The flask sat on the table between them, screw-top lid tightly sealed. With the Marauder powered down, the interior of the ship was lit by what light streamed in through the cockpit door and the open ramp, casting a subtle day-gold glow off the burnished satin steel cylinder.

The two sat in abject silence, neither wishing to be the first to move. Moving would imply a decision, intent. A weakness, a yearning for the other. Weakness would at best be mocked, at worst exploited. Strategicians as they were, they studied the flask between them; risked surreptitious glances at the other, hoping their counterpart would cave first.

Crosshair’s tongue flicked out to wet parched lips and he leaned back, draping his arms along the back of the chair, affecting nonchalance.

“So what’s your poison?”

“Huh?” Hunter’s reaction was quick, sharp – too alert for their supposedly relaxed setting.

“Your mixer,” clarified Crosshair, with a nod towards the flask.

“Oh. Uh…” A frown wrinkled his brow, perfectly creasing the centre line of his tattoo, before Hunter shrugged. “Corellian brandy.”

Crosshair nodded with a smug smile, looking approving – as though either of them knew what that tasted like. GAR rations certainly didn’t include luxury drinks, and the Batch rarely had enough credits scraped together for the cheap gut-rot that burned the throat and shorted out Hunter’s enhanced senses for a week, let alone for a fine bottle of spirits like that.

“What about you?” Hunter prompted, to which Crosshair coughed and awkwardly shifted his position.

“Oh, well… you know…” He leaned forwards suddenly, forearms folded on the table, staring at the canister intently. “What did Tech say about this stuff?”

“Two or three drops to be mixed into the target’s drink,” Hunter recited flawlessly. “The Felucian distillate lacks the…uh…” A cough. “Uh… full aphrodisiac properties of the plant’s pollen. But…” and he shot a coy glance at Crosshair, a look which smouldered from the shadowed curtain of his hair and ink-dark skin, “it loosens inhibitions.”

“Which we’re going to use to extract information from uncooperative targets,” said Crosshair blithely, his intense stare a laser-brand of heat as it raked unashamedly across Hunter’s broad shoulders and pecs.

“Yeah,” Hunter coughed, shifting his weight, trying to look unaffected and failing by a parsec. “Something like that.”

“Two to three drops,” Crosshair muttered under his breath, then caught Hunter’s look with a wry huff of laughter. “Can’t even do shots.”

“We could try,” challenged Hunter immediately, as though unable to let any space hang after Crosshair’s words.

The sniper’s expression remained inscrutable, thoughts flickering behind his eyes as his mouth softened to something approaching a smile. Hunter remained relentlessly pinned by his steady gaze, his own agitation betrayed by aborted tics of movement in contrast to Crosshair’s stillness.

Silent, elegant, Crosshair slunk to his feet and reached languidly into the overhead locker. Hunting around without taking his eyes off Hunter. he turned up a pair of tumblers and placed them on the table with a decisive clink.

Hunter’s dry-mouthed swallow felt too loud in the closeness between them. Keeping his own gaze trained on Crosshair, he took the flask and with a single decisive twist, loosened the lid.

Crosshair’s smirk was victorious, his satisfaction all that was needed to goad Hunter on. Distillate be damned; they barely needed its effects. The promise of an excuse to release their inhibitions was all they needed.

“You first,” said Crosshair, and though he tried to sound casual the faintest tremor of anticipation betrayed his nerves.

“Age before beauty,” countered Hunter quickly, setting the open flask back on the table and nudging it towards Crosshair.

“I’ll pour,” said the sniper carefully, “and we both drink on three.”

“Fine by me.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

A moment lapsed into a minute, stretched into an awkward divide that yawned despite the anticipation.

“We don’t have to,” said Hunter; too fast, too casual.

“Give me a minute,” snapped Crosshair. “I’m building up to it.”

Another infinite minute. A clattering from outside.

The light dimmed momentarily as Wrecker’s huge frame crowded the doorway, spilling up the gangway and into the cool cabin interior as he dragged a huge forearm across his sweat-beaded brow.

“It’s bakin’ out there,” he groused at his usual too-loud volume, squinting and peering as the daylight-dazzle left him blinking. “How comes I have to help Tech with repairs, an’ you two get to sit around keepin’ cool? It’s not fair. I’m parched.”

He wasn’t exaggerating, the salt-bright smell of fresh sweat and exertion following him into the cabin. In two long strides he was beside the table, swiping up the flask in a single smooth move –

failing to see Hunter and Crosshair’s aborted lunges to stop him –

– and downed the contents in one.

The empty canister slammed back onto the table, accompanied by Wrecker wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“Yeuch! What were you two drinkin’?” he asked, pulling a face and sticking out his tongue, making chewing movements to try and swallow the bitter taste from his mouth. “Ugh. That was disgusting.”

Hunter and Crosshair held their breath, watching each other and watching Wrecker with wide, wary eyes. Cautiously, Crosshair extended one hand, patting Wrecker sympathetically on the arm.

“You okay, big guy?” he asked, voice thin as he shot a questioning look at Hunter, trying to hide his alarm.

“’M fine,” grumbled Wrecker, turning to the cupboards and rooting through their supplies. “We gotta have something better than that in here…”

Hunter had been frantically tapping something into his wrist-com, and he pinged the information file to Crosshair before meeting his eyes and shooting a pointed look at Wrecker.

[The concentrated Felucian distillate is designed to be used once diluted. Purification of the extract and increased absorption into the bloodstream in liquified form render it more potent that the pollen from which it is derived. Further experimentation needed–]

Wrecker was already loosening the collar of his blacks, tugging at them as an unmistakeable flush crept up his chest and neck.

“Stupid hot planet,” he muttered, untidily crashing their supplies around as he hunted in the cupboard. “Kriffing… why’s it so hot…”

A wordless look passed between Hunter and Crosshair. Without being told, Crosshair rose, ghosting behind Wrecker and hovering his hands tantalisingly above his hips.

“’M gonna get Tech,” Hunter muttered, although he eyed Wrecker with equal interest. “He’s, uh… gonna want to see the results of this impromptu experiment.”