EchoLeftFootLicker&Tickler｡*･

You hum. “Since I was twelve.”

“You’ve had these the whole time?”

The sheer offense in his voice made you laugh.

Rex immediately thought they were adorable.

He wasn’t loud about it, but his ears turned pink.

“They suit you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Cue him staring so openly that you had to wave a hand in front of his face.

“Captain, you still with us?”

“Sorry.”

He was not sorry.

From then on, he’d push them back up your nose whenever they slipped.

Which somehow became his thing.

Rex also became your designated glasses finder.

You could swear he possessed Force powers.

“Rex, where are my—”

“Nightstand. Under your datapad.”

“How?”

“I notice these things.”

Once he tried them on. Immediate regret.

“Maker.”

“Everything blurry?”

“Everything’s wrong.”

You nearly choked laughing.

But his favorite sight?

You reading while absentmindedly chewing your lip, glasses slipping down your nose.

Rex’s heart practically stopped every time.

He’d just smile to himself and think, Yep, I’m done for.

Cody

Cody’s reaction is subtle. Which is exactly why it’s so funny.

You’d wandered into his office wearing your glasses instead of your contacts, carrying two mugs of caf.

Cody looked up and froze. But then quickly smiled.

Not his polite Commander smile. His soft smile.

The one reserved exclusively for you.

“Well.”

“Well what?”

“Nothing.”

Which meant everything.

“Cody.”

“They’re cute.”

“Cute?”

“Very cute.”

Cody absolutely melts whenever you absentmindedly push them up your nose.

He finds it unfairly attractive.

Doesn’t know why. Doesn’t care.

One time you misplaced them. And before you’d even finished speaking, “They’re beside the bunk.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you’ve lost them three times this week.”

“That’s concerning.”

“That’s why I keep track.”

He refers to them as “essential equipment.”

If they fog up when you laugh, Cody smiles like he’s won the lottery.

Waxer and Boil notice too.

“Commander’s gone soft.”

“Look at him smiling.”

Cody rolls his eyes, “I can hear both of you.”

You once caught him trying your glasses on.

“Cody!”

“Everything’s terrible.”

“Give those back.”

“How do you see?”

You roll your eyes, “They are made specifically for me.”

He shook his head. “Incredible.”

Then kissed your forehead and handed them back.

“Still cute.”

Wolffe

Wolffe’s first reaction? Silence. Dangerous silence.

You walked into the room wearing your glasses while reading a datapad.

Wolffe stared.

You looked up. He was still staring. “Wolffe?”

“Hm.”

“Everything alright?”

“Those are new.”

“No, I’ve just ran out of contacts.”

He pauses, registering your words before speaking. “Keep ’em.”

“What?”

He raised an eyebrow as if to say you heard me.

“Aww, do you like them?”

Wolffe grunted. Which meant yes.

Sinker and Boost exchanged knowing looks.

Wolffe glared them both into another galaxy.

He secretly adored the sight of you peering over the top of the frames.

One evening you did exactly that.

“Can you hand me that datapad?”

Wolffe forgot what language was.

“Wolffe?”

He groaned. “Sweetheart.”

“Yes?”

“You know what you’re doing.”

“Doing what?”

“That look.”

“What look?”

“The one.”

A very helpful explanation.

Later, while you were reading in bed, he rested an arm around your waist.

Looked down and saw your glasses beginning to slip down your nose.

“Cute.”

“Cute?”

“Mm.”

Then, in that low voice, “Don’t take offense, baby, but I’m suddenly understanding a few fantasies.”

You nearly fell off the bed.

Wolffe let out a rare laugh, “Stars, your face.”

But he had no regrets.

Fives

Fives nearly walked into a door.

He spotted you wearing your glasses and forgot basic motor functions.

“Whoa.”

“What?”

“Baby.”

“What?”

“You’ve been hiding these?”

“They’re just glasses.”

“And you’ve hidden them.”

He acted personally betrayed. “Trust issues. I have trust issues now.”

You laughed.

Fives pointed dramatically. “Those make you look smart.”

“I am smart.”

“Exactly. That’s what scares me.”

The grin he gave you should’ve been illegal. “You look like you’re about to explain advanced astrophysics while telling me I’m wrong.”

“And?”

“It would be hot.”

One day you were reading while wearing an oversized sweater, your glasses sliding down your nose.

Fives stopped mid-conversation with Echo. “Maker help me.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Echo knew that tone, Echo sighed. “Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“Yet.”

Fives grinned. “Baby, if you keep looking at me over those glasses like that, I’m not going to be able to control myself.”

Echo nearly threw a datapad at him. “Fives!”

Fives spent the next week asking you, “Can I get some private tutoring?”

He had zero shame.

Echo

Echo simply blinked at you, then smiled. And absolutely melted.

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“You have glasses.”

“Good observation.”

He laughed. “They look nice.”

Echo genuinely thought they made you look sweet.

But he also found them fascinating “How strong are they?”

“Pretty strong.”

“Interesting.”

“Echo, don’t analyse my eyeballs.”

“No promises.”

He loved removing them when you fell asleep. Carefully folding them and setting them somewhere safe.

Like they were precious.

Because they belonged to you.

Rex caught him doing it.

“You know they’re not going to break.”

Echo gave him a look. “They’re important.”

“Right.”

Echo became mildly offended when you left them lying around.

“Sweetheart!”

“What?”

“You can’t leave them under a blanket!”

“You found them in one piece, didn’t you?”

“That’s not the point.”

He worried about scratches. More than you did.

One night you asked, “You really like them?”

Echo smiled and pressed a kiss to your temple. “I like you.”

“Smooth.”

“I learned from Fives.”

“That’s a terrifying sentence.”

Echo laughed for a solid minute.

Fox

Fox’s first reaction was unfortunately a laugh. Not because the glasses looked funny.

Quite the opposite.

He just genuinely hadn’t expected them.

You stepped into his office wearing them while searching through a datapad.

Fox looked up. Did a double take and promptly snorted into his caf.

“Fox!”

“Sorry.”

He was not sorry.

“You’re laughing at me?”

“No, no.”

Another smile. “You just surprised me.”

“They’re just my glasses.”

“They’re cute glasses.”

Fox then discovered an entirely new form of entertainment.

Every time you squinted at something “Vision assistance available upon request.”

“Fox.”

“Premium package includes hand-holding.”

“Fox.”

Thorn overheard and almost died laughing. “Commander, are you flirting?”

“No.”

“That’s definitely flirting.”

Fox denied everything, but failed. Miserably.

You caught him trying your glasses on once.

