#ct 9902

The Marauder’s cockpit was quiet except for the soft hum of idle systems and the occasional beep from Tech’s datapad.

Tech had been staring at the same sensor data for the past eleven minutes, his eyes tracking the numbers without actually processing them. He was waiting, though he would never admit that to himself. Waiting implied expectation, and expectation implied hope, and hope was a variable Tech preferred not to factor into his calculations.

Except you had come to the cockpit every night for the past six nights. The pattern was established. The data was clear.

The probability of your arrival sat cleanly at eighty-nine percent.

Then he heard your footsteps in the corridor. Right on schedule. You were as predictable as orbital mechanics, and Tech found that reassuring in ways he could not quite quantify.

The cockpit door slid open.

You stepped inside without a word, moving to the co-pilot’s seat like you had done this a hundred times instead of just six. You settled in with a quiet exhale, drawing your knees up and wrapping your arms around them.

Tech did not look at you directly. That was the agreement the two of you had developed without ever discussing it: silence, no expectations, just existing in the same space while the rest of the ship slept. His datapad glowed in the dim lighting, casting blue across his face.

You shifted in your seat, and Tech’s awareness zeroed in on the sound despite his best efforts to focus on his screen. Usually the silence was immediate and total, but tonight felt different, charged somehow, like the air before a lightning strike.

Tech’s thumb hovered over his datapad, not quite touching the screen. He could feel you looking at him, and his heart rate increased about twelve percent.

“Tech?” Your voice was soft, careful, like you were testing the weight of breaking your established pattern.

Tech’s hand tightened on the datapad. “Yes?”

He still did not look at you, could not look at you, because if he did he would see whatever expression you were wearing, and that expression might undo every carefully constructed defense he had built around these quiet nights together.

“Can I ask you something?”

Tech’s throat went dry. This was new territory. You had never initiated conversation during these sessions, never asked questions. The silence had been safe and easy, but now you were changing the parameters and Tech had no data for how to proceed.

“Of course,” he said, aiming for calm and landing slightly strained.

Silence stretched between you. Tech counted his heartbeats. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.

“What are you working on?” you finally asked.

Tech blinked. That was your question? Not why he spent every night alone in the cockpit or why he never joined the others in the hold or any of the hundred more invasive questions you could have asked? Relief and disappointment warred in his chest.

“Maintenance protocols,” he said, which was true in the most technical sense. “Reviewing system efficiency reports.”

“At twenty-three hundred hours?”

“The time of day is irrelevant to data analysis.”

He heard rather than saw your small smile. Something in the quality of your breathing changed. Perhaps a slight laugh.

“You do this every night,” you observed.

Tech’s fingers stilled on the datapad. “The Marauder requires consistent monitoring.”

“Hunter doesn’t monitor it every night.”

“Hunter has different priorities.”

“And yours are…?”

Sitting here hoping you will show up so I can pretend I am not completely alone with my thoughts. Making sure everyone survives another day. Trying not to think about all the ways today’s mission could have gone wrong. Memorizing the sound of your footsteps so I know when you are near.

“Ensuring optimal ship performance,” Tech said instead.

Another pause. Then: “Can I see what you are looking at?”

His hands moved before his mind could catch up, angling the datapad toward you.

You leaned forward to look, and suddenly you were closer. Much closer. Close enough that Tech could see the faint shadows under your eyes and smell whatever soap you used and feel the warmth radiating from your shoulder nearly touching his.

“These are power consumption rates?” you asked, pointing at a column of numbers.

“Yes. Each system’s energy draw over the past forty-eight hours. I am identifying areas where we can improve efficiency.”

“This one here,” your finger traced a line on the screen, “The environmental controls. They are using more power than the others.”

“Correct.” Tech pulled up a secondary screen from the ship’s console, trying to focus on data instead of the fact that you were right there and actually seemed interested in power consumption analytics. “The starboard crew quarters has a faulty seal. The system is compensating by working harder to maintain temperature.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Yes. It requires approximately thirty minutes and standard tools.”

