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stealingpotatoes · 1 day ago

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Happy birthday!!! I love your one (1) piece of Bad Batch art and all the other wonderful Star Wars content you've created! You're incredible!

thank you! but let's make it one more for no reason: bad bitches, i gift you this

#the bad batch #hunter tbb #omega tbb #star wars #my doods #thanks for the ask!#askbox closed

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leapingbadger · 2 days ago

Text

The Phantom

Summary - Six months after Tantiss and Crosshair still struggles with nightmares. Hunter tries to help his Brother through his biggest hurt.

Word Count: 1403

Read on AO3

Hunter flew out of the fresher, wrapped a towel around his waist and grabbed his virboknife from the bundle of clothes on the floor.

He’d heard a loud scream and instinct had taken over. He stood in the middle of the common room, dripping onto the cold stone floor. He heard the soft breathing of Omega to his right, the booming snores of Wrecker in front of him. He pushed his hair back and out of his eyes and walked slowly to the room on the far left.

Nudging the door open, a thin beam of light illuminated his brother, crumpled on the hard floor under a handwoven blanket, instead of in his lofted bed. He was restless, extremities shifting and jerking this way and that. Batcher must be in Omega’s room otherwise she would already be at work, calming him.

“Mayday” Crosshair cried into the dark.

Hunter put his weapon down on the arm of the couch and slowly pushed his way inside the blackness of the room.

“Cross?” Hunter whispered, hoping not to alarm the sniper. There was no response. He scratched his beard and tried again, a little louder, “Cross? you, okay?”

Hunter was next to him now, knelt down at his brother’s side, hand tentatively hovering over his shoulder, not sure whether to wake him or let the nightmare pass. He could hear Crosshair’s heart beating rapidly in his chest, he could have been running with the speed of it. He jerked again, left arm flying up and almost smacking Hunter in the face.

Hunter shook his brother gently on the shoulder, “Crosshair, it’s me. Wake up. It’s just a nightmare. You’re safe.”

All of Crosshair’s limbs moved at once as he threw himself into a sitting position. Hunter held his face level with his brother’s, his hand holding on to his shoulder to steady him.

“Mayday?” Crosshair asked, heavily lidded eyes struggling to focus. Tears glistened on his cheeks in the dim lights of Pabu through the window and Hunter felt his stomach clench. It had been one of those nightmares.

“It’s me, Cross. It’s Hunter.” He said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.

Hunter saw Crosshair’s eyes finally come into focus and rest on his face. He sat up straighter, pushing his brother’s hands off his shoulder as he did so.

“Hunter…why are you wet?”

“I was in the fresher; you were having a nightmare.”

“I’m aware.” Crosshair said witheringly.

His eyes had narrowed into the characteristic scowl, his lips pressed into a thin line. All that was missing was a toothpick, Hunter thought.

“Go dry off, Hunter. I’m fine”

Hunter hesitated but nodded and made his way to the door. “I’m here. If you want to talk about it.”

Crosshair laid back down on the floor, pulling the blanket over his head, obscuring him from his brother’s view.

***

Hunter sat at the small kitchen table, the warm Pabu sun streaming through the windows. The front door was propped open, letting the comforting breeze and occasional moon-yo in. He swirled his hot caf once before taking a sip. It was a habit he’d picked up long ago that had become a tradition with every cup. He felt the bitter liquid scorch his throat as he swallowed.

He looked down at Tech’s old datapad, casually scrolling the latest news of the galaxy.

“Morning” he said.

A few seconds passed before Crosshair walked over the threshold, “you know I hate it when you do that,” he said pausing in the doorway as he looked at his brother. “You shaved.”

Hunter ran his hand over his jawline and smiled, “It was getting itchy.”

Crosshair narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything as he moved further into the kitchen to prepare a cup of tea.

Hunter turned back to the datapad. “Wanna talk about it?” He asked, hoping this time would be different. That six months on from Tantiss Crosshair would finally be able to discuss his invisible wounds.