He immediately regretted it. “Maker.”

But his favorite thing?

Seeing you reading reports with sleepy eyes and messy hair.

Fox would just stand there smiling.

Thorn walked in once. “Commander?”

“Hm?”

“You’ve been staring for five minutes.”

Fox didn’t even look away. “I know.”

Poor man had it bad.

Mayday

Mayday looked up from cleaning his rifle.

Then stopped, slowly lowered it and smiled. “Well now.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Which meant everything. “May.”

“Sweetheart, those are adorable.”

He said it so casually. Like he wasn’t making you blush.

Mayday absolutely loved your glasses.

Especially because you wore them when you were relaxed.

Which meant cozy evenings together. Blankets, books, warm caf, and you.

One evening you fell asleep sitting beside him. Your glasses were slightly crooked. Your book slipping from your hand.

Mayday’s heart practically exploded.

“Stars above.”

“Hm, May?”

“Go back to sleep, baby.”

“You said something.”

“Just wondering if the galaxy’s trying to kill me.”

“What?”

“You look too cute.”

He gently removed your glasses, folded them carefully and kissed your forehead. “Sleep, cyare.”

Sometimes he’d deliberately put them on upside down. Just to make you laugh.

“Mayday!”

“What?”

“Those aren’t yours.”

“I know.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Yet you love me.”

Unfortunately, he was right.

Gregor

Gregor’s brain blue-screened. Completely.

You walked into the room wearing your glasses.

Gregor stared. Then grinned. “Secret glasses!”

“They’re not secret.”

“They were secret to me!”

He sounded betrayed. Which made it ten times funnier.

Gregor immediately wanted to try them.

“Gregor, no.”

“Gregor, yes.”

“You’ll hate it.”

“I fear nothing.”

He put them on and immediately chaos ensued.

“Woah!”

He stumbled sideways and nearly tripped over a chair.

“The room moved!”

“I warned you!”

He still insisted they were worth trying.

Gregor loved the way you looked in them.

Especially when you concentrated.

Lip between your teeth, brows furrowed, glasses sliding down your nose.

He thought it was unfairly cute.

Rex once found him smiling like an idiot.

“Something funny?”

Gregor pointed. “Look.”

“Gregor, they’re reading.”

“I know.”

“And?”

Gregor sighed dreamily. “Isn’t love amazing?”

Rex walked away immediately.

Gregor didn’t care. He was too busy staring at you with heart eyes.

And honestly?

Everyone in the room knew. Including you.

Which was exactly how Gregor liked it.

Rex:

The door slid open and Rex stepped in, his footsteps a weary drag that immediately told you something was wrong. Not the usual exhaustion after a long campaign; this felt more careful, or intentional maybe. Your head snapped up from the datapad in your lap just in time to see him straighten from the doorway with obvious effort.

"Rex," you said, voice tinged with worry as you started to stand up.

"I'm fine," he answered instantly before you could ask. He gave you a tired little half-smile and your eye caught on some faint bruising spreading along his jaw, and your stomach twisted. "It looks worse than it is. Just some bruised ribs and a little concussion. Kix patched me up already."

You balked at him, eyes going wide. "Rex. Bruised ribs? A concussion? That is not 'fine'." You crossed the room before he could protest, hands immediately finding his face. Your thumb brushed over the darkening bruises along his jaw and Rex melted so fast it made your chest ache, the tension leaving his shoulders.

His eyes slid shut briefly. "Missed you." The words came out quiet, and you softened despite the concern still etched over your features. You sighed faintly, torn between admonishing him for trying to play off his injury and just pulling him into your arms and taking care of him. Affection won over in the end, and you leaned in to kiss him gently. Rex answered immediately, one hand settling at your waist while the other braced against the wall beside him like he didn't trust his balance yet.

"You should be resting. Preferably in a medbay," you whispered pointedly against his mouth.

"I'm feeling better."

"I doubt that. You walked here in full armor. I'm surprised you're even upright."

"I wanted to see you."

You exhaled, almost a sigh, and kissed him again, slower this time. He exhaled a little breath against your mouth too, relieved and exhausted. Your fingers skimmed the edge of his chestplate, finding the clasps to take it off. Rex flinched slightly and then stiffened.

"It doesn't hurt that bad," he mumbled preemptively.

"Liar."

He huffed faintly, though the corner of his mouth did quirk up just the faintest little bit. You began removing pieces of his armor one by one while Rex stood there letting you fuss over him, his own hands fumbling with some of the clasps, faint embarrassment coloring his expression.

"You're going to bed," you informed him once his armor was stripped off, pecking his lips one more time before gripping his wrist and tugging him towards the bed. Rex groaned faintly and tugged you back against him, kissing you once more, slower, like making sure you did it properly.

"Mhm. Yes, cyare."

Fives:

Fives was laughing when you spotted him. Not normal laughing, but the slightly manic, breathless kind that came after too much adrenaline. The hangar was chaos around him with troopers moving equipment and medics shouting across stretchers. Fives stood right in the middle of it, blood smeared down the side of his armor. Your stomach dropped.

"Fives," you called, moving towards him.

His head snapped toward your voice immediately, his face lighting up. "There you are." He crossed the distance fast despite the noticeable hitch in his movement. "Hey, c'mere."

Before you could protest, his arms were wrapping around you tightly. The plastoid armor dug into your skin, and beneath it, you could feel him shaking, just little tremors running through him. You pried yourself back to look at him properly, taking in the rough field bandages, his sweat-damp hair, the fresh cut along the side of his neck. "How bad are you hurt?" you asked worriedly.

"Nothing major," he assured you instantly. "Just caught some shrapnel."

"Kriff, Fives--"

"I'm serious." He managed a little smile, too fast. "You should've seen the other guy." The joke fell flat when he winced halfway through it, and your expression hardened a little. He noticed immediately and shook his head. "Don't give me that look."

"What look?"

"The one where you're realizing I'm an idiot."

"You are an idiot. Fives, you need to get to the medbay."

He groaned faintly, leaning in to press his face against your neck as he tugged you back against him. "This first."

Your hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, unsure where you could even touch him since you weren't even sure how badly he was injured. You eventually slid your arm around his waist carefully and started leading him away. "Alright. That's enough. Come on, baby."

He groaned again, but this time there was a rough edge like the pain was finally starting to register, exhaustion creeping into his expression. "Mm. Wait. Don't I deserve a kiss for surviving?"

"You deserve bacta."

"Both?"

You leaned in to press a brief kiss to his lips before guiding him toward the medbay, and his answering smile was soft enough that you almost weren't annoyed with him anymore. Almost.