You hummed thoughtfully, still studying the screen. “You notice everything, don’t you?”

Tech’s chest tightened. It was not a question, not really, but it felt like one, like you were asking something deeper than whether he noticed power fluctuations.

“It is necessary,” he said quietly. “Small problems compound. A faulty seal becomes a system failure. A system failure becomes a mission compromise.”

If I do not notice, people die. If I do not pay attention to every detail, I lose the people I care about. If I am not hypervigilant every moment, something will slip through and it will be my fault.

“That sounds exhausting,” you said softly.

Tech’s jaw tightened. “It is simply how my mind works.”

“I know.” Your voice carried something warm. “I wasn’t criticizing. I was just… observing.”

You pulled back slightly, and Tech’s shoulder felt cold where your warmth had been.

“I like watching you work,” you continued, and Tech’s entire thought process derailed. “You get this focused expression. Like nothing else in the galaxy exists except whatever problem you are solving.”

Tech stared at his datapad. You liked watching him work. You had been observing him enough to notice his expressions, and you were telling him this at twenty-three hundred hours in the quiet of the cockpit like it was a casual piece of information and not something that would replay in his mind for the next several weeks.

“I…” His voice failed him. Start over. Organize your thoughts. Respond like a functional human being.

“Thank you,” he managed. “That is… I am pleased that my work ethic is noticeable.”

You laughed quietly, and the sound did something devastating to his cardiovascular system.

“Your work ethic,” you repeated, and there was something teasing in your tone. “Sure. That’s what I meant.”

Tech had no idea what you actually meant, and his brain was too busy malfunctioning to calculate the possibilities. He pulled his datapad back and pulled up another screen just to have something to do with his hands.

“Why do you come here?” The question escaped before he could stop it. “Every night. To the cockpit.”

Silence filled the space between you, and Tech immediately regretted asking. He had broken the unspoken rule, questioned the pattern instead of simply accepting it, and now you would realize how pathetic it was that he noticed, that he counted the minutes until you arrived, that your presence had become the only thing that made the late hours bearable.

“Because you’re here,” you said simply.

Tech’s hands froze on the datapad.

His mind raced through possible interpretations. You came because he was here. Because you wanted to be where he was. Because his presence was somehow desirable rather than merely tolerable.

The data did not make sense.

“I am here every night,” he said carefully. “It would be more logical to spend your rest hours sleeping.”

“Probably,” you agreed. “But I like it here.”

Here. With me. You like being here with me.

Tech’s throat felt tight.

“The cockpit does provide optimal solitude,” he managed.

“That’s not why I like it.”

His heart was doing something arrhythmic and entirely outside standard protocol. Not that he and his brothers usually followed standard protocol anyways.

“Then why?” The question came out quieter than he intended.

You were silent for a long moment, and Tech risked a glance at your face.

You were already looking at him, your expression soft in the blue glow of the instruments. Something in your eyes made his breath catch.

“Because it’s peaceful,” you said. “And because you don’t expect me to be anything other than what I am. I can just… exist. Without speaking…. or performing, or explaining or trying to fit.”

Tech understood that feeling more than he could articulate.

“I find your presence similarly comfortable,” he managed, but knew it was an insurmountable understatement.

I find these nights with you are the only time my mind quiets.

Your smile was small and genuine.

“Good,” you said. “Because I’ve been worried I was bothering you.”

“Bothering me?” Tech’s voice came out sharper than intended. “No. You are not… you could not…”

He trailed off, struggling to find words adequate for the magnitude of how wrong that assumption was.

“You are welcome here,” he said finally, firmly. “Always.”

The word hung between you. Always. Infinite. Absolute. Your expression softened into something that made Tech’s chest ache.

