Little Clone Obsessed

The ridge was narrow. Too narrow.

You moved with your blaster raised and your jaw set, following closely behind Wrecker as the team pushed forward. The rocky terrain was riddled with ravines, fault lines, and fractured earth—left scarred by years of shelling and seismic bombardments. The mission was supposed to be simple: infiltrate a Separatist holdout and extract data.

It was never simple.

“Movement on the northwest cliff,” you called into your comm. “Looks like clankers repositioning.”

“Copy that,” Echo’s voice crackled. “Tech, I’m sending coordinates to your pad.”

Hunter glanced back at you, just a flick of his head, a silent confirmation. You nodded. I’m good.

You were always good. Until the ground gave out beneath you.

It was subtle at first—just a soft shift under your boots, like loose gravel. But then came the snap. A hollow, wrenching crack that echoed through the canyon like thunder. The rock splintered beneath your feet. You didn’t have time to scream.

Just time to look up—into Hunter’s eyes.

“[Y/N]—!”

You dropped.

The last thing you saw was his outstretched hand, just a second too late.

Then the world became air and stone and darkness.

⸻

Above, everything exploded into chaos.

Hunter hit the ridge on his knees, arms dragging at loose rock, clawing like an animal trying to dig you back out. “No, no, no—”

Echo slid in beside him, scanning with one cybernetic arm extended. “I can’t see her. It’s—kriff—it’s a vertical drop. She went straight down.”

“I should’ve grabbed her!” Wrecker was pacing in wild circles, fists clenched, eyes wet. “I was right in front of her—I should’ve—she was right there!”

“She didn’t even scream,” Echo murmured. “She just… vanished.”

“I’m scanning for vitals,” Tech said, already tapping furiously at his datapad, but his voice was thin. “There’s no signal. No movement. Her comm—either it was destroyed in the fall or… or she’s—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Hunter snapped, voice like a knife.

The wind howled through the crevice she’d fallen into, dragging dust and silence with it.

Crosshair stood several meters back, motionless, his DC-17M dangling loosely in his grip.

“Say it,” Echo growled, glaring at him. “You’ve been quiet this whole time. Just say whatever snide thing you’re thinking so we can all lose it together.”

Crosshair’s eyes flicked up, storm-gray and unreadable.

“She’s dead.”

“Shut your mouth!” Wrecker roared, storming toward him, but Echo shoved himself in between.

“She could be alive,” Echo said fiercely, though his voice cracked. “It’s possible. People survive worse.”

Crosshair didn’t move. “Not from that height.”

“I said shut it!” Wrecker shoved him back, but it was all broken fury—guilt bleeding through his rage. “She was smiling, dammit. Right before. She looked at me and said, ‘We’ll all get out of this,’ and I didn’t even answer her back—!”

“Stop.” Hunter’s voice cut clean through the storm.

He stood now, rigid and furious, his back to the team, staring into the void where you’d fallen.

“She’s alive,” he said.

Tech looked up from his pad slowly. “Statistically—”

“I don’t give a damn about statistics.” His voice was hoarse. “I felt her. She was right here. She’s part of us. She wouldn’t just be… gone.”

His hand trembled slightly. Not from fear. From the weight of it.

He was the one who told you to cover the flank. He was the one who said the ridge was stable enough.

She trusted you, Crosshair had said.

No. She trusted him.

And he’d failed her.

Hunter turned and began strapping a rope to his belt.

“Sergeant?” Tech asked cautiously.

“We’re going down there. All of us. We don’t stop until we find her. I don’t care if we have to tear the planet apart.”

Echo moved first. “I’m with you.”

Wrecker stepped up beside them, his breath hitching. “Me too. Always.”

Even Crosshair nodded, silent again.

As Hunter stood at the edge, ready to descend into the place where you vanished, a single thought thundered in his mind:

She can’t be gone.

Not you.

Not when your laugh was still echoing in his ears. Not when you told him last night, during watch, that you’d be careful. Not when he never got to tell you that he needed you more than he ever let on.

He’d find you.

Or die trying.

⸻

The descent into the ravine was slow, agonizing, and silent.

The team moved as one—Hunter leading with a lantern clipped to his belt, casting narrow beams over jagged rock and twisted earth. Echo and Tech followed with scanners, mapping every crevice. Wrecker moved boulders with his bare hands, gritting his teeth with each one. Crosshair, ever the rear guard, watched from behind, but his silence was sharp, eyes flicking everywhere.

Hunter’s voice echoed through the narrow stone corridor. “Check every ledge. Every outcropping.”

“She could’ve hit a rock shelf and rolled,” Echo said, carefully scanning below. “Or worse…”

“Don’t,” Wrecker said. “Don’t even say it. She’s alive. She has to be.”

