start the clock."

And so it begins.

The weight you felt from his gaze when you were across the room is nothing compared to what you feel now, staring directly into Crosshair's eyes. His focus is pointed. When he's not tense or scowling, Crosshair's eyes take on a heavy lidded quality that seem to make the color of them darker, deeper.

All the clones have brown eyes.

And you've stared into many sets of them in many different contexts. Issuing orders before leaving for battle. Listening to stories in the mess or at 79's when you've been invited along. Sitting at bedsides in Med Bay. In dark corners of the ship, telling someone their brother didn't make it back. In the middle of firefights, choking on dust and wrapping the Force around you and the clones, who you can do nothing for except hold their hands...

But this is new. Different.

The last time you stared into someone's eyes this closely, for this long, they had been a lover.

With a soft sigh, you keep eye contact but let your vision take in the full, slightly out of focus, expanse of Crosshair's face.

He has the high cheekbones that all clones share, but they're more pronounced on his lean face. His jawline is narrow, chin strong. His lips are thin and between them he holds the ever captive toothpick.

You catch a teasing flash of his tongue as the toothpick rolls from one side of his mouth to the other.

It gives you an idea. You said you didn't need Force tricks. You never said you'd play fair.

You bring your full attention back to his eyes, notice one of his eyebrows has drawn up; it doesn't take the Force to know he's been examining you in much the same way.

Making sure to keep eye contact, you lean forward, place your left elbow on the stack of crates and rest your chin on your curled knuckles.

Curiosity flares in Crosshair's eyes, but he stays focused. Sharp. Assessing.

Until you slowly part your lips, as if you're about the speak. Instead of words, you let the tip of your tongue play along the inside edge of your lower lip and watch the subtle widening of his eyes. You can feel the control he exerts over himself to not break eye contact to look fully at your mouth.

You reach out with your free hand — slowly; he could stop you if he wanted to — and pluck the toothpick from his mouth. His lips part, you hear the slightest uptick of his breathing.

There's a low rumble throughout the room. Hushed conversation. Maybe constrained laughter.

You flip the toothpick, bring the end of it that had been between Crosshair's lips to the center of your own.

Your tongue slips out, curls around it and you tuck it up against the corner of your mouth with a sly smile that you know reaches your eyes.

Crosshair blinks.

Cerrix cry is instantaneous. "The commander wins!"

"Secret weapon?" Hunter says to him.

"We do tend to bring her out when we really need the win, on the battlefield or off."

You cast a sidelong look at Cerrix, one eyebrow raised. He doesn't even have the decency to look cowed.

You turn back Crosshair, who's arms remain crossed over his chest. His chin is tucked. He's still watching you.

You lean in close, balanced against the crates. "I told you I didn't need Force tricks."

"Perhaps," he reaches out, forefinger under your chin, thumb pressing into the sensitive skin just below your lip where his toothpick still sits, "we need a rematch. Without an audience."

I...haven't done a reader insert ficlet in a long time and never for Star Wars.

But I just had this idea bubble up at random. It was an okay word workout and it let me think more about Crosshair's face. So, win.