You settled back into your seat, pulling your knees up again, and Tech tried to remember what he had been doing before this conversation rewrote his entire neural pathway. Right. Maintenance logs. Power consumption. Things that made sense.

Except now he could not focus on any of it because you were still here and you had said you liked being here with him and his mind was entirely occupied with processing that information.

Minutes passed in comfortable quiet. Tech pulled up his sensor calibration data, the same screen he had been staring at for the past hour, and made a valiant effort to actually read it this time.

“Tech?”

His attention snapped to you immediately. “Yes?”

“Can I ask you something else?”

His pulse spiked. “Of course.”

You shifted slightly, and there was something nervous in the movement that put Tech on high alert.

“Before you left the Empire,” you started slowly, “before all of this… what was your life like?”

Tech’s entire body went still.

Of all the questions. Of all the topics. You had chosen the one that required him to excavate parts of himself he preferred to keep buried under layers of technical specifications and tactical analysis.

“I…” He paused, buying time by adjusting his goggles even though they did not need adjusting. “Clone Force 99 has been my unit since creation. We were designated experimental. Desirable genetic mutations enhanced our combat ability beyond what was required for standard deployment.”

He kept his voice clinical. Detached. Like he was reciting someone else’s history.

“We trained separately from the regs on Kamino. We were never integrated with the regular clone forces.” He kept his eyes trained on the screen, drowning in blue light as his throat tightened. “It was adequate for our purposes.”

It was isolating. Even among my brothers I was the strange one. Too technical. Too literal. Too much of… everything.

“Adequate,” you echoed, and there was something knowing in your voice.

“Our unit functioned with high efficiency,” Tech clarified. “We had a 100% sucess rate. That was sufficient.”

“But what about when you weren’t on missions? What did you do?”

Tech frowned. “I studied. Maintained equipment. Expanded my technical knowledge base. Standard activities.”

“For fun?”

“The activities were enjoyable.”

“But were they fun? Did you do things just because you wanted to? Not because they were useful or necessary?”

Tech opened his mouth. Closed it.

The honest answer formed in his mind but felt too vulnerable to speak aloud: I never learned how to want things that did not serve a tactical purpose.

“I watched holovids occasionally,” he offered. “Technical documentaries. Engineering analysis programs...”

Your expression shifted into something that looked uncomfortably like sympathy.

“Tech, those are still work.”

“They were informative.”

“That’s not what I meant.” You leaned forward slightly. “Did you ever just… watch something because it was entertaining? Because it made you happy?”

Happy. The word sat strangely in Tech’s mind.

“I did not prioritize entertainment,” he said carefully. “There were always more pressing concerns.”

You were quiet for a long moment, watching him with those eyes that saw too much.

“What about now?” you asked softly. “Do you do things just because they make you happy?”

Tech’s fingers tightened on his datapad.

Did he? He maintained the ship because it was necessary. He studied because knowledge was survival. He came to the cockpit every night because…

Because you were here.

Because somewhere in the past few nights, sitting in silence with you had stopped being about decompression and started being about something he could not quite name but desperately wanted to keep.

“I am… learning to,” he said quietly.

Your smile was soft and warm and made something in his chest crack open.

“Good,” you said. “You deserve to have things that make you happy.”

Tech had no response to that. The concept felt foreign. Revolutionary. Like you had just suggested that gravity was optional.

“What about you?” he asked, redirecting before his defenses crumbled completely. “What was your life like before joining us?”

Your demeanor shifted, brightness creeping over your expression.

“Oh, completely different. I wasn’t military. I worked in Republic Intelligence, data analysis mostly. Very boring compared to this.”

“Data analysis is not boring,” Tech protested immediately.

Your laugh was quiet but genuine. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

Tech’s face warmed.

“But outside of work,” you continued, “I had a pretty normal life. An apartment, friends, routines. I used to watch holovids on my days off, go to markets, just… normal civilian things.”

