#brotherly

brotherly! ⸻ a term for presenting brotherly/in a brother-like way!

sibling-like! ⸻ a term for presenting in a sibling-like way!

sisterly! ⸻ a term for presenting sisterly/in a sister-like way!

symbol source (link)!

for anon!

I'll let this one speak for itself :>

Crosshair X M!Reader (platonic/brotherly) Word Count: 1,489

Tags: fluff, comfort, platonic, intended to be brotherly (NOT INCEST)

Summary: It's been a while since The Bad Batch have been able to take a rest from missions on their home world of Kamino. But reader can't help but notice that things are changing, especially within the world of Clones. He seeks comfort in his brother Crosshair on the long journey home through hyperspace.

A/N: this is a self-indulgent one-shot I wrote for myself but I thought that maybe some others in the fandom could use the comfort from the ending of The Bad Batch. Enjoy!

Another long mission, another long flight back to Kamino, another sleepless night in the cock-pit of the Marauder. I was sitting in the cockpit, my legs up on the dashboard watching the light from the stars flash by us as we jumped through hyperspace. It was calming, serene, a gentle break from all the blaster fire, destruction and pressure of our missions. I was born to be a soldier, but this life was starting to feel less and less like mine. I’m starting to notice our disposability, it urks me, but there is nothing I can do about it, which bothers me even more.

As I continue to stare into hyperspace I feel a disturbance beside me. A creak confirmed my suspicion as the seat to my left now had the body of one of my brothers slumped into it.

“Tech’s not going to appreciate you having your boots on the dash.”

I shrug, “What he doesn’t know won’t kill him”

“Do you ever actually sleep?” Crosshair’s deep voice rattled out again.

“Do you?” I retort without looking at him.

He huffs continuing on whatever conversational path he had planned out in his mind.

“Your thinking too much again, aren’t you” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. Blunt and plain.

But not without a hint of concern, something our brothers often miss when talking to Crosshair, I can hear it, the underlying emotions in his speech that our brothers cannot.

“How can I not-“ I respond “- its in my code, my programming” I knock on my head, a dull thud sounding back.

I sigh and continue to watch the stars as they whizz past us, focusing on one flash of light until it's gone and then focusing on the next, I can feel my eyes flitting around in their sockets. He sighs as well and I see him, in my peripherals, lean forward, elbows on his knees, chin resting on the fingers of his curled-over shooting hand.

“What is it this time?”

“Us” I say darkly

“Us?”

“Us, our purpose, our reasoning, our next mission for the republic, us” I elaborate numbly.

He’s heard this all before and every time he tries to convince me that the Republic will always have a purpose for us, they made us, and they need us. The same old bullshit. He never sees how they treat our brothers. We come and go too quickly and our names just become numbers in a data bank, dust that litters the battlefields of the galaxy.

Crosshair maintains the silence without giving me one of his usually patriotic responses. I listen to his breaths, the nasally sound as his lungs push the filtered air of the ship in and out. As I’m watching the stars go by I don’t notice that Crosshair has stood up and walked over to my seat, I am too lost, in space and in my own mind. I nearly jump out of my seat when he puts a hand on my shoulder. Out of reflex I immediately turn and grab his wrist forcing it back.

“Shit” he cries and I let go of his wrist instantly

“Damnit it Crosshair…sorry” I mutter

“No, that one was my fault”

I inhale sharply and close my eyes for a moment, hugging my arms to myself before blinking them back open. Crosshair is still standing there, though noticeably a pace or so back from my chair. He looks at the ground thinking a moment before he looks at me and nods his head in the direction of our shared room. If you could even call it that.

I was the second biggest compartment of the ship aside from Storage, it was deck out with standard issue barrack bunks, with a few personal touches of course. Wrecker and Tech on one set, Wrecker's bunk is always decorated with Lula sitting in the corner by his head and Tech, as usual, has fallen asleep with his data pad hanging loosely from his fingers. The next is Hunter and Crosshair’s bunk, Hunter’s bandana hangs on the edge of his bed and Crosshair's bunk is empty, though I know he keeps a chest under his bed with some nicknacks from missions and planets we have visited, but I never bring it up. And lastly, Echo and I, Echo’s bed is also empty and mine is covered in a few bits of graffiti here and there.

My bunk is on the bottom which is why I assume that Crosshair is gesturing towards my bunk instead of his own. He climbs into my bunk and gestures for me to follow. The notion takes me aback slightly, none of us have had to share a bunk since we were younglings, not out of necessity or choice. We used to do it when we were still developing in the Kaminoan facility, making sure to stay close to one another. Minus Echo of course, we weren’t joined by him until much later. But Crosshair had always been off put by the idea of sharing sleeping quarters when there was an option to sleep apart, even when we were kids, so this gesture was not something that was normal for him to so willingly offer.

However it would seem that Crosshair could see what kind of struggle I was facing in my head, my programming though good for tactical advantages and strategy is not ideal for anything else. Maybe my state had become more noticeable as of late. I would need to make sure to rein that in as to not screw up future mission.

I climb in beside him in my bunk and he shuffles over so that his arm is bent underneath me. I rest my head on his chest and once I’m settled he curls his arm over my shoulder and cups the back of my head, placing his gloveless fingers into the mess that is my hair. The softness of the touch from his hand takes me by surprise, it was unlike him to be so gentle. He was swift, aggressive and tactical, it was his design. But his nature was not his design, he could be gentle, and he was very calm at times when he chose to be. I know this, and yet still the gesture does not fit with the image I have of my brother.

My head rests on his torso, right where the red marking that we all share on our breastplates would be. His heart thrumming a steady rhythm under his ribs, I follow the sound in my head, counting the time between each beat thump bump thump bump thump bump. The sound of it and the gentle but sturdy feeling of his torso underneath my chest had made me feel safer than I ever had. All I had known was War but this…this made me feel like I could have faith in the hope of life after war, maybe one where me and my brothers have freedom and true autonomy.

I divert my attention to his hand in my hair and focus on the bend of his fingers that are cupped around my head. The smoothness of his palm. Maybe tonight won’t be a sleepless night after all. I know how the brain responds to stimuli that are connected to memories and feelings of being safe, but I know all of that in theory. Not in practice.

Following this train of thought my mind wanders and I get lost, staring into the wall above Wrecker's head on the other side of the compartment. Briefly I wonder if Crosshair needs this as much as I do, and he’s using me as an excuse and guise to get this attention he needs, whatever the case I am happy to give it, not only for myself but for him. I know what Crosshair is like, he never takes care of himself, he takes better care of his rifle than he does his own mind and body.

I am pulled out of these thoughts, my eyes suddenly refocusing as his other hand comes into view of my face. I think that maybe he is just moving in his sleep and waiting for him to settle down again, but he isn’t moving like he’s asleep, his hand is moving lightly towards my face, almost as if cautious. He is still awake. His hand finally come to rest on my cheek, the barest contact between my face and his hand, but he holds it nonetheless and whispers something

“You’re a good kid” I bite my lip at his statement, and my eyes begin to sting. What the hell am I crying for?

‘It’s the stimuli to positive attention after an absence of it’ I remind myself.

I breathe deeply and absently I nuzzle into his hand and hum contentedly. And with that, at least for tonight, I am at peace and drift off to sleep.