They moved deeper into the ravine—until the beam of Hunter’s light caught something.

“Wait,” Tech whispered, grabbing Echo’s arm.

There—thirty feet below them, half-buried under collapsed shale and bloodied stone—was a figure.

Your figure.

You were sprawled on your side, your body twisted unnaturally, one leg crushed beneath a slab of rock. Blood soaked through your jacket. Your head had struck something hard—too hard—and you weren’t moving.

Hunter nearly dropped the lantern.

“[Y/N]—!”

He was down the rest of the way before anyone could stop him, crashing to his knees beside you.

“Don’t move her!” Echo shouted, sliding in behind. “Not yet. Let me check—”

But Hunter’s hands were already trembling as they hovered over you, too afraid to touch. Too afraid that this—this fragile, broken thing—was all that was left.

“She’s breathing,” Echo said. “Shallow. Pulse is—kriff—irregular. She’s lost a lot of blood.”

Wrecker dropped beside them, tears already streaking the dust on his cheeks.

“Is she—? She’s gonna make it, right? Echo?”

“She’s unconscious,” Echo said quietly. “And we need to get her out now.”

“Spinal trauma is possible,” Tech added, eyes locked on his scanner. “Multiple fractures. Her femur is broken—bleeding into the tissue. Concussion. Rib damage. Internal bleeding likely.”

Crosshair didn’t come any closer. He stood just at the edge of the light, staring down at you with an unreadable expression.

“You said she was dead,” Wrecker growled, voice shaking.

Crosshair didn’t respond.

Because he knew now—death would’ve been kinder than this.

The med evac was chaotic.

Hunter carried you the entire climb back—refused to let anyone else even try. He held you close to his chest like something fragile, as if you’d fall again if he let go. Your blood had soaked through his armor by the time they reached the surface.

Back on the Marauder, the team worked together in silent urgency. Wrecker helped secure you to the gurney. Echo and Tech patched what they could. Crosshair kept watch, pacing like a trapped animal.

And Hunter… he sat beside you.

His hands were covered in your blood.

“I should’ve caught you,” he whispered.

No one argued. No one corrected him.

Because part of them believed it too.

You twitched in your sleep once—just a small movement, a flicker of pain across your brow—and Hunter nearly leapt out of his seat.

“She moved!” he barked.

“She’s still unconscious,” Tech reminded. “That doesn’t guarantee cognition. The swelling in her brain—”

“I don’t care what the scans say,” Hunter growled. “She’s fighting.”

He reached down and brushed a blood-matted strand of hair from your face.

“You hear me?” he whispered, voice cracking. “You hold on. You fight like you always do. You’re not going to leave us like this.”

Wrecker sat on the floor beside the cot, staring at your hand dangling off the edge.

“You’re not allowed to die, okay?” he said, softly, almost childlike. “You still owe me a rematch.”

Echo leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched tight. “She shouldn’t have been the one to fall. It should’ve been—”

“Don’t,” Tech said, just as quiet. “We all blame ourselves. That’s not useful now.”

Only Crosshair said nothing.

But later—when the others had finally dozed off in shifts, and the med droid was running scans—he sat beside you alone.

“Idiots, all of them,” he muttered. “They think they lost you. I know better.”

He rested his hand beside yours.

“You’re not dead. You’re just too damn stubborn.”

There was a pause.

“…So come back. Or I’ll never forgive you.”

You didn’t wake up that night. Or the next.

But your vitals held.

You were still fighting.

And the squad—your family—never left your side.

⸻

It started with a sound.

A weak, choked wheeze from the medbay.

Wrecker heard it first—he’d been sitting on the floor beside your cot for the past hour, humming under his breath and telling you stories like he had every day since they pulled you from the ravine.

But when he heard your breathing stutter—heard that awful, wet gasp—he was on his feet in an instant.

“Tech!”

Footsteps thundered in from the cockpit.

Tech was there in seconds, datapad in one hand, expression already shifting from calculation to panic.

“Vitals are dropping. Pulse erratic. Respiratory distress—dammit—her lung may have collapsed.”

The med droid whirred a warning in binary, and Tech shoved it aside, already working to stabilize you. Wrecker stood frozen, fists clenched at his sides, helpless as machines blared and blood began soaking through your bandages again.

“She was getting better,” Wrecker whispered. “She was breathing normal yesterday. You said she was stabilizing!”

“I said her vitals were holding,” Tech snapped, voice tight and uncharacteristically sharp. “I also said we didn’t know the full extent of internal damage yet. The concussion is worsening. There’s pressure building against her brainstem. Her body is going into systemic shock.”

