#hardcasexreader

His gaze doesn’t seek you out like the regulars. No, he’s drawn to the wall of weapons like a moth to a flame. The mischievous half-grin on his face lights his eyes reminding you not quite like a kid in a candy story, but perhaps the way you’ve seen a man in love gaze at the woman of his affections.

Which blossoms a yearning inside so overwhelming it takes a second to breathe again.

No one will ever look at you that way.

Taking a deep breath, you relax and keep a polite smile on your face. “Afternoon.”

“Hello, ma’am.”

The man barely glances your way as the artillery speaks to him in words you cannot hear yet understand.

As a child, you always enjoyed the water blaster booths at the fair. Despite realizing they were often rigged, your interested grew in the idea of weapons. You were a natural, as use meant a gentle touch and great care in maintenance. You may not have a green thumb, but when it comes to safety and weapons, you’re a whisperer.

Well, this man is a whisperer. You simply do your best.

Leaning on the counter, you prop your chin up with your palm. The soldiers you’ve come in contact with have only been from afar. None have stepped foot in your gallery, but why would they? They’re busy. Their practice ranges are far more sophisticated than your dilapidated one.

There’s no reason for them to bother with this shack.

As the soldier before you slowly shifts to another section with a bit more advanced weaponry, you become curious. You’ve been told they all look the same, and from a distance, you suppose that might be true. However, you’ve seen armor of different colors so perhaps they’re not exactly the same?

The one before you has an intriguing tattoo beginning with a dot on his right cheek before a line slips from his lower eyelid to the top and up along his forehead until taking a decisive left—no, his right—turn near his temple. Another turn upward takes place at his temple where it’s joined by another line for a moment before it curves around the back of his skull. There’s something simplistic and beautiful about it. In a way, it reminds you of the lines that make up a blaster. Sharp lines, a few curves creating a handsome man—

Weapon!

You meant weapon.

Straightening up, you smooth out your tunic. The man before you is not handsome. That would be a foolish thought. That would be thinking with the beat in your chest. You don’t need that. Weapons need the sole focus of your head, your mind, your brain…

Oh…

The look of wonder on the soldier’s face as he admires your little trove does not make your heart patter in the slightest. He doesn’t admire these second-hand blasters the way you do. He has nice, new weapons of his own. Weapons he likely prefers over these—

“Are these powered by Tibanna?”

“I wish,” you wistfully reply. “It’s Skevon. Not as reliable, but Tibanna is expensive and rare.”

Rich, brown eyes settle on you, and a brow arches emphasizing the tattoo across his right eye. “Can I test one?”

What? You nod slowly. “Any on the wall.”

The half-smirk that spreads onto his lips also does not make your heart patter. “So, you have others prospective clients can’t use?”

The joke in his voice brings a shy smile to your face. “I don’t show my private collection to strangers.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, ma’am.” With great care, he takes a simple KYD-21 blaster from the wall and walks to your counter. Setting it down, he holds out his hand. “Name’s Hardcase.”

And you sense this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

…

The regulars gather round watching through the transparisteel as Hardcase fires the KYD-21 blaster—a weapon he seems to prefer since he retrieves it every time he visits. It’s become a sort of weird tradition, but in any case, his accuracy awes those assembled as he efficiently takes out the targets while leaving the false flags alone. With ease, he passes everyone’s score with that little blaster, and you find yourself wondering what possible challenges you could concoct in order to stump the soldier.

Slipping from the crowd, you make your way back to the counter as defeat settles in. No matter what you do, you can’t create anything that remotely challenges him. While difficult for your patrons and you, he walks through like it’s child’s play—which to him it is. Heart sinking, you know he only comes for the weapons. It’s not as if your friendship is enough, and if there’s nothing difficult to challenge him it’s only a matter of time before he’s never seen again.

Your lack of financial resources has truly become a pair of hands wrapped around your neck, slowly suffocating your chances at—

Chances at growing a business, you correct yourself just in time.

Once Hardcase exits the range, he’s questioned and complimented by those gathered. The pomp and circumstance makes you smile. He’s adored by all your patrons and with just cause. He deserves to be appreciated, and he’s willing to help any and every person who walks through your doors. He does wonders for the Republic. He’s brave and strong and kind.

Good with the young ones.

“I liked that one.”

Looking up, he graces you with a smile as he sets down the KYD-21 blaster and leans on the counter. This as well has become a sort of tradition. He passes the course, comes to return the blaster with a smile and you smile in return. Only this time, you can’t find yourself smiling back. He’ll realize soon enough you’re not gifted and then you’ll lose one of your closest friends.

“Uh…” His smile fades. “Somethin’ wrong?”

Shaking your head, you begin closing procedures. The sooner you can get out, the sooner you can get home to the bake warming in your little apartment. Which means the sooner you can forget about the impending tragedy. When the work is done, you realize Hardcase has been there the entire time working beside you in silence.

“Do you wanna grab a bite?” He questions. “I could eat.”

No. You don’t want to keep him. You don’t need him around. You don’t need him to help. You don’t need to take up anymore of his time.