Echo:

By the third day of Echo's medical leave, you had learned two things. The first was that Echo was absolutely terrible at resting, and the second was that he was apparently willing to suffer through excruciating pain before asking you for help with literally anything.

This morning, you found him in the fresher trying to pull a clean shirt over his head one-handed.

"Echo."

He startled hard enough to nearly lose his balance. "Sweetheart--I, ah--"

You cut him off with a sharp, weary exhale, stepping closer to him. His shirt was tangled halfway down his chest, one arm trapped awkwardly while he tried and failed to avoid jostling his injured shoulder. The movement had clearly exacerbated some of his pain because his breathing seemed a little shallow.

"You're supposed to be resting," you muttered, carefully starting to help him with the shirt. "Not wrestling a shirt."

"Well, the shirt started it."

Your mouth twitched despite yourself, and Echo grinned. You looked up sharply and pressed a finger against his lips. "No. Mm-mm. Don't. You're not joking yourself out of this."

"I would never," Echo retorted immediately.

You shot him a flat look, tugging the shirt the rest of the way down carefully over his shoulders. The fabric tugged just a little too hard against his bad side, and Echo's expression tightened despite his obvious effort to hide it. Your hands immediately stilled against his chest, but he shook his head.

"It's not too bad," he assured you, quieter now. "It really is getting better. Kix did say it'd hurt for a while."

You sighed, resting your hands on his waist and rubbing soft circles with your thumbs. "It'll hurt longer if you keep insisting on doing everything yourself."

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you into a loose hug. "I don't want to bother you."

The words came a little too easily for your liking, and you wound your arms around his waist, careful to keep your touches soft. "You're never a bother to me, Echo."

He hummed faintly, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "I know," he admitted quietly. "Just not used to it yet."

You pulled away enough to look up at him, giving him a little smile. "Well. Get used to it."

He chuckled, low and little rough. "Bossy."

"You like it."

"Mm. A little."

You leaned in just enough to kiss him softly, and Echo melted into it with an immediate sigh. "Absolutely hopeless," you muttered against his mouth.

Echo smiled faintly, brushing his nose against yours. "Good thing I've got you, then."

Kix:

It was late when you slipped into the medbay, greeted by the familiar sharp smell of antiseptic. You barely noticed it, your eyes already scanning the cots, expecting to find Kix moving around, checking troopers over and pretending he'd gotten adequate sleep over the last few days.

Instead, you spotted him in one of the cots, and your heart stopped. "Oh my god, Kix?"

He looked up immediately from where he was adjusted his own bandage. Relief crossed his face so quickly it almost distracted you from the bruising visible along his shoulder. "Oh. Hi, sweetheart." He managed a small, tired smile. "You're here."

You crossed the room in seconds, sinking down on the edge of his cot, your eyes scanning over his bandages. "What happened?"

He reached out to take your hand in his, brushing his thumb over your knuckles as if you were the one in need of care. "I'm okay," he assured you, giving your hand a squeeze. "Promise. Just a dislocation and a few scrapes."

"Just a dislocation and a few scrapes?" you repeated incredulously, your gaze catching on the thick wrap around his ribs. "Kix, you look like you can barely sit up straight."

"Occupational hazard," he said lightly, though the joke weakened when he shifted and immediately sucked in a quiet breath through his teeth.

Your expression tightened. "You're in pain."

"I'm sore," he corrected gently. "There's a difference."

"Kix--"

"Hey." His voice softened immediately, and he tugged lightly on your hand until you moved closer. "Don't worry so much, sweetheart. I just need to take it easy for a little while, and I'll be good as new."

You shook your head, still scanning over every visible bruise and bandage. "You say that every time you're hurt."

"And I heal up just fine, don't I?"

You finally looked up at that, only to find him already watching you carefully, concern lingering in his own eyes despite everything. He gave your hand a squeeze. "I'd tell you if it was serious," he assured you quietly.

You exhaled shakily. "I know."

His shoulders relaxed a little, and he lifted your joined hands enough to press a lingering kiss to your knuckles. "Stay with me a while?" he asked quietly as he lowered your hands.

You sighed, a little less worried now, and leaned in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. "Try getting rid of me."

Jesse:

Jesse looked perfectly fine from across the room. That was the problem. He walked into your apartment under his own power, helmet tucked beneath one arm, giving you the same smile he always wore after returning from a campaign. You saw a few scratches across his armor and strip of field bandaging disappearing beneath the collar of his blacks, but nothing alarming enough to make your heart stop. So you smiled in relief and crossed straight into his arms.

"Hey, handsome."

"Hey, gorgeous." His voice came out rough with exhaustion but warm regardless. One arm wrapped around your waist immediately, pulling you close enough to feel the heat of him through his armor. "Miss me?"

"Mm. Maybe a little," you murmured with a grin, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertips.

"Only a little? I gotta stay away longer next time."

You laughed softly and leaned in to kiss him, wrapping your arms around his neck…and Jesse flinched. Hard. A sharp breath escaped him before he could stop it, his body tightening. You froze, your eyes going wide, but Jesse's expression smoothed over fast.

"I'm okay," he assured you.

"That did not sound okay."

"It's nothing."

Your eyes narrowed. Now that you were close, you noticed the strain around his eyes and the careful shallowness of his breathing. "Jesse…" you muttered, your tone almost warning.

"Seriously, baby, I'm fine." He stepped back like he was trying to physically dodge the conversation. "Just sore. I just need sleep, alright? I'm gonna crash for twelve hours and then I'll be good to go."

You gave him a flat look, though the worry behind your expression was apparent. "Jesse, you flinched when I tried to kiss you. How bad are you hurt, really?"

Jesse shook his head, taking a deep breath which faltered a little on the inhale. His hand went to his side, fingers curling there hard enough to tell you exactly how bad it was, and your stomach dropped.

"Kriff, Jesse. You need to go see a medic." You stepped closer again, hands flexing like you weren't sure whether to reach for him or not. Jesse took another careful breath, and reached for you instead, pulling you against him.

"I did. Field patch. It's just some bruised ribs, I'll be okay."

You rolled your eyes, frustrated. "That's not the same thing and you know it. You're not sleeping that off, Jesse. Come on."

He shook his head again, tightening his grip on you a little. "I really, really don't want to be stuck in the medbay," he muttered, almost pleading. The honesty made your frustration soften around the edges, and you sighed, cupping his face in your hands as you looked him in the eye.

"And I really, really need you to be okay," you said pointedly, leaning in to press a soft, careful kiss to his lips before pulling away again. "You're seeing a medic. Right now."