“Then fix it!” Wrecker’s voice cracked. “You fix everything! Please—”

Tech’s hands moved fast, too fast—grabbing gauze, recalibrating IV drips, re-administering stimulants. But beneath the precision was fear. A gnawing, brittle kind of fear that made his fingers shake.

“I’m trying,” Tech said, barely above a whisper now. “I’m trying, Wrecker.”

Your body jerked suddenly—just a twitch, but it sent a ripple of panic through them both.

Tech cursed under his breath. “She needs proper medical facilities. A bacta tank. A neuro-regeneration suite. This ship is not equipped to handle this kind of trauma long-term.”

“So what, we just wait and watch her die?” Wrecker whispered.

“No!” Tech snapped, louder this time. “We don’t let her die.”

He slammed his fist down on the console—just once—but the sound echoed like a gunshot through the Marauder. Wrecker flinched. Tech never lost control. Never raised his voice. Never made a sound unless it meant something.

And now, he looked like he was about to break.

“I’ve calculated a thousand outcomes,” Tech murmured, softer now. “And every variable keeps changing. Her body is unpredictable. She’s unstable. But she’s also resilient. She’s survived things that should’ve killed her ten times over.”

He looked up then, eyes glassy behind his goggles.

“But if we don’t find a way to get her real care—soon—we will lose her.”

Wrecker turned away, one massive hand covering his face. He’d never felt so useless. Not when they’d crashed on Ordo. Not when they’d been stranded on Ryloth. Never like this.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I’m strong. I can carry her. Fight for her. But I can’t fix her, Tech. I can’t even hold her without hurting her worse.”

Tech approached quietly, placing a hand on Wrecker’s shoulder—a rare gesture.

“You are helping,” he said. “You’re keeping her tethered. She needs that. She needs us.”

The med console beeped—soft, steady. A pause.

Then a spike.

Her heart rate surged. Your head tilted slightly to the side. Blood trickled from your nose. Another alarm.

“No, no, no—stay with us,” Tech muttered, already grabbing the stabilizer. “Don’t go. Not yet.”

Wrecker dropped to his knees beside you, voice trembling.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You don’t get to leave like this. You didn’t even finish your story about the time you pantsed Crosshair in front of the general. Remember that?”

He sniffed, brushing a strand of hair from your sweat-slicked face. “You said you’d tell me how you pulled it off without getting court-martialed. Said you’d sing me that dumb lullaby you like. Said you’d stay.”

Your fingers twitched.

A tiny movement. Almost nothing.

But Wrecker gasped.

“She moved!”

Tech’s head snapped up. “What?”

“She moved! Her hand—right here—she twitched.”

Tech scanned you again. “Neurological activity spiked. Minimal, but—”

You let out a weak, pained breath.

Another wheeze. Then a garbled sound—almost like a word, trapped somewhere deep in your throat.

“…H-Hun…ter…”

Both men froze.

Tears filled Wrecker’s eyes.

“She said his name…”

“She’s still in there,” Tech whispered, blinking quickly. “Cognitive reflexes are initiating. That’s… that’s something.”

He turned to Wrecker, and for once, there was nothing cold or clinical in his tone.

“There’s still time.”

They kept watch through the night. Neither slept.

Wrecker read to you from the old datapad you always teased him for hoarding.

Tech adjusted your vitals every hour, even when nothing had changed, just to keep his hands busy.

And in the silence between beeping monitors and heavy breaths, they both spoke to you—about nothing, about everything.

Wrecker told you about the time he and you almost got arrested on Corellia for stealing bad caf. How your laugh had made him feel human again.

Tech told you the probability of your survival was now sitting at 18.6%, up from 9%. And that statistically, if anyone could beat the odds, it was you.

Wrecker chuckled through his tears. “Told you, didn’t I? Too stubborn to die.”

Tech looked down at your still hand, then whispered—just once—“Please… don’t.”

⸻

The Marauder was silent.

Tech had finally collapsed from exhaustion in the co-pilot seat, goggles askew, still clutching the datapad with your vitals. Wrecker was curled on the floor next to your bed, snoring lightly with one hand near yours. Crosshair sat with his back to the far wall, arms crossed, eyes closed—but not asleep.

And Echo stayed awake.

He always did.

He was seated at your bedside, one cybernetic hand gently resting on the edge of the cot. The hum of the ship’s systems filled the space between the heart monitor’s steady rhythm. Your breathing—still shallow, but no longer ragged—was the only music Echo needed.

He hadn’t moved for hours.

You’d gotten worse. Then better. Then worse again. And through all of it, he’d held on. Let the others break. Let them rage. He had to be the one who didn’t fall apart.

But now, as he sat alone in the flickering light, his thumb brushed your bandaged hand—and he whispered, “You can’t keep scaring us like this.”