“I have a bake warming at home if you’d like.” Your mouth betrays you.

His brow rises, creating a soft scrunch in his tattoo. “Wouldn’t wanna impose.”

“You’re not imposing at all,” your mouth says and it eases into a smile. “I tend to make too much and won’t be able to eat it all by myself.”

“Then I’d appreciate the company and decent food.”

“Not sure if it’s decent,” you try, the jest dying on your lips as your heart sinks. Shoving your hands in your pockets, you lead the way.

What have you just done?

The tram ride to your apartment is silent as is the walk there. You catch the glances of the underbelly crowd, and for once you’re not harassed. No one’s pestering you for credits or trying to grope you, and you’re pleased to be left alone.

If only you could afford to straighten up the little apartment above your shop. You could live there which would cut your bills, mostly stop the harassing tram rides, and perhaps you’d be able to afford new weapons which would keep Hardcase coming back.

All of which are fanciful illusions created to crush what little hope lingers in your weary soul.

Entering your studio apartment, you have to slam the light switch a few times for the light to flicker above the table. You’ve asked the landlord for months to fix that, along with the leaky faucet and the garbage disposal, but he can’t be bothered to do much more than bet on the fathiers.

“Uh… can I get you a cup of water?” you question, hanging your jacket on the rack before heading to the oven.

“Yeah, that’d be… fine.” His gaze quickly sweeps across your lumpy sofa and the small cot in the corner. “Can I help you with anything?”

“No. No. Take a seat at the table.” You pull the bake out and work on scooping it onto two mismatched plates before grabbing two bottles of water.

“It smells great.”

You’re sure he’s just telling you that, though this is your favorite meal. It’s warm and comforting and filling even if there isn’t much in it. Placing a portion and a water before him, fear creeps up your spine. You’ve never spent much time with him. You don’t even know what Hardcase likes to eat. Maybe he hates this, maybe he's regretting his decision, maybe he wants to be anywhere else but here.

“Are you gonna sit?” He asks and picks up a fork. “Or…are you not gonna eat…?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Grabbing your own, you settle across from him.

Maybe it’s because of the small space or that it’s been a long few months or you’re not used to guests or you’ve never invited anyone over or you can hear the harsh buzz of the flickering light above or—

“Are you okay?”

Blinking, you see Hardcase has cleared his plate, and you grimace. “S-Sorry. Would you like a second helping?”

“That’d be nice, but I’d rather know what’s going on? Am I imposing?”

You shake your head. “No. Not at all.”

“Then what is it?” His brow arches again, shifting the angles of his tattoo.

Sighing, you drop your fork. If you have one night left with this man, and you can’t focus on the good, perhaps getting everything off your chest might help for the lonely days ahead. It’s not something you’d ever put on your patrons, but from this apartment to the gallery to how you had hoped for better, it all comes out like a rushing tide you can’t be embarrassed by until long after you’re done and cleaning the tears and snot from your face.

“That’s a lot to deal with,” he says, finger tracing a pattern across your rickety table.

Heat floods your cheeks. It’s nothing compared to what he has to do for the Republic. “It’s all silly things. There are worse problems in the galaxy. We’re in a war, after all.”

“There might be worse problems, but it doesn’t make yours any less valid,” he responds with a slight uptick of his lips. “How can we lessen at least one of those problems?”

“The leaky sink,” you admit. “I’ll be able to sleep if I’m not listening to it drip all night.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

As Hardcase works on the sink, you ask him questions about the war and smile as he becomes quite animated—much like he is while firing blasters. He laughs, jokes and smiles as he tells of his brothers and war. He’s confident he was created only to fight, but you notice he’s quite skilled at putting your sink back together.

Once complete, he glances at the chrono and frowns.  “I need to get back before curfew.”

You nod and give him a smile. “Thank you.”

“Thank you.” He grins. “I’ll see you soon?”

“Of course.”

“And maybe we could start on the apartment above your gallery.”

You’d like that very much.

…

The notice on the datapad in your hand is a crushing blow as the reports on the holo from Umbara work to drag you down into the depths. You’re not certain why your heart heavies with sorrow, you don’t even know where Hardcase is, but the feeling progressively grows throughout the coming weeks. It’s only worsened by your patrons telling you not to grow attached to a soldier.

Why they make such statements continues to baffle you. It’s not as if you’ve mentioned him to them.

While he’s been away, you’ve begun packing up your little shop. A military expansion is set to claim your property and luckily, the government has offered you more credits than you’ve ever seen in your life rather than just take it from you. It’ll be easy to rebuild somewhere else.

Still…

It’s a bittersweet moment.

You’ve made wonderful memories here. From the patrons you’ve come to adore, to the weapons you’ve acquired, and to Hardcase; this rundown little place gave you hope and perhaps expectations. Friends, laughs, possibly lov—

The now-desolate shop weighs your heart down to the depths.

As you gently place the KYD-21 blaster in its case—the last one to be removed from the wall, your hand caresses the cool metal. It’s done a lot of good for your place. People have enjoyed it. A soldier has enjoyed it. You enjoy it. This little pistol with seventy-five shots and a favorite among bounty hunters and assassins has become the prize of your collection.

Taking one last look at the boxes neatly labeled and organized, you cast aside any anxiety over the movers who’ll be here tomorrow. Everything is clearly marked and ready for transport to storage. You’ve given yourself a few months to find a more ideal place. It shouldn’t be too hard since you’ve already narrowed locations down—

The dread dripping into your soul floods through and you struggle to swallow. Closing the blaster case, you grip the handle and take several deep breaths. This attack is irrational. It’s okay to say goodbye. There will be something better on the other side.

This place, despite the little apartment upstairs, was never your endgame anyway.

There’s a life yet to be lived some place far more exciting than Coruscant.

Squaring your shoulders, you grab the blaster case and head out the door for the last time. With your head held high, you find yourself paralyzed as you come face to face with two soldiers outside your door.

Clad in full armor, you look up into their T-visors and the case in your hand slightly trembles as your breath comes to a slow halt. Your wide eyes are transfixed as, in unison, they remove their helmets revealing one face tattooed with a Republic cog and the other with a Five on his right forehead.

“Ma’am,” says the one with the Republic cog, and the heavy tone in his voice sends ice through your veins. “We need a moment of your time.”

Those words are never good. Never good. Never… The dread and foreboding finally explode in your chest cutting off oxygen to your lungs as you manage to give a single nod.

“We regret to inform you…” starts the one with the Five before he swallows down what must be a thick lump in this throat. “…that Hardcase was killed in action.”

The thump at your feet seems a million miles away and you’re unaware that something has slipped from your grasp. Instead, the world around grows eerily silent and chillingly cold.

…

“I’d like to try that one.”

You continue sweeping the floor—not that it needs sweeping, but your hands always need to be doing something these days. Your brain needs these mindless tasks as you continue to put the past behind you.

“As I’ve already stated each and every time you’ve come in,” you say, and cannot hide the annoyance in your tone, “It is not available.”

“Then why is it there?” asks the Bith who constantly nettles you over the weapon each and every time he’s here.

Meeting his glassy, black gaze, you square your shoulders. “It’s for décor, that’s why it’s in a display case. Either choose one of the other blasters or leave.”

“You’re not very friendly,” he growls.

“And you’re not very bright,” you mutter as you return to sweeping.

When he selects a different blaster and enters the shooting range, you pause and let out a heavy sigh.

Six months have passed since you arrived on Thune. It’s home to all sorts of beings from dangerous Hutts to dancing Twi’leks. Your Wookie neighbor—who sells hand crafted bowcasters—is great to have when walking home at night—not that the neighborhood is dangerous, but it’s always good to be cautious.

The canals the city is built on and you boat home in are filled with beautiful, clear water. They’re gentle and calming and so far removed from the war you swear you’ve been transported to another time. That’s mainly why you chose it in spite of the Hutts lurking.

It truly is a piece of paradise.

Leaning against the counter, you’re aware of other customers milling about. You have growing relationships with most of them, and word of mouth seems to be your best advertisement. Unlike your spot on Coruscant, you’re constantly busy with the day-in and day-out which does it’s best to help ease the sorrow that a few months ago clung to you like a wet rag.

Overall, things have definitely panned out well.

Still, your gaze lifts to the display case where the KYD-21 blaster glints in the bright light streaming through the window.

Rubbing the back of your neck, you take a slow breath and huff. The soldier whose presence graced you for a little while will always be with you. His memory hangs not only from the weapon displayed prominently in your shop but stirs in your chest with every beat of your heart.

And you find yourself grateful every day for his sacrifice.

“I suppose that one’s off limits.”

Breath slowing as your brow furrows, you’re quick to shut your eyes and shake your head. That playful tone in a baritone voice cannot be. It simply cannot be.

It’s impossible.

“Didn’t think it was worthy of your private collection.”

Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you turn to see a man leaned on your counter giving you a playful smirk. His face holds a few healing scars across his nose, cheeks and forehead, but the tattoo starting on his right eye hasn’t faded.

How it be, though? You know what those soldiers said, you heard what happened, you know…

What do you know?

Looking down at the gun he’s placed on the counter, Hardcase grimaces. “Didn’t think I’d earn the silent treatment.”

“S-sorry,” you stutter and wet your lips. “It’s just… I heard. Well, you were…”

He gives a nod. “Thought I was. Suffered a bunch of injuries and sometimes my ears still ring, but a well-placed escape pod and some luck got me through.”

Your hand runs over the blaster he’s brought to your counter. This one is for heavy combat—something you know he enjoys. “How long are you in town for?”

He gives another grimace as he continues to lean against your counter. “Uh… Well, officially, I’m… dead.” Smiling, he looks at the new and improved shooting ranges you have set up. “Besides, looks as if I have my work cut out for me testing all those ranges you’ve crafted. Hope this blaster is as good as that one.”