Jesse let out a long suffering sigh, his forehead dropping briefly against yours. "You're lucky I love you."

"I know," you said softly, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone before slipping an arm carefully around his waist. "Now come on, tough guy."

Hardcase:

By the time you reached the medbay, your heart was pounding hard enough to hurt. Nobody would tell you exactly what had happened, only that Hardcase had been injured, he was being treated, and that "he'll be okay" in that careful tone that usually meant it had been bad enough to scare everyone.

The second you stepped through the doors, you spotted him, and immediately stopped in your tracks. "Hardcase."

He was halfway out of the medbay cot, one hand braced against the edge as he awkwardly reached for his armor pieces piled nearby. His blacks were rolled down around his waist, bandages stretched across his ribs and stomach. At the sound of your voice, he looked up, wide-eyed and vaguely guilty.

"…Hi, baby."

"You're joking."

"What do you mean?" he asked almost playfully, immediately wincing as he straightened too fast. "Oh, ow--"

You crossed the room, your hands landing on his upper arms to steady him. "Hardcase. I--what are you even doing?"

"Kix left for a few minutes," he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Which means I've got a small but valuable escape window."

You stared at him incredulously, your gaze dropping to his bandaged torso before flicking back up to his face. "You can barely stand."

Hardcase spread his palms, gesturing to himself. "I am standing."

You rolled your eyes and gripped his arms a little tighter before he could reach for his armor again. "Crookedly. Barely."

He winced a little at your grip, shifting his shoulder uncomfortably, but gave you a pleading look. "C'mon, baby," he coaxed, settling his hands on your hips and giving a little squeeze. "Help me out? You distract Kix, I slip out…maybe we find some empty storage closet somewhere…"

You sighed deeply, looking back down at his torso. "Are your ribs broken?"

"Allegedly."

Your gaze drifted up, lingering on his left shoulder. "And you have a dislocated shoulder?"

"Technically relocated now."

You frowned, opening your mouth to say something else frustrated and admonishing, but then his smile faltered slightly around the edges and a hint of exhaustion peeked through the bravado. You really studied his face for a second, noting the shadows beneath his eyes. Your grip on his arms softened.

"Oh, Hardcase…"

Hardcase glanced away for a second, suddenly quieter. "I'm okay. I swear. I'm alright, babe."

You sighed, bringing a hand up to cup the side of his face. He eagerly leaned into the touch. "You will be," you murmured, your tone a little more confident than you felt, "if you don't do anything stupid like try to sneak out of the medbay before you're healed."

Hardcase groaned dramatically, but his initial playfullness had significantly dulled. He dropped his forehead against yours. "But I'll miss you," he tried instead.

"I'll come visit," you retorted softly, tilting your chin up to brush your lips against his. He made a low, slightly rough sound, his grip on your hips tightening. He tried to pull you in closer and kiss you harder but you broke off with a hum of disapproval.

"Mm-mm. Not till you're healed."

Hardcase rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to argue, when suddenly, from across the medbay, Kix's voice came. "HARDCASE--!"

Hardcase sighed deeply, dropping his forehead against yours again. "Kriff. You know, I would've made it."

Tup:

Tup looked completely miserable. Not too badly injured, thank the Force, but deeply, personally offended by the fact that he was currently confined to a medbay cot with strict orders not to leave it. But the second he spotted you in the doorway, his entire expression changed.

"There you are," he breathed, relief washing visibly across his face. You crossed the room quickly, taking in his condition. His left arm was bandaged, left knee braced, and there was some scattered bruising. He also looked exhausted, dark circles lingering beneath his eyes despite the smile he gave you.

"What happened?" you asked quietly, sitting down on the edge of the cot and reaching your hand towards him. Tup took your hand immediately, holding on tight.

"Nothing bad," he promised. "The ship got hit during extraction. I just landed wrong."

"Landed wrong," you repeated skeptically. "Kix said you're on medical leave."

His expression soured instantly. "For a week," he muttered bitterly. "Which is ridiculous."

You raised an eyebrow. "Tup."

He frowned, his hand fidgeting a little with yours. "I don't want to sit around doing nothing while everyone else goes back out there."

You sighed, bringing your free hand up to gently push his dishevelled hair away from his face. "You got hurt," you murmured. "Rest isn't a punishment, sweetheart."

"I know." He swallowed thickly, his grip on your hand tightening. "Still feels like it." He paused for a moment, thumb brushing over your knuckles. "…Can you stay a while?"

You softened even further, shifting closer to sit next to him on the cot. Tup immediately curled into you carefully. One arm went around your waist as he turned his head to press his face against your shoulder with a tired groan. "You'll make it bearable," he mumbled, squeezing your hand again.

You hummed quietly, tilting your head to press a kiss to his temple. Tup melted against you even more, tension draining out of him.

"Mm," he mumbled sleepily against your shoulder after a moment. "Again."

You huffed faintly. "You're needy."

"I'm injured," he muttered seriously. "You have to be nice to me."

You chuckled. "Oh, so now you're admitting to be injured."

He smiled faintly against your shoulder. "If it'll get you to kiss me better."

You smiled, tilting his chin up so you could kiss him again on the lips this time, soft and slow, and Tup relaxed fully with a quiet, relieved sigh.

Dogma:

The medbay was quiet this late. The lights had been dimmed for the night cycle, leaving the room washed in soft blue shadows and the steady hum of medical monitors. A few cots were occupied with sleeping clones, but Dogma was sitting rigidly upright.

His back was painfully straight despite the bandaging wrapped around his torso, his arms crossed tightly enough to suggest that he was either uncomfortable or irritated. Probably both. But when he noticed you approaching, his entire expression changed all at once.

"Hey," you whispered, sitting down on the edge of the cot. Dogma immediately tried to look less inured than he actually was, shifting to adjust his posture, but his wince gave him away.

"You shouldn't be awake," he said instead, going rigid again.

You blinked. "I came to see you."

"I'm fine."

You gave him a flat look. "Yeah. Sure. You look it."

He frowned, another little wince twisting his expression for a second, and you immediately regretted the statement. You shifted a little closer with a sigh.

"What happened?"

His voice trembled as he spoke. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

"Dogma."

His jaw tightened. "The mission was completed successfully. That's what matters. I'm fine." But there was frustration underneath the words too, maybe at being injured, maybe that you had to see him like this at all. You shifted even closer, carefully sitting next to him on the cot, and some of the stiffness left his shoulders at the proximity.