Your lips moved.

Barely.

He straightened. “Hey…?”

Your fingers twitched under his hand.

Your head shifted slightly on the pillow, a soft whimper escaping your throat. Your eyelashes fluttered—slow, disoriented, like your mind hadn’t caught up to your body.

“Hey.” Echo leaned closer, voice trembling now. “Come on… come on, mesh’la. You’re safe.”

Your eyes opened.

Just a sliver at first. Squinting into the low light.

“…Echo…?”

It was a rasp, a whisper, but it was real.

Echo’s mouth fell open.

And for the first time since the fall—since the screaming, the blood, the race against time—his composure cracked.

You blinked slowly, pain visible behind your glazed eyes. “W-Where…?”

“Still on the Marauder. We haven’t moved. We couldn’t.” His voice was low and hoarse. “You weren’t stable enough.”

Your brow furrowed faintly. “Hurts.”

“I know.” He gently adjusted your oxygen mask, smoothing your hair back. “You took a hell of a fall.”

You tried to shift, but your body betrayed you—wracked with weakness, ribs aching, limbs sluggish.

Echo placed a firm hand on your shoulder. “Don’t move yet. Please. Just stay still.”

You obeyed—too tired to fight it.

“I thought…” You coughed, eyes fluttering. “Thought I heard Wrecker crying.”

Echo actually smiled, though his eyes were wet. “Yeah. That happened.”

You let out the faintest exhale—almost a laugh. “He’s a big softie.”

“Only for you,” Echo whispered, squeezing your hand carefully. “You scared him half to death.”

There was a long pause.

You looked up at him, brow knitting again.

“…You thought I was gone, didn’t you?”

Echo’s throat tightened. “We all did.”

“But you stayed.”

“Of course I stayed.”

Your gaze lingered on him. He looked exhausted. Hollowed out. His prosthetic arm twitched like he’d been clenching it too long.

“You haven’t slept.”

He laughed quietly—bitter and warm all at once. “Didn’t want to miss this.”

Another silence.

And then, so faint it barely reached him, you whispered—

“…I’m sorry.”

Echo stared at you, stunned.

“For what?” he breathed.

“For falling. For worrying you. For being weak.”

His expression broke. “No.”

He leaned in, voice rough. “Don’t ever say that. You didn’t fall because you were weak. You fell because the ground gave out. Because war is cruel. Because life isn’t fair.”

He blinked back tears. “But you lived. And that means more than anything.”

Your vision blurred—not from injury this time, but from the emotion in his voice.

He looked at you like you were the most important thing in the galaxy.

“I thought I lost you,” he said. “And I wasn’t ready.”

You let your eyes close again, overwhelmed by exhaustion—but you smiled softly through cracked lips.

“I’m here.”

He pressed his forehead gently to your hand, exhaling a shaky breath.

“You’re here.”

When the others returned—when Hunter stumbled in and dropped to his knees, when Wrecker cried again, when Crosshair stood frozen for a full minute, just staring—you were already asleep.

But Echo met Hunter’s gaze.

And nodded.

“She woke up.”

A brief kiss in the mornings, or sitting close enough that your knees touch. He even lets you sit on his lap while he's working sometimes. He does these things consciously because he's noticed that they matter to you, even if they don't come very naturally to him. He does enjoy your reactions, though. He likes the way your shoulders relax when he presses his lips to your temple, and the way the corner of your mouth quirks up when he laces your fingers together. And he especially likes the way your breath catches when he kisses you deeper than you expect. It's not instinctive for him, but it's very deliberate.

One day, though, something's different. He kisses you, and you respond just as he expected: a soft sound and a little lean forward. But you pull away first this time, which is unusual, and there's something thoughtful in your expression that gives him pause.

"You stopped," he points out obviously, not in an accusatory manner but more of a questioning one.

You nod faintly. Your hands are still resting on his chest, but you're not leaning into him the way you usually do. "I was thinking," you explain vaguely.

He tilts his head to the side, studying your face, trying to figure out what he's missed. "Did I do something incorrectly?"

"No," you respond immediately, hands drifting up to rest on his shoulders instead. "Not at all. You did…well, you're just as perfect as you usually are."

His cheeks warm at the compliment, but he doesn't allow it to distract him. "Then what is the issue?"

You hesitate, glancing away as you consider how to word your explanation. "I just…wonder if maybe you overthink this."

He opens his mouth to respond, but you continue before he has the opportunity. "I don't mean that badly. You've put so much effort into figuring out what I like and I love it. I maybe wonder if I should try harder to do that for you."

His brow furrows as he catches your meaning. "That is not necessary. My preferences are--"

"--different," you finish gently. "I know. That doesn't mean you don't have them."