Tech tried to imagine it. You in an apartment somewhere, living a life that did not involve firefights and narrow escapes. You watching holovids without worrying about Imperial patrols. You being safe.

His chest tightened.

“Do you miss it?” he asked quietly.

You considered the question with visible thought.

“Sometimes,” you admitted. “I miss the stability. The predictability. Knowing I’d wake up in the same place every day.” You paused. “But I don’t regret leaving. This… what we do now. It matters. And the people I’ve met…”

You trailed off, but you were looking at him again, and Tech’s heart once again struggled to maintain a steady rhythm.

“The people make it worth it,” you finished softly.

Tech swallowed hard.

“I am glad you are here,” he managed, but continued, “Your tactical analysis has proven invaluable. Your ability to remain calm under pressure has contributed significantly to mission success rates.”

You make everything better. You make me feel less alone. I wait here every night because it means I get to sit here with you and pretend that this is normal, that people like me- that clones, get to have things like this.

“Just my tactical analysis?” you asked, and there was something teasing in your tone but also something else. Something hopeful.

Tech’s mind went blank.

Was that a leading question? Was he supposed to read subtext? He was terrible at subtext. Give him an encrypted Imperial transmission and he could break it in minutes- no, seconds! But this?

“No,” he said carefully. “Not just your tactical analysis.”

“What else?”

Tech’s mouth went dry.

“You…” He struggled to organize thoughts and they all felt too large for words. “You listen when I explain things. You ask questions that indicate genuine interest rather than polite tolerance. You make me feel…”

He paused, searching for the right word.

Seen. Valued. Like maybe all the parts of me that other people find excessive or annoying are actually acceptable.

“…less alone,” he finished quietly.

The cockpit felt very small suddenly. Very quiet. Just you and him and the hum of instruments and all the things Tech was not saying hanging in the air between you.

“You make me feel less alone too,” you said softly.

You shifted closer, just slightly, and Tech’s awareness narrowed to the diminishing space between you.

“Can I tell you something?” you asked.

Tech nodded, not trusting his voice.

“There was this show I used to watch,” you said. “And there is a point to me saying this, I promise!”

Tech studied her quietly, slightly off kilter by the sudden topic shift.

“It was before the fall of the Republic. Before all this… called Galactic Frontiers. It was about explorers charting unknown space. Completely ridiculous from a scientific standpoint, but I loved it anyway.”

Tech’s brain latched onto the familiar topic like a lifeline.

“I am familiar with that program,” he said, and there was definitely too much interest in his voice but he could not help it. He paused, adjusting his goggles. “Actually, I had forgotten about it until you mentioned it. The scientific inaccuracies were egregious, but the character dynamics were compelling. I suppose it did not occur to me to mention it earlier because my partaking in Galactic Frontiers was an anomaly.”

Your face lit up like he had just given you the galaxy.

“You’ve seen it?”

“I watched several episodes during downtime on Kamino. The atmospheric consistency alone was statistically impossible. Every planet had identical gravity and breathable air.”

“Right?” You leaned forward eagerly. “And the faster than light travel made no sense. They just… jumped to hyperspace instantly with no calculations or nav computer.”

“Entirely fictional,” Tech agreed, and he could feel enthusiasm creeping into his voice. “Real hyperspace travel requires extensive mathematical modeling and multiple safety protocols.”

“I know! But I loved it anyway. Something about the adventure of it, the discovery. Finding new worlds, meeting new species.” You paused, your expression softening. “Well, my point is… I always wanted to rewatch it with someone who would appreciate how absurd it was while still enjoying it.”

Tech’s heart performed an acrobatic maneuver that would have concerned a medical droid.

With someone. You wanted to watch it with someone. You were telling him this while looking at him with those eyes and, despite the subtext, he knew what that implied, what you were offering.

“I would be interested in that,” he said, trying to sound calm and failing spectacularly. “Watching it. With you. If you wanted to.”

Your smile could have powered the entire Republic fleet.