"Look at me," you coaxed him gently. He swallowed hard, his expression suddenly much more vulnerable. "You don't have to get so defensive with me."

"I'm not getting defensive."

You gave him a look.

"…Maybe a little."

You hummed, lifting a hand to brush along his cheek, and he melted instantly, just like he always did. His eyes closed before he could stop himself, shoulders dropping all at once as he leaned into your palm with a soft, tired exhale.

"There he is," you whispered fondly.

Dogma looked embarrassed for the briefest moment before turning his head to press a lingering kiss to your wrist. "I just don't like you worrying," he admitted quietly.

"I'm always going to worry about you."

His expression softened completely at that, and he leaned forward carefully, one hand sliding around your waist as he kissed you properly this time, slow and affectionate and gentle. "They--they'll get annoyed if you stay," he mumbled against your mouth, as if reluctant to voice it.

You shook your head faintly. "Don't care."

Your POV

The Marauder made a sound like a shaking scream when she hit the atmosphere.

You felt it before anything else, that low metallic groan vibrating up through the floor panels and into the soles of your boots. Something was wrong with her long before Hunter’s voice came sharp through the cockpit doorway and Tech pulled her down into an emergency descent over the closest planet on the nav chart. It was a dusty, warm little rock called Velos that nobody had ever heard of and apparently nobody cared about either. Which made it, as Tech put it through gritted teeth while smoke poured from the port engine housing, the best possible option.

The navigation area lurched. You grabbed the edge of your seat with both hands and across from you Wrecker was already moving, one massive arm sweeping Omega firmly back into her seat, the securing arm locking down over her with a decisive click. Omega’s eyes went wide as the ship tilted and somewhere in the cockpit Hunter yelled something that was mostly drowned out by the groan of the port engine.

Then Tech’s voice, perfectly even: “It’s not affecting life support. We’re fine!”

“Tech.” Hunter’s voice had moved past clipped into something lower and more dangerous. “I swear to every star in this system if you tell me we are fine one more time while smoke is coming out of the ship I will personally throw you out of the airlock.”

“That would be counterproductive given that I am currently the one landing it.”

Wrecker looked at you across the bay with an expression that said he had seen this exact exchange before and found it just as funny every time. You pressed your lips together to hold your laugh and held on.

The landing was rough. The Marauder scraped and shuddered across pale dusty earth and finally ground to a stop. Wrecker looked down at Omega and laughed. Full and loud, the way he laughed at everything, like the universe was one long joke being told specifically for his entertainment.

Omega stared up at him blankly for a second before she started laughing too.

You had missed that laugh- His laugh. It had been almost two years since you had heard it regularly in person and it still hadn’t become old. You couldn’t imagine it would get old any time soon, seeing as it had already been several weeks since you joined the Batch and Wrecker laughs a lot.

You let out the breath you had been holding and unclenched your hands from the seat edge.

From the cockpit, Tech was the first to interject. “I was correct as usual. We’re fine.”

Wrecker cupped Omega’s ears before Hunter could finish his response.

The planet was warm in the way that old leather is warm, dry heat that settled into your shoulders and made the back of your neck prickle. There were sparse trees with sparse leaves that threw shade like spilled ink across pale dusty ground, and in the distance a cluster of low buildings that passed for a town shimmered in the haze. Echo had already commed ahead to a local parts dealer, someone Cid apparently knew, and the estimate he came back with made everyone wince.

It would be three days. Maybe four.

“The port thruster coupling is fractured, the coolant lines on the starboard side have sustained significant pressure damage, and the secondary hyperdrive motivator will not survive another jump without replacement,” Tech said, not looking up from where he was crouched at the Marauder’s undercarriage, both arms buried to the elbow inside the housing. Tech pulled his arm free to wipe the sweat off his forehead, and you found your eyes tracking the line of his jaw without meaning to, the sharp angle of it catching the late morning light, a grease mark sitting just below his cheekbone that he was completely unaware of.

Hunter's voice cut across the heat before you could finish that thought.

"Alright." He had his arms crossed and his eyes moving across the tree line. As usual, he was already three steps ahead of everyone else. "We're going to be here a few days so let's not get comfortable until we know what we're dealing with. Echo, you're with me. We're going to do a sweep of the area, make sure this rock is as quiet as it looks." He turned back to the others. "The rest of you, stay with the ship. Tech, keep working." A beat. "Everyone lays low until we're back."

"Understood," Echo said, already falling into step beside him.

Wrecker found you an hour later sitting on a flat rock at the edge of the Marauder's shadow, your kit spread out in front of you, running a maintenance check on your blaster the way you always did when you needed something to do with your hands. It was a habit you had picked back up only recently. For a long time the blaster had sat in a crate under your bunk on Daro Kesh, traded out for a life that was quieter and softer and involved a lot less running. You had not exactly missed it. But you had missed other things, and somehow the two had ended up being part of the same package.

Wrecker dropped down beside you on the flat rock, close enough that his shoulder almost crashed into yours.

"Weird bein' grounded, huh?" he said.

"Little bit."

"You mad about it?"

You looked up at him. The sun was behind him and it lit the edges of his broad shoulders and the side of his shaved head, and for a moment he looked exactly the way he had looked on Kestara, standing at the edge of a ridge with smoke rising from the valley below, both of you coming down off the adrenaline of a mission that had almost gone very badly.

That felt so long ago. He didn't even have his scar back then.

"Why would I be mad?" you said.

He lifted one shoulder. "We pulled you into this. You had your whole thing goin' on Daro Kesh."

"Wrecker." You set the blaster down and looked at him properly. "I'm fine."

"Yeah?" He looked at your face the way he always did when he was deciding whether to believe you, slow and direct. Then he nodded. "Okay. Good." A beat. He scratched the back of his neck. "Hey, uh. Tech's askin' if you got a calibration tool on ya. His got stripped."

You laughed. "Of course that's what this is about."

He punched your shoulder. "Hey, I came to check on you first!"

You dug the tool out and held it out to him.

"Tell him he can keep it," you said. "I've got a spare."

Tech's POV:

He did not intend to watch her.

He was calibrating the pressure regulators on the secondary coolant line and the task required his full attention, or it should have, and yet he found his gaze tracking across the ground to where she sat with Wrecker, the two of them speaking quietly in the shade.

She laughed at something. The sound carried.

Tech returned his attention to the regulator. Applied the correct torque. Checked his reading.

Looked back again.

He had met her three weeks ago on Daro Kesh, a remote desert planet that smelled of dry heat and old machinery and the particular kind of quiet that settled over places people came to disappear. Wrecker had pushed through the cantina door ahead of the rest of them with his usual disregard for subtlety and stopped so abruptly that Echo walked into his back.

She had been on the small stage at the far end of the room.

Tech had run his initial assessment the way he assessed everything: approximate age, physical conditioning, the model of her blaster, the quality of her gear. Except there was no blaster and certainly not any gear. The dress had a slit at the side that caught the amber stage light when she moved, which was not what he had constructed in his mind from the number of times Wrecker had described the best demolitionist he had ever worked alongside. Her posture, however, suggested someone who knew how to move through difficult situations. Her hands were steady. He noted that specifically.

And then she had stepped off the stage into the crowd, and Wrecker was already halfway across the room with both arms out.

He thought about the way Wrecker had looked at her in that moment. The openness in his expression was beyond the standard warmth Wrecker extended to people he liked. Tech had catalogued the distinction and filed it. The file, however, had not stayed filed, which was not how filing was supposed to work.

She had shaken hands with Hunter, nodded at Echo, and then looked at Tech with an expression that was already slightly amused, as though she had anticipated being assessed and found it more interesting than offensive. Then she said something precise and observational about the atmospheric composition of Daro Kesh that was both technically accurate and mildly funny, and he had found himself recalibrating.

The pressure regulator gave a soft confirming click under his hands and he noted the reading without looking away from it this time.

There was work to do. Three days of it, at minimum.

He focused on the work.

Your POV:

That evening Hunter sent Wrecker and Echo into town for supplies and took Omega with him to run a few errands, leaving the Marauder quiet in the long amber light of late afternoon. You had returned to your spot, the flat rock with a patch of shade, and were going through your datapad when Tech emerged from under the ship with grease to his elbows and something complicated behind his expression.

He stopped when he saw you, just briefly, before he continued to the small portable wash station Omega had set up and began working the solvent through his hands.

“Did you find the fracture?” you asked.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Which one?”

“The one you were being very pointed about twenty minutes ago.”

A pause. “I was not being pointed. I was making an accurate assessment of a deeply frustrating engineering failure.” He turned back to the wash station but you caught the very slight shift at the corner of his mouth. “Yes. I found it. It is worse than I initially estimated, which is not a phrase I enjoy using.”

You put the datapad down. “How bad?”

"The coupling will require full fabrication to spec rather than a standard replacement. The part simply does not exist in a form compatible with this ship's non-regulation modifications." He dried his hands and turned around, leaning back against the hull with his arms crossed. "The parts dealer can source the raw materials. The fabrication itself will need to be done here."

"Can you do it?"

He looked at her with an expression that suggested he found the question mildly unnecessary. "Of course I can."

"I meant here. With what you have."

"With the right equipment, yes." He tilted his head slightly. "Do you have fabrication experience?"

"Some," you said. "I spent six months working with a ship repair crew out of Corellia before I went to the Cantina."

Tech was quiet for a moment in a way that was different from his usual processing silences. He was looking at you with something that had not fully resolved itself into an identifiable expression yet.

Tech was quiet for a moment, looking at you with an expression you had not seen on him before and could not quite read.

"That is," he said, "unexpectedly useful."

You looked up at him. "High praise from you, I'm guessing."

"Accurate praise," he said, allowing the corner of his mouth to prick.

Wrecker's POV:

He wasn’t good at noticin' things. People said that sometimes, not meanly, just as a fact, the way they might say Echo talked too little or Hunter never stopped scanning a room even when there was nothin' in it to worry about. He accepted it. He was good at other things.

But he did notice this.

He noticed it when he came back from town with his arms full of supply packs and found ‘er and Tech still standing by the rear landing strut in the fadin’ light, talking about something he couldn' hear, and the way she was tilted slightly toward Tech the way people tilt toward warmth without thinkin' about it.

He set the supplies down in the navigation area and stood there for a moment with his hands loose at his sides.

He had thought about her in the years between Kestara and Daro Kesh. Not constantly, not in a way that kept him up at night, but in the way that certain things stay with you whether you ask 'em to or not. The way she had pulled him out from under a collapsed structure on Mimban without hesitatin', the two of them half buried in smoke and debris, and she had just grabbed his arm and hauled and said come on, keep moving, you're fine. Matter of fact. He had liked that. He had liked her.

He hadn't told her. The war had a way of makin' certain conversations feel like something to have later, and later kept not arrivin', and then the war took them different ways and she was gone.

And then Daro Kesh, several weeks ago, and she was just there on that stage in that dress and the dreamin’ light and he had stood in the cantina doorway feelin' something he didn't have a word for while Echo walked into his back.

And you were the same as before. A little quieter maybe, the way everyone was a little quieter now, but the same.

He picked up the nearest pack and stowed it and didn't think too hard about what he had seen outside.

He was good at other things.

Your POV

The second day was long and hot and full of work.

Tech pulled you in early, standing at the Marauder's underside with the fabrication schematics pulled up on his datapad and a look that meant he had been thinking about the problem since before sunrise. You worked beside him for most of the morning, the two of you flat on your backs under the ship in the narrow mechanical space, Tech narrating the process in that precise unhurried way of his that you found you did not mind at all. He never explained things twice. He never checked if you were keeping up. He just spoke and expected you to follow, and when you asked a question he answered it directly, no preamble, no softening.

It was refreshing in a way you had not expected.

"Hold that steady," he said at one point, both hands occupied with the coupling housing while you held the adjacent pipe in place. Your arms were close together in the narrow space, shoulders almost touching, and when he glanced over to check your grip his face was inches from yours.

He looked back at the coupling without comment.

You looked back at the pipe.

"Steady," you confirmed, your voice coming out mostly normal.

Wrecker’s POV

He’d made extra.

That was the thing about bein' grounded, you actually had time to do stuff right! No eatin’ cold rations outta a pack between jumps, no grabbin’ questionable street food on the way to a job. He’d had actual time and actual supplies and he had done somethin' genuinely good with both of 'em and he was feelin' pretty great about it as he came around the side of the ship with the tray.

"Hey! Lunch!" he announced to nobody in particular, crouchin' down to see how far along they were under the ship.

He stopped.

They were close. The kind of close the narrow undercarriage space made inevitable, he understood that, but Tech's face was right there next to hers and she was lookin' back at him and neither of 'em had moved away from it and there was somethin' in the air between 'em that Wrecker didn't have a name for but recognized the shape of.

Somethin' in his chest did a thing he didn't like.

He straightened up. Looked at the tree line for a second. Adjusted his grip on the tray and walked around the ship to where they were working.