He pauses, considering. His fingers flex against your waist.

"I…have not identified any strong inclination towards physical affection," he says slowly, something he's said to you several times before.

You nod again, leaning into him a little. "Not the same way I do, but I know how you react. There are still things that you like."

He opens his mouth, a dismissive statement on his tongue, but he catches himself. You're right, objectively. But before he can formulate an alternative response, you're leaning in again to close the distance. You don't kiss him right away; instead, you stop just short of his mouth, close enough that he can feel your breath, letting the intentional pause make the act of NOT kissing almost more intense than actually kissing him would be. He swallows, studying you closely, his gaze falling inadvertently to your lips. You catch that, and tilt your head to press a kiss just beside his mouth instead of on it.

His breath stutters just faintly.

You try again, even slower, tracing the edge of his jaw with your lips, giving him time to process each point of contact. Your hands remain on his shoulders, thumbs moving back and forth softly. You keep trailing your lips against his skin until you reach the corner of his jaw and press a kiss to the sensitive spot below his ear.

His grip on your waist tightens in response, before he's even realized he's done it. The reaction startles him almost more than the contact itself.

"That," you murmur against his neck, a smile in your voice, "wasn't a neutral reaction."

His throat bobs as he swallows. "I did not consciously intend--"

"I know." You pull away just enough to give him a pleased look. "That's kind of the point."

You kiss his neck again, even slower this time, even more intentionally. Tech can feel his control slipping slowly, and by the time you finally bring your mouth up to his, he's prepared to kiss you back with real intent. He's following your lead this time, less focused on your reactions and more on letting you draw them from him.

You angle your mouth slightly off-center, and when his lips part, you deepen the kiss just enough to make his breath stutter. You're determined to figure out exactly what to do to make him let go, make him stop overthinking, find a way to show him just how appealing this can be.

When you nip lightly at his lower lip, he groans and pulls you in closer. That sends a thrill through you, even as he seems to catch himself, his breath uneven as his mind scrambles. But you don't give him the opportunity to find a framework that allows him to go back to his usual analytical focus. You press in again instead, your fingers sliding up to curl at the back of his neck. You kiss him again, deep and slow and more insistent than demanding…and something in Tech finally gives.

He exhales against your lips and kisses you back with an intensity that's surprisingly unfocused, his hand sliding from your waist to your back to pull you flush against him. You can feel the exact moment that he completely stops thinking. He tilts his head to better fit your mouth to his and the kiss turns hungry at the edges. You make a soft sound into his mouth, and he kisses you harder, chasing the reaction without any of his usual deliberation.

When you finally pull back just enough for air, he follows, lips brushing yours again and again, uncharacteristically reluctant to lose contact.

"This," he murmurs, voice rough and unsteady, "is…significantly more compelling that I anticipated."

You smile, breathless, fingers tracing gentle shapes on the back of his neck. "...I've barely done anything yet."

His breath catches, somewhere between being caught off-guard and being incredulous. "You are…" he starts, still a little hoarse, before he abandons his attempts to finish the thought and leans in again, on his own this time. You meet him halfway, leaving no time for further conscious thought.

Hunter was moving at the front of the squad as always, his steps measured and quiet despite the debris scattered across the abandoned corridor. The mission was straightforward: sweep, retrieve intel, get out. Nothing they hadn't done a hundred time before. Nothing that should've put him on edge like this, but everything felt…wrong. Too loud, too sharp, too much.

The faint drip of water somewhere deeper in the facility echoed like a hammer striking metal. The flickering overhead lights pulsed in his peripheral vision, each stutter of illumination sending a spike behind his eyes. Even the air felt thick, stale and chemical-laced, tinged with rust and something acrid he couldn't quite place. Hunter inhaled slowly through his nose, trying to ground himself the way he always did. It didn't help.

"Clear on the left," Tech's voice came from behind him, calm and precise as he studied the facility layout on his datapad.

Hunter flinched. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but it was there. The statement had come in too suddenly and he hadn't expected it, for some reason. What was wrong with him today?

"You good, Hunter?" Wrecker asked from behind him, his heavy footsteps somehow softer than the pounding in Hunter's ears.

"Fine," Hunter replied automatically, voice a little clipped.

You noticed. Of course you did.

You had been keeping an eye on him since the moment you stepped into the outpost, the subtle stiffness in his shoulders, the way his head tilted more frequently than usual as if trying to isolate sounds that refused to separate. As the squad medic, you were trained to catch things like that: tiny deviations from baseline that others might overlook.

And Hunter, for all his strength, was not as unreadable as he liked to believe. At least, not to you.