Perhaps Omega was a better person to try to get through to Crosshair, Hunter knew she had him wrapped around her finger, like she did the rest of them. But even she had failed to unlock the secrets of the nightmares.

“Where are Omega and Wrecker?” Crosshair asked, ignoring the question as usual.

“Fishing,” Hunter grunted.

Crosshair sat down opposite Hunter, shoving a small pink cake from the market in his mouth. He took a sip of tea to wash it down.

“Why did you shave?” Crosshair asked Hunter again.

“I told you, too itchy.” Hunter replied, not raising his eyes to meet his brother’s.

Crosshair sighed and leaned back in his chair with a creak, “you’re a terrible liar, Hunter.”

“Why does it matter?” Hunter asked, pressing a button on the datapad and putting it down.

They were at a stalemate, as usual. Hunter knew Crosshair. Knew that whatever trauma and loss he’d suffered would be discussed when he was ready and not a second before. And Crosshair must have known that Hunter wasn’t going to pry. Forcing information out of someone rarely had the anticipated consequences, even if the intentions were noble.

As always, Crosshair liked to subvert Hunter’s expectations.

“Mayday,” he croaked into the quiet, sunny kitchen as though fearful the walls would hear.

Hunter kept his eyes low, not wanting to intrude but unable to fully look away. Crosshair’s face had twisted into a pained expression, as though every piece of him was desperately trying to hold itself together. All the color seemed to drain out of his face. His chestnut eyes were wide but dimming to the color of mud with sadness. The tattoo over his right eye, usually scrunched, was stretched, a rare full glimpse of then namesake mark.

“He saved my life on Barton IV. Twice. He…you…you look like him sometimes, in the dark.”

Hunter nodded his understanding. “He had a beard,” Hunter said into the gaping silence. It wasn’t a question. As soon as he had let his facial hair grow, Crosshair had had a visceral reaction, like he’d seen a ghost.

“Uhuh.” Crosshair said quietly. He held his tea close to him in both hands, real and prosthetic, as though hoping the warm liquid would scare off the chill of the ice planet that he had never fully left.

Hunter wanted to ask so many questions, find out what happened, every loss, every terrible thing. The more information he gathered the more he would be able to help. His tactical mind whirred, desperate for an explanation, for a solution. But he held his tongue.

“The helmet was his.” Hunter stated. He remembered watching Crosshair, his broken brother, methodically lay out helmet after helmet on the abandoned imperial crates in that frozen outpost.

Crosshair nodded but didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak, Hunter realized.

“I didn’t know what it meant, for you to go back there. I’m sorry I was so…”

“Hostile?” Crosshair supplied.

“Confrontational.” Hunter said seriously.

A small smile tickled the corner of Crosshair’s lips. Hunter let out a sigh.

“Is there anything I can do? Apart from shaving more often?

Crosshair shook his head, holding the warm cup up to his heart as though trying to help it thaw. They had come a long way since Barton IV as a family, as brothers, but Hunter knew there was more to discuss, more to process, when they were ready.

“Understood” Hunter said before standing up and placing a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Thanks, Cross.”

“For what?”

“Helping me understand.” He said quietly.

His brother nodded. It may have been Hunter’s imagination, but Crosshair’s shoulders were slumped a little less. With every revelation about his time with the Empire he was able to rise above the weight of it. One day he would walk tall again.

Hunter crossed to the far cabinet for a bottle of spirit. Back at the table he took the cup of tea from Crosshair’s hands, replacing it with a large glass of amber liquid.

“What’s this for?”

Hunter poured his own glass and raised his hand, “For Mayday,” he said gruffly.

Crosshair’s voice caught in his throat. “Mayday,” he said raising the glass is his prosthetic hand, it quivered a little, sending a splash of spirit onto the table. Hunter pretended not to notice. They clinked the glasses together and Hunter watched his brother down the drink in one shot and promptly followed suit.