Then he crouched back down and beamed at the both of 'em like he hadn't seen anything at all, because he was good at that, always had been.

"Figured you two forgot," he said, settin' the tray down at the edge of the shade before grabbin' her ankle with one hand and draggin' her out from under the ship in one smooth pull.

"Wrecker!"

 "Lunch break," he said simply and held out her drink while she was still blinking up at the sky from the ground, then crouched back down and knocked on the undercarriage. "You too, Tech. Come on." 

A pause from under the ship. Then the sound of tools being set down with great deliberateness, the way Tech always set things down when he was bein' interrupted and wanted you to know it. He slid out and took the drink without comment.

Wrecker dropped into the dirt across from both of 'em and started settin’ up the meal with the particular satisfaction of someone who had put actual effort in and wanted it appreciated. "Been down here four hours. Eat something."

"I was aware of the time," Tech said.

"Sure you were."

Tech paused. Checked his chrono. Said nothin'.

Your POV

You took a long drink and looked up at Wrecker. He was already looking back at you with that open expression he never tried to hide, and your chest became warm in a way you decided to not address. You looked away first.

The three of you settled into silence. The heat pressed down. 

It should have felt easy. It almost did.

You were aware of Tech beside you because of the fact that he had not said anything since he sat down. You could not tell if he was running motivator calculations in his head or thinking of something else entirely. You did not look at him to check. You looked at Wrecker instead.

"You remember Kestara?" you asked.

He grinned immediately. The scars across his face pulled with it. "Which part?"

"The part where you ate a suspicious berry and we spent two hours waiting to find out if it was poisonous."

"Wasn't poisonous though!"

"That is not the point of the story!"

There was a beat of quiet and you felt Tech shift beside you.

"What is the point of the story?" he asked.

Something about the question landed oddly, and you suddenly became aware of the angles of the three of you. Then Wrecker pointed at you and the moment tipped back into something easier.

"She panicked!"

"I did not panic. I was monitoring your vitals."

"You kept askin' me how I felt every four minutes!"

"Because you had eaten an unidentified berry on a hostile planet!"

Wrecker was laughing, that same full reckless laugh, and you were smiling before you could decide whether to, the story pulling something warm in your chest. It was easy to laugh with him. It had always been easy.

Then you caught Tech watching the two of you with an expression that was attentive and measured and something else underneath it that he had not quite managed to put away before you saw it. You did not know what to do with that, so you looked back at Wrecker.

"Three missions," he was saying, the laugh settling into something quieter and more deliberate. "She saved my life on the second one!"

"You would have gotten out on your own," you said.

"Maybe. Faster with you there though."

You looked down at your meal that he carefully made.

Beside you Tech said nothing and you were aware of that silence the same way you were aware of everything about him lately, more than you had intended to be. So you ate and did not say anything, and so the afternoon pressed on and no one said what any of them were actually thinking.

That night you could not sleep.

Your bunk was fine, perfectly adequate, but the heat did not break the way you had hoped. You lay there in the narrow fold out space listening to the ambient sounds of the ship settling around you and thought about things you did not have the right words for yet.

Two years was a long time. Long enough that you had put Kestara and Mimban and all the rest of it somewhere far back, somewhere you did not need to look at often. Long enough that you had traded your armor for a dress and your blaster for a microphone and told yourself that the quiet life on Daro Kesh was exactly what you wanted. And it had been, mostly.

And then the Batch had walked through the cantina door several weeks ago and everything that was supposed to stay far back came walking right up to the front again.

Two years was long enough that Wrecker had become a good memory instead of a present one. And now he was present again, sleeping in the bunk two feet away, and he kept looking at you in that steady, sincere way and you did not know what to do with it.

You also did not know what to do with Tech, who was a surprise you had not planned for.

Tech was not a type you would have predicted for yourself. He was precise where you were instinctive. He spoke in complete sentences about technical subjects and seemed genuinely unaware that most people did not do this. He had strong opinions about obscure topics. And he trusted you. He had handed you a fabrication tool this morning with the particular focused attention of someone who knew you would use it correctly, and the trust had been quiet and matter of fact and had done something unexpected to the inside of your chest.

You stared at the bunk above you.

This was a problem.

You pressed your hands over your face and breathed out slowly through your fingers. And then you got up.

Tech’s Pov

He was in the cockpit at his station when he heard her moving toward the front of the ship, soft careful footsteps navigating the dark.

His datapad was propped against the control panel with the motivator schematics open, and several tools were laid out beside it in the order he intended to use them tomorrow. He had been staring at the same set of calculations for the past forty minutes.

He heard her footsteps stop at the cockpit entrance.

"You're still up," she said.

"I find it difficult to stop before a problem is solved." He did not look up immediately. "You should be sleeping."

"Probably." She came and settled into the co-pilot seat, pulling her knees up, and looked out through the viewport at the dark planet. She had her hair loose, which he had not seen before, and she was wearing the kind of expression that he believed meant thinking rather than worrying, though the line between the two was sometimes difficult for him to distinguish in others.

They sat quietly for a while. Outside, Velos was dark and still and completely indifferent to either of them.

"Can I ask you something?" she said eventually.

He set down the tool in his hand and gave her his full attention. "Ask."

"When we met on Daro Kesh. What did you actually think? When you first saw me up there."

He was quiet for a moment, His thumb stilled on the edge of the datapad.

It was a direct question. She asked direct questions. He had catalogued this about her within the first hour of their acquaintance and filed it under qualities he found simultaneously useful and somewhat destabilizing.

"I began to catalogue you," he said. "The way I do with everyone. And then I found I had to start over."

She turned to look at him. "Why?"

He kept his eyes on the control panel. "You were on a stage in a cantina on a planet people go to when they are trying not to be found, and you were…" He paused, selecting the word with care, "unexpected. The version of you I was looking at did not match the data Wrecker had given me about you. I found the contradiction," a pause, "interesting."

The two shared a stretch of silence.

"It was the most accurate word available to me at the time," he said. "I have since found more accurate ones."

She held his gaze for a moment and something shifted in the air between them, small and unannounced, the way pressure changes before weather.

Then she looked back out at the viewport and the moment settled without resolving, and the ship was quiet around them both.

He returned to the calculation. It resolved in under ten minutes.

At some point her breathing changed. He looked over. She had fallen asleep in the co-pilot seat, her knees still pulled up, one hand loose in her lap.

He turned the display brightness down a degree so the light would not wake her.

Then he went back to work and told himself, with limited conviction, that the calculations were the reason the cockpit felt less empty than it had an hour ago.

Your POV

The third day arrived with no fanfare, but a parts delivery before breakfast.

Wrecker carried the crates in from town with Omega narrating everything they passed, and the morning turned productive and loud in the way mornings always were when the whole batch was in motion together. You worked alongside Tech again outside at the undercarriage, Echo watched from the top of the ramp with a cup of caf, and Hunter kept giving you a look that was somewhere between assessing and amused.

You ignored Hunter's look.

By midday the coupling was fabricated and the first of the coolant lines was replaced and Tech allowed himself one brief moment of visible satisfaction before moving directly to the next problem.

Wrecker found you in the afternoon sitting on the flat rock again, and he dropped down beside you.

"How's the shoulder?" he asked. You had strained it that morning reaching into the coupling housing.

"Fine."

He reached over and pressed two fingers along the line of your shoulder muscle, checking, and you held still and let him.

"Little tight," he said.

"I said it’s fine."

"Yeah, you always say that." He did not move his hand immediately and you couldn’t help but enjoy his familiar warmth.

You looked at him. He was already looking at you, close and steady, and there was something sitting behind his eyes that he was not saying, that he had probably been not saying for several days and possibly, a quieter part of you acknowledged, for much longer than that.

"Wrecker?" You leaned into his touch as his arm settled around your shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"What are you not telling me?"

He was quiet for a long moment. A tree across the clearing dropped something small and dry and it clicked against the pale ground.

"Probably the same thing you're not tellin' me," he said.

You looked at him for another moment and then you looked out across the dusty ground. You did not say anything and he did not say anything, and it was simultaneously uncomfortable and not uncomfortable at all.

"I missed you," he said finally. Simply. The same way he might tell you a distance or a heading. "After you got redeployed. After everythin'. Know that's a long time ago now."

"It's not that long," you said quietly.

"No," he said. "Maybe not."

The distant trees threw their dark shade and neither of you moved. The rock held you both without complaint.

 The last morning was cool.

Some overnight shift in the atmosphere had pulled a thin cloud cover across the sky and the air when you stepped outside had that quality of something preparing to change. You stood at the top of the ramp with a cup of caf and watched the pale clouds move and tried to organize yourself.

Much to your dismay, you were not organized.

You had spent three days under a ship's belly with a man who spoke about coolant specifications like they were worth caring about deeply and treated your competence as a simple unremarkable fact. You had spent three days sitting beside a man who had known you in a war and remembered all the right things and whose laugh had not changed at all. You had traded your dress for your armor several weeks ago and stepped back into a life you thought you had set down for good and somehow in the middle of all of that two people had looked at you in two completely different ways and both of them had landed.

You were not organized at all.

You heard footsteps on the ramp behind you.

Tech stopped beside you, his own caf in hand, and stood looking at the clouded sky with the expression of someone running several calculations simultaneously. 

"Variable atmospheric pressure," he said. "It may rain."

"Wouldn't that be something," you said.

He glanced at you sideways. There was something in the look that was different from his working expressions, more internal, less cataloguing, and it sat there in the space between you for a moment before he spoke.

"I wanted to say," he started, and then stopped, which was unusual enough that you turned to look at him properly.

He was looking at his caf.

"You are," he said carefully, "an exceptionally capable person. And I have found the past several weeks to be," a pause, "unexpectedly significant."

You stared at him.

He looked up and met your eyes with the particular intensity he usually reserved for problems he intended to solve, steady and unblinking, and underneath it something that was plainly and unmistakably not technical at all. 

"I am not practiced at this," he said. "I want to be clear about what I mean and I am uncertain I have the correct vocabulary."

"Tech," you said.

"Yes."

"I understood you."

He held your gaze, brows knitting together. "Oh," he said, quietly.

Behind both of you, somewhere inside the ship, Wrecker dropped something heavy and swore as the moment between the two of you broke open. You both turned and the Marauder's ordinary sounds came rushing back in around you.

Wrecker’s POV

He had not dropped the crate on purpose.

Mostly.

He had been movin' through the navigation area toward the ramp when he caught sight of the two of them through the viewport, standing close together in the grey morning light, and something in the way Tech was lookin' at her made Wrecker go very still with a supply pack in both hands.

He stood there a beat longer than he should have.

Then the pack slipped through his fingers.

He crouched down and checked if anythin’ inside was damaged and told himself that was the only reason he was still crouchin’ there with his forearms on his knees and his eyes on the floor gratin’.

He heard her footsteps comin' back up the ramp and he straightened up and turned around. He was intentional to keep his face the way he always kept his face, open, because he had never learned to do anything else and had long since stopped tryin'.

She stopped when she saw him. Her expression was doing something complicated that she was trying to keep contained and not entirely managing.

"Hey," you said.

"Hey." He looked at her and kept his voice easy. "Shoulder still botherin' you?"

She almost laughed, which was not the reaction he expected. "You already asked me that yesterday. And this morning."

"Yeah, well. Askin' again."

She looked at him for a moment, and then at Tech. The complicated thing in her expression shifted into something softer and less contained and harder to look at directly.

"Can we talk?"

Tech’s POV

Oh," he said, quietly.

She was looking at him the way she looked at problems she intended to solve. Direct. Unhurried. Like she had already decided the outcome and was simply waiting for the information to arrange itself accordingly.

Tech could not see his own expression from the inside. He was, however, reasonably certain it was not helping him.

Then the clatter from inside the ship broke across the moment.

Wrecker was standing in the navigation area with a supply pack at his feet and an expression of complete innocence that Tech had known him long enough to recognize as not entirely genuine.

Tech stepped off the ramp and back into the ship and did not examine too carefully why Wrecker stood with his eyes glued to the floor.

Wrecker looked at her and kept his voice easy. "Shoulder still botherin' you?"

She almost laughed. "You already asked me that yesterday. And this morning."

"Yeah, well. Askin' again."

She looked at Tech for a moment. The thing in her expression was complicated and soft and less contained than usual and Tech looked back at her and kept his face calibrated to neutral, which was a thing he was normally quite good at and was currently finding more difficult than it had any right to be.

"Can we talk?" she said.

“Of course,’ Tech answered.

A beat of silence followed.

She looked at him for a moment longer with an expression he could almost pin. Was is… pity? And then her eyes moved past him.

"Wrecker," she said, and Tech registered a half second too late that she was not talking to him. She had not been talking to him. She was talking to Wrecker.

He looked at Wrecker. Wrecker looked at her. Something passed between them that had the particular weight of years of history behind it, the kind that did not need words to move.

Tech picked up his datapad.

There were atmospheric pressure readings to review.

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