You adjusted the strap of your medpack, your gaze never straying far from him as you followed just behind and to his right. "Hunter," you said quietly, keeping your voice low enough that it wouldn't carry, "when's the last time you actually rested?"

He didn't look at you. "I'm fine," he said again.

You exhaled softly through your nose. Of course he was going to keep saying that. Behind you, Omega edged closer, her smaller steps careful as she tried to keep pace. "He doesn't sound fine," she murmured, just to you.

Your gaze flicked back, softening for a moment. "I know," you said gently, returning your focus to him.

Echo brushed past, crouching near the sealed door ahead. "This should be the main data room. I'll slice it."

Hunter nodded, though the motion felt delayed, like his body was a fraction of a second behind his thoughts. The hum grew louder. No, that wasn't right. It wasn't louder, it was closer. Or maybe everything else was just…amplifying.

The scrape of Echo's scomp connecting to the panel screeched through Hunter's ears like tearing metal. The faint click of Tech adjusting his datapad was unbearably sharp. Even Wrecker's steady breathing seemed to echo, each faint inhale and exhale layered over itself in a way that made Hunter's mind feel heavy and clouded. He reached up, pressing his fingers against the side of his helmet where his temple was. Focus. He needed to focus. This was nothing, just a spike in sensory input. It would pass.

"Door's open," Echo said, as the seal released with a hiss.

Hunter staggered. It was slight, just a half-step, but it was enough.

Omega noticed immediately. "Hunter?"

Wrecker also frowned, taking a worried step closer. "Hey--"

"I said I'm fine," Hunter snapped, sharper than he intended, the edge in his voice cutting through the corridor.

The room beyond was dim, lit only by scattered consoles casting cold blue light across the walls. Rows of equipment lined the space, wires snaking across the floor. The smell of burnt circuitry and dust hit Hunter immediately, and made his stomach churn.

"Let's move," he said, forcing authority into his voice.

Tech and Echo headed straight for the central terminal, already discussing data extraction protocols. Wrecker took position near the entrance, taking over lookout. Omega lingered near him, but her attention never left Hunter. You stepped fully into the room, your focus narrowing to one thing: him.

He wasn't scanning the room, not really. His gaze moved, but it didn't settle. HIs breathing had shifted, still controlled but too deliberate, each inhale slightly too deep, each exhale just a little too fast. You knew that pattern.

"Hunter," you said again, softer now, stepping closer.

He didn't respond. The lights flickered, the hum surged, and suddenly…it was too much. The room seemed to tilt and sound crashed over him in waves: overlapping, indistinguishable, impossible to separate. The flickering lights strobed behind his eyes, each flash sending a spike of pain through his skull. The smell thickened, cloying and suffocating. Hunter sucked in a breath, but it didn't feel like enough. Another. Still not enough. His hands clenched at his sides.

"Hunter." Your voice cut through again. Hunter turned towards it, though the motion felt sluggish, like moving through water.

"Hey," you said quietly, stepping into his space without hesitation. "Look at me."

His gaze struggled, flickering past you like he was searching for something he couldn't find, before snapping back.

"Can I take your helmet off?"

"I--" His voice faltered. "I can't--"

"I've got you," you said, softer now. He didn't resist when you reached up and removed his helmet. The moment it came free, you took in his wide, unfocused eyes, blown pupils, his breaths coming in shallow and quick. Your chest tightened a little.

"Just look at me," you murmured, setting his helmet aside. You took his wrist, fingers settling over his too-fast pulse. You stepped closer, maybe just slightly closer than necessary, and angled yourself to block as much of the room from Hunter's view as possible.

“There you go,” you murmured, your voice low and even. “Stay with me, okay?"

His gaze locked on yours with effort. “I can’t filter it,” he managed, the words strained, uneven. “It’s--everything--”

“I know,” you cut in gently, your thumb rubbing slow circles against his pulse. “We’re not going to try to filter anything right now. That’s not your job at the moment.”

His brow furrowed, confusion seeping through the overwhelm.

“Your job,” you continued softly, “is me. Okay? Just follow my voice."

Another sharp inhale.

“Okay?” you prompted again.

It took him a second, but he nodded.

“Good. That’s enough.” You adjusted your stance just slightly, grounding yourself first, because if you weren’t steady, he wouldn’t be either. “Breathe with me,” you said. “In for four.” You inhaled slowly, deliberately, making sure he could see it, hear it. Hunter tried to match you, but the breath stuttered halfway in.

“That’s alright,” you reassured immediately. “Again. In--two, three, four.”

This time, he made it a little further.

“Hold.”

His shoulders trembled.

“Out--two, three, four.”

The exhale came out shaky, uneven, but it came out.

“Good,” you murmured. “Again.”