“Really? You’d want to watch a completely scientifically inaccurate show just to make fun of it with me?”

“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation. “I would find that… enjoyable.”

I would find any activity enjoyable if it involved spending time with you. I would watch the most tedious programming in existence if it meant I got to hear your laugh and see your smile and exist in your proximity for a few hours.

“There’s one problem though,” you said, “We don’t exactly have access to holovid streaming on the Marauder.”

Tech’s mind immediately began calculating solutions.

“I could construct a receiver array using salvaged components from our last supply run. With proper modifications to our comm system, I could potentially access archived Republic entertainment databases. It would require approximately six hours of work and some creative rewiring, but it is feasible.”

You were staring at him.

“You would build an entire system just to watch an old show with me?”

Tech adjusted his goggles, suddenly uncertain.

“Was that… did you not want me to? I apologize if I misunderstood the request. I simply thought—”

“Tech.” You were laughing now, soft and warm. “I would love that. I just… you’re amazing. You know that?”

Amazing. You thought he was amazing?

“I am simply solving a technical problem,” he managed.

“You’re doing it because you want to spend time with me.”

Tech’s face burned hot enough to compromise his goggles’ thermal regulation.

“I…” There was no point denying it. You had stated the obvious truth he had been trying to rationalize away. “Yes. I want to spend time with you.”

The admission hung in the air between you, vulnerable and terrifying and honest.

Your hand moved, reaching across the small space, and suddenly your fingers were brushing against his where they rested on the datapad.

Tech’s entire nervous system went into overdrive.

You were touching him. Deliberately. Your fingers warm against his, the contact soft and tentative like you were asking a question without words.

Tech’s thumb shifted, just slightly, pressing back against yours.

“I want to spend time with you too,” you said quietly. “That’s why I come here every night. Not for the cockpit or the quiet. For you.”

Tech’s throat felt impossibly tight.

“Oh,” he managed, which was possibly the least articulate response he could have managed.

You laughed softly, and your fingers curled more firmly around his.

“You really didn’t know?”

“I…” Tech struggled to form coherent thoughts with your hand holding his. “I considered it a possibility, but the data was inconclusive. I did not want to make assumptions that might compromise our… our current dynamic.”

“Our friendship?”

“Yes.”

“What if I wanted to compromise it?” you asked softly.

Tech’s heart stopped.

Then restarted at approximately twice its normal rate.

“That would…” He swallowed hard. “That would depend on how you intended to compromise it.”

You shifted closer, and suddenly the co-pilot’s seat felt very far away and much too close simultaneously.

“I’m not very good at this,” you admitted. “Saying what I mean. But I like you, Tech. A lot. More than just as a teammate or friend.”

Tech stared at you like you had just rewritten the laws of physics.

“You have romantic interest,” he said, needing the clarification, needing to be absolutely certain he was understanding correctly. “In me.”

“Yes,” you said simply. Though the single word felt inadequate for what was happening in this cockpit with your fingers tangled with his.

“I have…” His voice came out rough. “I have developed similar feelings. For several weeks now. Possibly longer. I have been attempting to analyze them but the data has been inconclusive and I did not want to jeopardize our established rapport by introducing variables that might—”

You kissed him.

One moment Tech was explaining his feelings using the emotional processing capabilities of a particularly anxious droid, and the next your lips were pressed softly against his and his brain forgot how to do anything except feel.

Soft. You were so soft. And warm. And kissing him. You were actually kissing him.

Tech’s datapad clattered to the floor.

His hands came up automatically, one settling carefully on your waist, the other cupping your jaw with the kind of reverence he usually reserved for rare technical components.

You made a small sound against his mouth, and Tech’s entire system overheated to a level nearing catastrophic.

When you pulled back, his goggles were askew and his breathing was unsteady and he was quite certain he had forgotten his own name.

“Was that okay?” you asked softly, and you sounded as breathless as he felt.

“That was…” Tech struggled to find words. “That was significantly more than okay. That was optimal. Exceptional. The data suggests that repeating the experience would be advisable.”

You laughed, and the sound vibrated through him where you were still touching.

“Very smooth, Tech.”

“I apologize. My verbal processing capabilities appear to be compromised by your proximity and the lingering sensory input from—”

You kissed him again.

Tech stopped trying to think and just let himself feel.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, careful around the arm of his goggles. His hand tightened slightly on your waist, pulling you closer across the small space between seats. The angle was awkward and the armrests were digging into his side and none of it mattered because you were kissing him like he was something precious.

Like he was worth wanting.

When you finally pulled away, you were smiling and Tech was quite certain his cardiovascular system would never recover.

“I’ve wanted to do that for weeks,” you admitted.

“I have wanted you to do that for weeks,” Tech replied, then immediately felt his face heat. “That is… I have experienced similar desires. Of a reciprocal nature.”

“Tech?”

“Yes?”

“You can just say you wanted to kiss me.”

“I wanted to kiss you,” he repeated obediently, and then added because apparently his brain-to-mouth filter had been completely demolished: “I want to kiss you again.”

Your smile widened. “Good. Because I want to kiss you again too.”

“Excellent,” Tech said. “Then we are in agreement about the desired course of action and can proceed with—”

You were laughing now, bright and warm, and Tech realized he was being ridiculous but he could not seem to stop.

“You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” you said.

“I am not flustered. I am simply experiencing elevated neurological activity in response to novel stimuli.”

“Uh huh. Very scientific.”

“It is an accurate description of—”

You kissed him again, and Tech decided that you were absolutely right to keep interrupting his explanations with your mouth.

Minutes or hours later—Tech’s usually precise temporal awareness had been completely compromised—you were both sitting pressed together in his pilot’s seat, your head resting on his shoulder, his arm around your waist, hands still tangled together. The cockpit had grown quieter, your breathing evening out into something close to sleep, and Tech found himself perfectly content to sit here holding you for as long as you would let him.

Then you stirred slightly, and Tech glanced at the viewport.

The horizon was beginning to change. The deep black of night was giving way to the faintest hint of color, a gradual lightening that Tech’s pattern recognition immediately identified as pre-dawn.

“Look,” he said softly, not wanting to wake you fully but unable to keep the quiet wonder from his voice.

You lifted your head from his shoulder, blinking sleep from your eyes, and turned toward the viewport.

The sunrise was slow, methodical, exactly as planetary rotation dictated it should be. But watching the sky transform from black to deep purple to brilliant orange felt like witnessing something extraordinary. Light spilled across the landscape beyond the Marauder, illuminating rock formations and scattered vegetation in shades of gold and amber.

Tech had seen countless sunrises on countless planets. He had calculated the exact timing based on axial tilt and orbital position more times than he could count. He had never found them particularly noteworthy beyond their scientific implications.

But this one was different.

Because you were here, your hand still tangled with his, your shoulder warm against his side, watching the same sky transform with an expression of quiet awe that made his chest ache.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered.

Tech looked at you instead of the sunrise, at the way the growing light caught in your eyes and painted your features in soft gold.

“Yes,” he agreed quietly. “It is.”

You caught him staring and smiled, “We should do this again, watch the sunrise together.”

Tech’s thumb brushed across your knuckles. “I would like that very much,” he said.

And as the sun continued its inevitable rise, painting the cockpit in warm light and chasing away the shadows of night, Tech thought that maybe—just maybe—he was starting to understand what it meant to want things that served no tactical purpose.

To want things simply because they made him happy.

To want you.

To want this.

Tag list:

@prettychaos1409 @user-3113s-blog @obiwansmusicblog @tiresian-ent @freesia-writes @ray-of-sunshine-99 @jacmaee @jane8675 @boredzum-671 @briikase9902 @remotelyhauntedstatue @agent-lexi-007