Gradually, his breathing began to even out. “That’s it,” you said quietly. “You’re doing exactly what you need to. Now we're going to add something else, okay? Just a little more focus."

He swallowed, but nodded.

“I want you to tell me five things you can see,” you said. “Not everything, just five. Slow.”

His gaze darted, instinctively trying to take in the whole room again. You squeezed his wrist gently. "Hey. Just what's right in front of you."

His eyes snapped back to yours. "…you," he said first, voice rough.

A small smile touched your lips, something a little soft flicking across your expression. "Good. That's one."

His gaze shifted slightly, more controlled this time. "The…the wall," he managed. "The paneling."

"Good. That's two."

"The--" he winced faintly. "--the light. Flickering."

"I know," you said sympathetically. "You're doing great. Three."

He swallowed hard. "Your…your hand."

"Four."

A pause. He nodded towards a console. "That console."

"Five," you confirmed. "Good."

His shoulders dropped a little. Across the room, everything had gone quieter. Tech and Echo were still working, but appeared to be attempting to be quiet. Wrecker and Omega had both stilled completely, watching but not interrupting.

"Now four things you can feel," you prompted.

His brow furrowed, but he obliged. "Your hand," he said again, this time more certain. "My gloves. The floor--" he shifted his weight slightly, boots scraping faintly against metal, "--under my feet."

"That's three."

He frowned, looking around, then looked at you. He reached out and squeezed your forearm. "You, then."

You exhaled through your nose, as if faintly amused, but nodded. "Good," you said softly. "That's enough."

Hunter's breathing had slowed to something closer to normal now, still a little heavy but no longer frantic. The tension in his posture hadn't disappeared, but it had loosened, the rigid edge melting into something more manageable.

"I've got you," you murmured, giving his wrist a gentle, reassuring squeeze. This time, you meant more than grounding, and he felt it. His fingers tightened around your forearm, not out of panic, but something quieter. Silence stretched for a moment or two.

"…better," he finally said, voice low and a little rough around the edges.

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. "You sure?"

He nodded, seeming a little more like himself now. "Yeah. I'm sure."

"Good." You didn't move your hand right away. Neither did he. For someone who avoided help as instinctively as breathing, he wasn't pulling away. If anything, he seemed reluctant to release the contact, like it was the one thing keeping everything steady. So you didn't take it from him.

"You should've said something," you said quietly, not scolding, just honest.

His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to you. "I thought I could push through it," he admitted.

You huffed a soft breath. "You always think that."

A faint twitch of his lips. "I usually can."

You held his gaze. "Doesn't mean you should have to."

Something subtle shifted in his expression, like your words landed somewhere a little deeper than you'd probably intended. But before he could say anything, Echo finally straightened from the terminal across the room "Data's secured."

Reality slipped back in.

Tech glanced over, eyes flicking between you and Hunter. "We can delay exfiltration by several minutes if necessary."

Hunter inhaled once more, and then finally reluctantly released your arm. "I'm good," he said, this time sounding like he actually meant it.

You studied him for a second, then gave a small nod. "Okay," you said simply, releasing his wrist and stepping back to give him space. He reached for his helmet, shooting you a glance, something soft that lingered just a second too long to be accidental, before slipping the helmet back on. Then he straightened, rolling his shoulders, stepping back into position at the front of the squad.

As you moved behind him, he slowed his steps just enough to be able to lean close to you and murmur, quiet enough that only you would hear, "…stay close."

You glanced at him. "Always do."

A beat of silence before he added, quieter still: "…thank you."

You smiled faintly, adjusting your medpack as you fell into step beside him instead of behind. "Anytime, Hunter."

Clone Wars:

There's a recklessness to him that makes dating him during this period so frustrating. He trusts his own abilities completely and genuinely believes he'll always be fine. You'd spend a lot of time worrying about him, and he'd spend a lot of time rolling his eyes at that worry. He's a soldier, this is what he was made for, he's survived every battle, he's fine. Doesn't really occur to him that watching him be thrown into danger over and over is, you know, stressful/painful

Kind of even more of a menace? He's confident and comfortable in his place within the squad and still operating under the assumption that he knows eactly who he is. Half the time he's picking fights because he's bored and wants your attention. The other half he's testing boundaries and trying to figure out how much you'll tolerate before you walk away. Truly so annoying and antagonistic in a very youngest sibling sort of way

He wants to be needed. He'd rather die than admit it, but he absolutely wants it. He bases a lot of his worth off of how capable/useful he is, and he wants to be useful to you. Likes being the person you ask for help. Likes when you seek him out first. If someone else solves your problem before he gets the chance, he'll pretend he doesn't care while being really secretly annoyed about it

Vulnerability from him is…extremely rare. If he's struggling with something, you're probably not finding out. He'll just be even snarkier/meaner than usual and won't tell you why. He doesn't know how to let people help him/take care of him. If he's injured, he's brushing you off (you hear "I get shot all the time" with an eye roll WAY too often). If he's upset, he's turning it into sarcasm. You spend a lot of time learning how to read into the things he isn't saying

Kinda competitive with you. If you share any skills he's turning them into contests and then being really frustratingly smug whenever he wins. If you beat him, he'll spend hours pretending to be unbothered while also obsessing over it

Really good listener though and really does care about you/getting to know you and remembers everything you say to him/tell him about yourself. Prefers listening to you talk than actually talking himself. He really does care about you but is still figuring out how he's comfortable expressing that

Initiates physical affection fairly often, but it's usually disguised as something else. Very awkward and dismissive of outright tenderness so he hides inside confidence and teasing. There's essentially this weird mix of confidence and insecurity that he refuses to acknowledge and it often makes his affection come off as overly casual or a little demanding

He's very controlled about affection and kissing. Likes making you wait for it. Rarely lets himself really get lost in a kiss, prefers to be very deliberate and deep to make sure you're the one left breathless first. He does have a little bit of an obsession with your mouth and neck and likes to use his teeth too, little nips to your bottom lip or your jaw because he likes the way you gasp

Leans more dominant here because he's pretty averse to/awkward with vulnerability and sex is easier for him if he's the one in control. Pretty inexperienced and doesn't EVER want you to catch on to that and honestly he kinda overcompensates for it a little bit. Prefers positions where you're underneath him

One of the primary ways he exercises control over you sexually is through teasing/edging/denial. Really loves bringing you right up to the edge and then stopping and making you beg. Makes him really smug

The softest you'll see him is right after sex tho when he's tired and still catching his breath. Will reach out and grip your hand and just kinda wanna lie there with you for a minute. You MIGHT even get him to mumble that he loves you if you're lucky. Then probably just like sits up and starts smoking or some shit

Pabu:

Falls in love a lot more slowly and a lot more deeply. Has more things that he really looks for/cares about. Trust and loyalty have always been huge for him, but ESPECIALLY so now.

Obviously, it's difficult/taxing for Crosshair to try to actually process the years of grief, guilt, trauma, and uncertainty. Is kinda hyperalert often despite not needing to be anymore. He gets lost in thought a lot more. Sometimes you'll ask what he's thinking about and he'll struggle to answer because half the time he barely knows himself, there's just a lot

He still struggles with letting himself be taken care of, but he lets you do it anyway now. He grumbles when you fuss over him, complains that you're being ridiculous and insists that he's fine, but he lets himself take comfort in it, which he didn't really let himself do before

He really craves understanding and a safe place to be vulnerable, even if he's still often very guarded about it. He's carrying enough now that the relationship would be complicated in a lot of ways it wasn't before since certain topics might shut him down, certain memories leave him quieter than usual, maybe he has bad nights where he's kept up by nightmares, and things that never used to bother him suddenly do. Like there are little triggers scattered throughout daily life that you just have to learn to be aware of. If you're able to be a source of stability and understanding and comfort without him needing to ask, it helps him SO MUCH

Becomes very attached to routines with you. Morning caf, evening walks, kinda mundane stuff that just gives him some stability. If the usual routine gets interrupted he's very irritable lol

Still makes fun of you constantly and bickering is pretty much his love language. There's always an underlying warmth to it though. He just likes seeing your reactions tbh

Despite everything he's kind of a better partner now than he was before because he's figuring out that he doesn't have to earn your love through usefulness or strength. He's more ready to let you see parts of him that he would've previously done everything in his power to hide.

Physical affection is more about trust and understanding now and he uses it to communicate with you a lot. It's often more subtle than before and usually a little softer than he would've let himself be before too. There's not as much insecurity there anymore and he doesn't feel the need to overcompensate by being demanding or overly controlled about it

Kisses are still very deliberate but there are now times when he'll let himself kinda melt into them. Might lean his forehead against yours first, just breathing you in before kissing you with a deep, quiet hunger

Letting go of the burden of control becomes a relief for him and he finds he really likes if you're in control during sex sometimes. It's a way for him to express how much he trusts you. Sometimes really just wants to be helpless beneath you while you pleasure him :)

Still a MASSIVE tease, just really likes getting you all worked up and desperate, but he also just really likes drawing things out for as long as possible

Lets himself get more vulnerable during sex now and honestly sometimes gets really emotional and even a lil pathetic. Lots of desperation, chases the pleasure a lot, but there's a lot of intimacy and trust there too which means a lot to him

Tag List: