Welcome to the masterlist for my Bad Batch World War 2 Era Alternate Universe: Copacabana!!!
The au is going to consist of several acts (like a play!) and will be composed of written chapters with illustrations, and maybe some comics too!
To kick us off, I am going to gradually reveal each character’s forties inspired design and give you a glimpse into their role in the universe! As each character is posted, their headshot will be revealed on the playbill below and their post will be linked in the “Meet the Cast” section. You can always come back to this masterlist to see the newest updates!
As always, I am very friendly, love mutuals, and LOVE Star Wars, so feel free to chat with me in the comments, via DM, or asks!! I will always reply and I am so beyond happy to have you all here!
Origins and Inspiration
All of this originated with from my post for this years @clonexocweek’s alternate universe prompt! After making the art for that challenge, I became WAY too inspired, and couldn’t stop thinking about it. Once I realized the real Copacabana club opened in New York City in 1941, the WW2 head cannons just kept bubbling up! Especially since the war ended in 1945, and the Bad Batch storyline starts right at the end of the Clone Wars!
As far as other inspirations, of course this is inspired by Copacabana by Barry Manilow (linked below), but it is also inspired by broadway and theater in general. Some direct inspirations were drawn from Hamilton, White Christmas, Captain America, and other wartime favorites! Music by Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, and many more also serve to inspire this AU! And, of course, Star Wars and our favorite clones!
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hey I loved the crosshair fic x gn reader that you did! it was really soft and comforting 🥺 and I saw the requests open so i wanted to try ask for something haha
maybe an one shot when the batch clocks crosshair's feelings for fem reader? and annoy him until he does something about it and confess haha
you don't have to do it but in case you do you can obviously take whatever liberties you want, thank u!!! have a good day/night <3
𖦏｡˚𑣲⋆｡˚ Dead Giveaway 𑣲⋆｡˚𖦏
𖦏 Pairing: Crosshair x F!Reader
𖦏 Word Count: 1.9k
Warnings: None! Pure Fluffy! Not proof read...
Authors Note: HEY!! TYSM for requesting this! I am soo sorry it took me so long to get this done for you. I absolutely loved the request and I super hope you love the fic! You are so kind <3 I have not written a lot of Crosshair so I hope this lands okay!
The field was long and gold and the Marauder sat at its far edge, where Tech had insisted would make it more difficult to spot from the air. This meant a ten-minute walk through knee-high grass with your bag over your shoulder and the afternoon sun trying its best to make you regret the detour into town.
You didn't actually regret it, though. The light out there was the kind that made everything look warm, the seed heads catching it sideways, the distant tree line going amber at the edges, and when the Marauder came fully into view you slowed down without meaning to, because the sun was hitting the hull at an angle that made the old ship look almost beautiful, the scratched plating shifting copper-toned where it caught the light.
You had been on enough long hauls aboard her to know exactly how she smelled inside and exactly where the bunk support dug into your shoulder if you slept wrong and exactly which step on the boarding ramp rang hollow under your boot, third from the top, every time.
She was not beautiful. But out there in the late afternoon, with the grass moving around your shins, she looked it.
You hitched your bag up and crossed the last stretch of field before your boots hit the bottom of the ramp with a clank. You made it just a few steps from the top when voices drifted down from the hold.
"Come on," said Wrecker, coaxing, "It's obvious! Even Tech noticed."
"I notice everything," Tech corrected.
"There's nothing to notice," Crosshair said flatly. "Drop it."
You stopped on the ramp.
"You literally cleaned her whole kit last week," Wrecker said.
"Her kit was a liability. The field dressings were expired. I didn't want to bleed out because she ran out of bacta mid-mission."
"Right."
"That is the reason."
"Sure it is," said Wrecker, slow and easy, "You also reorganized the whole crate."
Silence.
"Crosshair."
"Drop it, Wrecker."
Silence again, longer, and you set your bag down on the step and sit, because you would very much like to hear where this goes.
"For what it's worth," Tech said, "the reorganization improved average retrieval time by an estimated thirty seconds per item."
"Thank you."
"I wasn't finished. The question of why you did it remained, statistically speaking, open." You could practically hear Tech wagging his finger and adjusting his goggles.
A longer pause came from Crosshair this time.
"I did it," Crosshair said, flat as a blade laid on a table, "because the kit was a liability."
"Mhm," said Wrecker.
"Agreed," said Tech.
"Both of you," Crosshair said, "could leave."
"It's a common area."
"It could be a common area without you in it."
The conversation drifted eventually toward a supply manifest, and you picked your bag back up and walked through the door like you'd only just arrived, the third step from the top of the ramp creaking as promised. Wrecker's brows snapped upward when he saw you. Crosshair, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, looked at you and then lazily looked away.
"Hey," you said.
"Hey!" Wrecker, a beat too fast, too bright.
Crosshair said nothing. You were used to that.
Tech started it properly at dinner.
He waited until everyone was seated and the caf was poured, and then looked up from his datapad like he'd just remembered something.
"Did you know," he said, to no one specifically, "that sniper accuracy improves by a statistically significant margin when the specialist operates with a consistent support partner? The data suggests familiarity with a partner's movement patterns reduces micro-corrections during the shot cycle, improving hit probability by up to 2.3% at extreme range. The effect is most pronounced," he continued, tapping his datapad to turn the page, "when the two individuals share a degree of personal investment in each other's performance."
You glanced around the table until your eyes landed on Wrecker biting down on a smile so hard it was reddening his whole face. Hunter was looking at the ceiling. Echo had gone very still and it was overly obvious that he was pretending he wasn't paying attention.
"That's fascinating," you said, to your plate, because you needed to say something.
"Don't," Crosshair said.
You looked up. He was staring at Tech with the flat, patient expression of someone deciding where to aim.
"Don't what?" you asked.
"Encourage him."
"I just said it was fascinating."
Wrecker opened his mouth.
"Don't," Crosshair said, without looking at him.
Wrecker closed his mouth.
Tech, who had not been discouraged in the slightest, turned another page. "It's also worth noting that the psychological benefit appears to be bidirectional. Both the sniper and the support partner demonstrate reduced cortisol markers in the presence of—"
Crosshair set his fork down. Stood. Picked up his tray.
"I'm done," he said, to the room, and walked out.
You started to push your own chair back, but Hunter's hand came down gently on your forearm. His eyes met yours as he shook his head and you settled back into your seat.
The night stretched on as you found Crosshair seated outside under the hull. His eyes settled under furrowed brows, raking over the waving wheat in the field. It was clear his thoughts consumed him, and honestly, so did yours.
The entire Batch was acting strangely. Not too much more than usual, but still different. It was common for them to tease each other, but not common for Crosshair to leave instead of joining in.
Your boots padded quietly through the grass as you approached him.
“Whats wrong, Cross?”
His eyes traveled from the grain and over to yours, overall unhurried, as he rolled his toothpick to the other corner of his lips. He decided to give you silence.
“I just wanted to see if you were okay…”
“How touching.”
You huffed. He could be so blistering sometimes, the sharpness of him so reflexive. You couldn't help but feel your brows begin to knit together in response. Without waiting for his permission, you sat next to him, forcing him to shift in the grass.
The field moved in the dark. Tiny waves, like the furthest reaches of the ocean. "You could talk to me," you said. "You know that?"
Silence.
"They weren't trying to-."
"I'm aware of what they were trying to do." His voice was stern, unyielding.
He looked at you then, properly, and the last shred of light highlighted the lines of his face, the tattoo, the silver of his hair, and you looked back and waited because that seemed like the only reasonable thing to do.
Unsure of what to say, you didn't push it. After a while he looked back at the field, and you stayed where you were, chewing your cheek instead of breaking the silence between you.
Then the side hatch opened and light spilled out across the grass, Wrecker's silhouette filling the frame.
"There you both are," he said, satisfaction filling his wide smile.
"Go away, Wrecker," Crosshair said.
"We were just worried. Weren't we, Hunter?"
Hunter appeared behind him. "We were," he said, without a trace of apology.
Echo leaned past them both and looked at the two of you sitting in the dark grass and said nothing, which was somehow the loudest thing any of them had done all evening.
"Inside," Crosshair said. "All of you."
"It's a nice night," Wrecker said. "Thought we'd get some air."
"You don't need air."
Crosshair turned and looked at them for a long moment, his teeth grinding down on the toothpick.
"We're not trying to embarrass you," Echo said. "We're just tired of watching you be an idiot about it."
"Eloquent," Crosshair said.
"It's true," Tech said as he appeared behind them all, datapad in hand. "The statistical probability that your behavior toward her is motivated purely by operational concern is, at this point, essentially zero. I ran the numbers."
"You ran—"
He stopped himself. He knew his brother and there was no need to question this statement.
Crosshair looked at all four of them standing in the hatch, lit from behind, and then he looked at you, sitting in the dark beside him, and you looked back. Despite months with the batch, the expression he was wearing was once you had not yet learned to read. Then he said to the four of them, flat, "Go inside."
Wrecker opened his mouth.
"Now," Crosshair hissed.
They went, quickly disappearing from view with the clang of Wrecker tripping over something.
The two of you watched as they left before Crosshair sighed, rubbing his eyes and returning his solemn gaze to the field. The toothpick moved to the other side of his mouth as the moment settled back into quiet. You looked at the side of his face and waited, before turning to see the grain move in its slow waves once again.
To your surprise, it was Crosshair who decided to break it.
"You've been here three months," he said.
"I have."
"You're not going anywhere."
You looked at him quizzically. "No. I'm not."
He was quiet again for a moment, jaw working slightly, like the words were being selected with the same care he gave to his aim. "I'm not good at this."
"At what?"
He gave you a look that said he wasn't going to answer that, and somehow the not-answering was itself an answer, and you felt something settle low in your chest.
"You don't have to be good at it," you said.
"I'm aware… That doesn't make it less aggravating."
You couldn’t fight the smile that pulled at your lips. "What do you want, Crosshair?"
He looked at you then, and you could see the moonlight and the field and the shine of the hull in his eyes.
"You already know," he said.
"I want to hear you say it."
His eyes stayed on yours, steady, and the toothpick went still at the corner of his mouth, and he said, low, "I think you're a good match for me."
You waited.
"I've thought about it for a while," he said. "I don't say things I don't mean."
The grass moved between you both. You reached over and took the toothpick from the corner of his mouth, and he let you, his eyes tracking the movement and then coming back to yours, and he didn't move away.
You leaned in and kissed him, quiet and careful, and he went completely still for a moment the way he went still before a shot. His lips were surprisingly soft, but his stillness distracted you from this fact. You didn’t fully take in the sensation until his hand came up and curved around the back of your neck, drawing you back toward him.
From inside the ship, Wrecker's voice split the night like a thermal detonator, "YES—" and then Hunter's immediate sharp "Wrecker" and something that sounded like an elbow finding its mark, and then Tech, at full conversational volume, observing that the exterior plating on this side of the Marauder offered, from an acoustic standpoint, almost no useful insulation.
Crosshair pulled back just enough to look at you, the field dark around you both.
"I'm sending all of them out the airlock," he said.
"You'd miss them."
The corner of his mouth moved.
"A little," you offered.
"Don't push it," he said, and kissed you again, unhurried and certain, in no particular hurry to stop.
⛅️ Written for @the-tech-turn and @gar-romance-month with the prompt Late Night and Sunrise
Warnings: SFW, Tech POV, fluff alert, the tiniest slightest against, Tech carries a huge mental load on his shoulders, he is a nervous boy as usual 🤭
Author’s Note/Prompt: Hey @the-tech-turn!!! So so sorry it took me forever and a day to write this for you. I super hope you enjoy it! You sent in such a great prompt idea! My tumblr is glitching out so it wouldn’t let me reply directly to your post, so for those wondering, they requested the following: Okay, HEAR ME OUT, a Tech x reader fic where it's late at night, after a mission, and tech is staying up in the cockpit(as usual) and was there with him just decompressing from the day. Like we've been starting to silently spend time with him at night, but today you guys actually spoke. Ask about what maybe a show we used to like and want to watch with Tech or our life before joining the batch. Both? I think that would be cute! Romantic please!!
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.
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.
🌧️ Written for @gar-romance-month with the prompts warm and rain
Plot Summary: Tech takes care of you on your period 🫀
Warnings: I am on my period so this fic is just thrown together because I was contemplating how Tech would take care of someone while they’re going through it. It is probably more of an imagine than anything. I know it is super cringe… enjoy 😅 No trigger warnings, just mentions of periods
Tech adjusted his goggles as he analyzed the data scrolling across his datapad. The Marauder’s interior temperature had dropped 2.3 degrees in the past hour, and the atmospheric pressure outside indicated an approaching storm system. Rain would arrive within seventeen minutes.
He glanced toward the cockpit where she sat curled in the pilot’s chair, knees drawn to her chest. Her breathing pattern was irregular. Shallow. The angle of her shoulders suggested muscular tension.
“The barometric pressure is declining rapidly,” he said, moving closer. “Rain is imminent.”
She didn’t respond. Tech recalibrated his approach.
“You have been unusually quiet for approximately four hours and twenty-three minutes.” He paused, accessing his mental catalog of human physiological patterns. “Your behavioral changes align with documented premenstrual and menstrual symptoms. The correlation is 94.7% probable.”
Her eyes met his, and he noticed the tightness around them.
“I’m fine, Tech.”
“That statement contradicts observable evidence.” He set his datapad aside. “Your posture indicates abdominal discomfort. Your refusal of rations suggests nausea. The thermal regulation issues you experienced earlier suggest hormonal fluctuations affecting your hypothalamus.”
The first drops of rain struck the viewport. She turned to watch them streak across the transparisteel.
Tech disappeared into the storage compartments. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, pulling items he had cataloged weeks ago in preparation for statistical inevitabilities. The heating pack had been requisitioned during their last supply run. The herbal tea blend had been a fortunate discovery on Pabu, where he had inquired extensively about natural remedies after noticing her previous discomfort.
He returned and crouched beside the chair. “This heating pack will provide consistent warmth for up to six hours.” He activated it, the chemical reaction generating immediate heat. “The temperature will peak at 42 degrees Celsius, which studies indicate is optimal for reducing menstrual cramping.”
She accepted it, and he watched her press it against her abdomen. The slight relaxation of her facial muscles indicated effectiveness.
“I am also preparing tea. The vendor on Pabu specified that this particular blend contains ginger root and chamomile, both of which have documented antispasmodic properties.” He stood, then hesitated. “The rain should last approximately 2.4 hours based on current patterns. Rain sounds have been shown to reduce cortisol levels by 12 to 15%, which may provide additional relief.”
“You researched all this?” Her voice was softer now.
“Of course.” Tech adjusted his goggles again, an unnecessary gesture that had become habitual around her. “You are a valued member of our squad. Maintaining your operational effectiveness is logical.”
She smiled despite the obvious discomfort, and Tech felt something shift in his chest that he could not adequately categorize.
“That’s very sweet, Tech.”
“It is merely practical application of available data.” He turned toward the small heating unit to prepare the tea, but her hand caught his wrist.
“Tech.”
He looked back.
“Thank you.”
The rain drummed steadily against the hull now, a rhythmic percussion that filled the silence. Tech found himself nodding, then remembering additional relevant information.
“I also acquired chocolate. The cocoa content is 73%, which provides sufficient phenylethylamine and serotonin precursors to potentially improve mood while avoiding excessive sugar that might exacerbate inflammation.” He retrieved it from his utility belt. “The recommended serving is 28.3 grams, though I will not enforce rations given current circumstances.”
She laughed, a sound that Tech calculated he preferred to most others. He settled into the copilot’s seat while the tea steeped, pulling up a holonovel on his datapad.
“I do not need to remain here,” he said, though he made no move to leave. “However, studies indicate that companionship during periods of physical discomfort can reduce perceived pain by up to 40%.”
“I’d like you to stay.”
Tech pushed his goggles up. “That is acceptable.”
They sat together as the rain continued, her curled beneath a thermal blanket he had retrieved, the heating pack pressed against her abdomen. Tech read aloud from the holonovel when she requested it, his voice steady and even. He paused periodically to refresh her tea, to adjust the blanket, to offer more chocolate.
He did not mention that he had set calendar reminders for her approximate cycle. He did not explain that he had created a comprehensive file of remedies, preferences, and behavioral patterns he had observed. These were simply logical preparations.
When her breathing finally evened into sleep, Tech dimmed the cockpit lights and continued his reading in silence. The rain had softened to a gentle patter. The Marauder’s temperature had stabilized at optimal comfort levels.
He glanced at her peaceful face and experienced that peculiar chest sensation again. His datapad contained 1,247 academic texts on human emotion and attachment, yet none adequately explained this specific phenomenon.
Perhaps some variables could not be quantified.
Tech adjusted her blanket and returned to his reading, content to remain precisely where he was for as long as she needed him.
I saw that your requests are open! I was wondering if i could ask for a Hunter x fem reader fic?
I’ve been struggling with mental health recently (seasonal depression is no joke and experiencing major burnout/ been laying in bed for the past few days 😭)— so I’d LOVE a fic that’s fluffy and comforting! I like to think that with his enhanced senses, Hunter can quite literally pick up on how anyone is feeling in the way they are breathing/ heartbeats.
Would love interactions with all the squad! I think it’d be genuinely healing to be comforted by all of them lol
So yeah! I love your writing so much! No pressure to write this one! Thanks!!
.⋅˚₊‧₊˚ ⋅ One Day at a Time .⋅˚₊‧₊˚ ⋅
❤️🩹 Pairings: Hunter x Female!Reader
❤️🩹 Word count: 2.8k
Plot Summary: Hunter notices through his enhanced senses that you've been struggling with depression and burnout for days. With the help of the Bad Batch, he gently pulls you out of isolation and reminds you that you don't have to face the heavy days alone.
Warnings: reader is depressed/burnt out, descriptions of depression/burnout, light mentions of food and eating, light tears, mental health, hurt/comfort, the boys comfort her, can be read as platonic or romantic
Author's Note: Ahhh Jac!! Thank you so much for submitting this request! I am SO sorry it took so long but I hope you enjoy it. I struggle to write characters being a little upset, so I hope it reads well enough to you. Thank you for all the support, this was so fun to write!! <3
Hunter noticed it before anyone else did.
He always did.
It started three rotations ago, with a slight irregularity in your breathing pattern. The rhythm was off, shallow and slow, like your lungs had forgotten why they needed to fill all the way. Your heartbeat told a similar story, sluggish and heavy, each beat requiring more effort than it should.
Now, standing outside what could be called your quarters on the Marauder, he pressed his palm flat against the cold metal door. The ship hummed beneath his feet, that familiar vibration he’d learned to tune out years ago, but he focused past it. Through the door, he could hear you. The rustle of sheets. A long, shaky exhale. The quiet that followed felt heavy, oppressive, like the air pressure had shifted in that small space.
He’d tried giving you distance. Three rotations of it. Three rotations of watching you retreat further into yourself, your smiles not quite reaching your eyes, your voice a little too flat when you spoke. Tech had asked you about the datapad modifications yesterday, and Hunter had tracked the way you moved slower than usual, how your fingers fumbled with the tools like they weighed too much. You’d laughed it off. Made some joke about needing caf.
But your laugh sounded wrong. Empty.
Hunter knocked, two gentle raps of his knuckles.
“Yeah?” Your voice came muffled through the door, and he heard the scrape of movement, like you were trying to sit up.
“It’s me. Can I come in?”
A pause. He could sense your heartbeat, that same slow, heavy rhythm. “Sure.”
The door slid open with a soft hiss, and he took in the scene with quiet concern. The bunk was a mess of tangled blankets, and you were half buried in them, propped against the wall. The lighting was dim, just the faint emergency strips along the floor, and in that low amber glow, he could see the exhaustion carved into your features. Dark circles shadowed your eyes. Your hair was disheveled. When you looked at him, there was a brittleness in your expression, like a leaf curling in on itself at the end of autumn, brown at the edges and barely clinging to the branch.
“Hey.” You tried for casual, but your voice cracked on the single syllable.
Hunter stepped inside, letting the door close behind him. He could sense everything in the cramped quarters. The stale air that meant you hadn’t left this room in hours. The faint salt scent of tears, old ones, dried on your skin. The weight in your limbs when he moved closer, like gravity had doubled and you were too tired to fight it.
He didn’t ask if you were okay. That would’ve been pointless. Instead, he crossed to the bunk and sat on the edge, careful not to crowd you but close enough that his presence couldn’t be ignored.
“You haven’t been sleeping.” It wasn’t a question.
Your laugh came out tired, threadbare. “That obvious?”
“Your heartbeat’s been off. Slower.” He kept his tone soft, non-judgmental. “Has been for days.”
Something flickered across your face, surprise maybe, or embarrassment, and you looked away. Your fingers twisted in the blanket draped over your lap, worrying at a loose thread, the movement automatic and listless. “I’m fine, Hunter. Just tired.”
“You’re not fine.”
The words hung between you, simple and irrefutable, and he watched your shoulders sag. The fight drained out of you all at once, leaving behind something raw and vulnerable. Your breathing stayed shallow, deliberate, like each inhale was something you had to remember to do.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Hunter’s chest ached. He’d felt helpless before, plenty of times, usually when someone was bleeding out and the medkit was nowhere to be found. But this was different. This wasn’t something he could stitch up or cauterize.
“Nothing’s wrong with you,” he said firmly.
"Then why can't I just push through it?" Your voice was barely above a whisper, and you pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes. "You and your brothers… you just keep going. No matter what gets thrown at you, you adapt, you survive, you take on more. And I'm over here falling apart over nothing. I don't have a right to feel like this when you've all been through so much worse."
"Hey." Hunter's voice was firm but gentle. He shifted closer, and when you didn't pull away, he carefully wrapped an arm around your shoulders. "Don't do that."
You went still for a moment, then slowly let yourself lean into him, your forehead resting against his chest plate. The coolness of the armor pressed into your skin, grounding. Real.
"We keep going because we have to," he continued quietly. "Because if we stop, we don't survive. But that doesn't mean it doesn't cost us. And it doesn't mean what you're feeling isn't valid."
Comforted by the privacy of his stature, you few quiet tears slipped free, dampening the fabric near his collar. For a few moments, you simply existed there in his hold, too tired to argue, too worn down to keep pretending.
Your fingers rested against his armor and Hunter kept his hold steady, patient. He'd learned a long time ago that sometimes people didn't need him to fix things or say the right words. Sometimes they just needed someone willing to sit in the heaviness with them, to not flinch away from the weight of it.
He didn't know how long you stayed like that, wrapped up in each other in the dim quiet of your quarters. Long enough for his knees to start protesting the angle. Long enough for your breathing to even out, for the tension to slowly bleed from your frame. When you finally pulled back, your eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, your cheeks blotchy, and Hunter thought you'd never looked more human.
"Sorry," you rasped.
He reached up, using his thumb to gently wipe away the remaining tears from your cheeks. "Don't apologize."
"I got your armor all wet."
"It'll dry." His mouth quirked, almost a smile. "Not the first time. Won't be the last."
That got a watery laugh out of you, small but genuine, and something in his chest loosened. He reached up, brushing a strand of hair back from your face with careful fingers. His hand lingered there, thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone, and your eyes fluttered closed at the contact.
"When's the last time you ate something?" he asked.
You were quiet for a beat too long.
"Right." He stood, already moving toward the door. "Come on."
"Hunter, I can't—"
"You can." He turned back, extending a hand.
Your gaze dropped to his outstretched palm, and he could see the war playing out behind your eyes. The urge to retreat, to hide, battling against something else. Something that wanted to reach out. Wanted to accept the lifeline he was offering.
Slowly, shakily, you placed your hand in his.
The main hold was empty when you arrived, but Hunter had commed ahead. By the time he got you settled on one of the supply crates, the others started filtering in. Wrecker first, his massive frame taking up most of the narrow space, and Hunter didn't miss the way the big guy's expression softened when he saw you.
"Hey!" Wrecker's voice boomed, but he tempered it, gentler than usual. "There you are! We've been missin' ya."
You managed a small smile, though it wavered at the edges. "Hi, Wrecker."
Before you could react, he crossed the hold and pulled you into a hug, lifting you clean off the crate. Your spine popped in three places, and when he set you back down, there was the ghost of relief in your posture.
"There ya go," Wrecker said proudly, like he'd just solved all your problems. He dropped down beside you, the crate groaning under his weight, and dug into his pack. "Here, I saved ya some of those dried meiloorun slices from our last supply run. The good ones, not the chewy ones Tech keeps buyin'."
Before you could thank him, Tech appeared, datapad in hand as always. He adjusted his goggles, a tell Hunter recognized as concern, and took a spot near the wall since the crates were filling up.
"I have been reviewing the sleep cycle data from the ship's environmental controls," Tech announced, as if this were a perfectly normal conversation starter. "Your quarters have been experiencing a point three degree fluctuation in temperature during the night cycle. Suboptimal conditions for rest. I will recalibrate the system."
Hunter caught the way your expression shifted, something warm breaking through the exhaustion. Tech's way of showing he cared was rarely conventional, but it was always sincere.
"Thank you, Tech," you said quietly.
"It is a simple matter of environmental regulation." He adjusted his goggles again, already pulling up the ship's schematics on his datapad. "I will have it corrected within the hour."
Omega bounded in alongside Echo, her energy infectious as always, and Echo's thoughtful as he took in the scene. He didn't say anything at first, just settled on your other side with the careful deliberation of someone who understood what it meant to have dark days. The pair watched as Omega bounded between Wrecker, eyed the dried fruit on the supply crate, and immediately grabbed a piece.
"Hey! Those are for 'er!" Wrecker protested, reaching out and snagging Omega by the ankle. She squealed, laughing as he gently tugged her off balance.
"Wrecker! Let go!"
"Not until you put it back!" But he was grinning, and Tech sighed dramatically.
"The resulting caloric loss from a single piece of fruit is negligible," Tech announced, which somehow turned into Crosshair muttering something about Tech's definition of negligible, and suddenly the three of them were bickering.
The noise created a pocket of space, and Echo used it. His scomp link rested against his knee, and after a moment, he spoke, his voice low enough that only you and Hunter could hear.
"You know, after Skako Minor, there were days I couldn't get out of my rack." His voice was quiet, matter of fact. "Felt like I was still in that stasis chamber sometimes. Like I'd forgotten how to be a person."
Hunter watched you turn toward Echo, really look at him, and saw recognition flicker in your eyes. Someone who understood.
"What did you do?" you asked.
"Learned it was okay to have those days. That they didn't make me broken." Echo's organic hand came to rest on your shoulder, a solid, grounding weight. "And I let these idiots help, even when I didn't want to."
A scoff came from the shadows near the weapons rack, and Hunter's jaw tightened as Crosshair stepped into the dim light, a toothpick rolling between his lips. The sniper had been lingering there the whole time, Hunter realized, listening but keeping his distance.
"You gonna lecture her about feelings now?" Crosshair drawled, but there was no real bite to it.
"Cross," Hunter warned.
But you surprised them both by letting out a weak laugh. "It's okay."
Crosshair studied you for a long moment, his keen eyes picking apart details the way he'd scan a battlefield. Then he moved, fluid and precise, dropping something into your lap. A small toolkit, the one you'd been looking for two rotations ago when you'd mentioned your datapad acting up.
"Found it in the cargo hold," he said with a shrug, like it was nothing. Like he hadn't spent time searching for it because he'd noticed you needed it. "Figured you'd want it back."
Your fingers closed around the toolkit, and Hunter tracked the shift in your pulse. Steadier now. Calmer.
"Thank you," you whispered.
Crosshair's expression didn't change, but he gave a short nod before retreating back to his corner.
The conversation around you continued, Wrecker now trying to convince Omega that she owed you two pieces of fruit for stealing one, her protest dissolving into giggles. In the midst of the chaos, she wiggled free and plopped down near you, still clutching her contraband.
"Will you help me with my studies later?" she asked, bumping her shoulder against yours. "There's this navigation problem I can't figure out. You're way better at explaining than Tech."
"I am right here," Tech said without looking up from his datapad.
"You use too many big words," Omega replied simply, popping the fruit into her mouth with a satisfied grin.
You huffed a laugh, and Hunter felt it like a victory. He moved to the small galley counter, pulling together something simple. Ration bars weren't exactly gourmet, but he warmed them up, added some of the preserved fruit they'd bartered for on their last supply run, and poured a cup of caf that he deliberately made weaker than you usually took it. You needed rest more than stimulants.
"I'm not really hungry," you started, but he cut you off with a look.
"Try anyway."
Hunter set the plate within reach, then settled onto the crate beside you. His shoulder pressed against yours, a steady point of contact.
The conversation flowed around you, Wrecker recounting some ridiculous story about a mission gone sideways, Omega interjecting with her own commentary, Tech fact-checking every third sentence. It was noise, familiar and comforting, and Hunter kept his attention split between the banter and you. Monitoring. Making sure you didn't fade away.
At some point, you picked at the food. Not much, but it did taste a lot better than regular ration bars.
After the food was cleared, Omega tugged on your sleeve. "Come on, I wanna show you something."
You let her pull you to your feet, and Hunter watched as she led you toward the bunks, chattering about a new holonovel she'd found. Tech followed, still lecturing about proper narrative structure, and Wrecker clapped a massive hand on your shoulder as he passed, gentle despite his strength.
Hunter stayed in the galley, giving you space but keeping his senses attuned. He could track your movement through the ship, could hear Omega's bright voice and your softer responses. The knot that had been sitting in his gut for three days was finally starting to unravel.
Later, after Omega had fallen asleep mid-sentence and Tech had retreated to his data analysis, Hunter found you standing in the corridor outside your "quarters." You were staring at the door like it was some kind of insurmountable obstacle, your arms wrapped around yourself.
He approached slowly, deliberately making noise so he wouldn't startle you. "Need company?"
You turned, and in the low light, your eyes were overly bright. "I don't want to be alone," you admitted, the words so quiet he almost missed them. "But I don't want to be a burden either."
"You're not." He moved closer, closing the distance until he was right in front of you. "You could never be."
"Hunter..."
You were quiet for a long moment, staring at the door like it took too much energy to look at him. "I don't know how to make it stop."
"You don't have to fix it tonight." Hunter shifted closer, his presence solid and unhurried. "Just get through tonight. Then we'll handle tomorrow when it comes."
"One day at a time?"
"One day at a time," he confirmed. "And you're not doing it alone."
Your breath shuddered out, something loosening in your chest. "Thank you. For... for checking on me. For bringing everyone together like that." You glanced back toward where the main hold was, where you could still hear the muffled sounds of the squad settling in for the night. "I know I've been useless lately, but you all... you didn't have to do any of this."
"You're not useless," Hunter said firmly. "And we wanted to. All of us."
Your breath hitched, and then you were surging forward, arms wrapping around his waist, face buried against his chest again. Hunter held you close, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other splayed across your shoulders. He could feel your heartbeat against his, no longer stalling nor racing, but settling into a rhythm that matched his own.
"Stay," you mumbled against his armor. "Please."
"He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, soft and lingering. "Okay."
He guided you back into your quarters, and this time the space didn't feel oppressive. He shed his armor, piece by piece, setting it carefully aside until he was down to his blacks. You watched him with something fragile and hopeful in your expression, and when he climbed into the bunk beside you, you didn't hesitate. You curled into his side, head on his chest, one hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt.
Hunter wrapped his arms around you, feeling the way you slowly relaxed against him. Your breathing deepened, evened out, and he focused on that. On the steady rise and fall of your chest. On the warmth of you pressed against him. On the fact that you were here, you were safe, and you were letting him help.
"Hunter?" Your voice was drowsy, already half asleep.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
He tightened his hold, pressing another kiss to your hair. "Always."
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Plot Summary: On the rare morning snow falls over Pabu, Tech is already awake and documenting the phenomenon when she steps outside and turns the moment into something far more meaningful than data. Drawn to her warmth and quiet wonder, he rambles through scientific explanations to hide the feelings he can’t quite quantify, only to realize she genuinely enjoys every part of him. Especially the parts he worries are too much.
Tech had been awake for three hours, twelve minutes, and forty-seven seconds when he heard the hatch of the Marauder open.
He knew it was her before he even looked up from his datapad. He had memorized the particular rhythm of her footsteps weeks ago, though he would never admit to such an illogical use of his observational skills. There were far more practical things to catalog than the soft cadence of someone's gait.
And yet.
Tech adjusted his goggles and pretended to be absorbed in his precipitation data. In reality, every shred of attention he had was directed to the woman now standing on Pabu's walkway, her face tilted up toward the falling snow with an expression of such pure wonder that his throat tightened.
Beautiful.
The thought arrived unbidden. Inconvenient. But, accurate.
He had been waiting for this weather event for months. He had tracked the atmospheric patterns, calculated the probability windows, set alerts on his datapad. But now that it was finally here, now that snow was actually falling on Pabu for the first time in years, Tech found he could not focus on the meteorological data at all.
Because she was here. And she was smiling.
"I see you noticed the precipitation."
Smooth, Tech. Very smooth. As if she had climbed out of the Marauder specifically to observe atmospheric water crystals and not because the world looked like something out of a holovid romance.
She turned toward him, and Tech's brain temporarily forgot how to regulate his respiratory system.
"Good morning, Tech," she said, her smile widening. "You are up early."
I have been waiting for you to wake up, his mind supplied helpfully. I have been standing out here for twenty-three minutes hoping you would notice the snow and come outside so I could share this with you because everything is better when you are present and I am completely hopeless.
"I have been awake for three hours," he said instead, lifting his datapad like a shield. "I was collecting data."
"About the snow."
"Yes."
It was not entirely a lie. He had been collecting data. He simply had not been processing any of it with his usual efficiency because he kept glancing at the Marauder's hatch every forty-seven seconds.
Not that he had been counting.
Tech stepped closer. She had snowflakes clinging to her sleeves, each one a tiny architectural marvel, and he wanted to examine them. He wanted to examine everything about this moment and commit it to memory with the kind of detail he usually reserved for starship schematics.
"This is remarkable," he murmured, studying the crystalline structures on her sleeve while trying very hard not to think about how close he was standing. "These flakes are highly symmetrical. Six-sided crystalline structures. As they should be. Though the temperature is slightly higher than expected, which suggests that the water vapors condensed under very stable conditions."
He was rambling. He knew he was rambling. But if he stopped talking about snow formation, he might accidentally say something catastrophic like you look absolutely radiant right now or I have been hoping you would wake up for the past hour or I think about you approximately seventy percent of my waking hours and it is becoming a problem.
"Are you about to give me a full lecture on the physics of snowflakes?"
Tech's mind short-circuited.
She was amused. Not annoyed. Not bored. Amused. There was affection in her voice, warm and genuine, and it made something in his chest feel entirely too tight.
"Only if you want one," he managed.
Please want one. Please let me talk about snow science because it is the only thing keeping me from confessing that I find your presence more fascinating than any meteorological phenomenon.
She laughed—actually laughed—and brushed snow off his shoulder.
Tech forgot how to breathe.
Her hand had touched him. Casually. Easily. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she had not just sent every neuron in his body into complete disarray.
"I would not mind," she said softly.
Tech's heart performed what could only be described as an unauthorized acrobatic maneuver.
She wanted to hear him talk about snowflakes. She was choosing to spend time with him. She was looking at him with those eyes that made him forget whether he was supposed to be exhaling or inhaling, and she wanted to hear him ramble about ice crystals.
He cleared his throat and straightened his posture, attempting to regain some measure of composure. This was fine. He could do this. He gave lectures all the time. Admittedly, most of his lectures were delivered to his brothers who openly ignored him, but this was essentially the same thing.
Except it was not the same thing at all.
Because she was watching him with genuine interest, and Tech found himself wanting to make this good. Wanting to be interesting. Wanting her to keep looking at him exactly like that.
"The formation of snowflakes begins when water vapor in the atmosphere freezes into ice crystals," he began, his voice steadier than he felt. "These crystals then accumulate additional vapors which attach themselves in specific molecular patterns. This results in the branching structures that form unique shapes. Because the atmospheric conditions shift constantly during formation, each snowflake acquires distinct features."
He watched her face as he spoke, cataloging every micro-expression. The way her eyes brightened with curiosity. The small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. The way she leaned in slightly, as if she did not want to miss a single word.
She was listening. Actually listening.
Tech's chest ached with something he could not quite categorize.
"How long have you been waiting to explain that?" she asked, her tone teasing but gentle.
Since the moment I met you. Since I first realized that you actually pay attention when I talk. Since I started having thoughts that include the word 'us' instead of just 'me.'
"A while," he admitted.
Her expression softened, and Tech felt his carefully constructed defenses crumble like poorly engineered architecture.
The snow continued to fall, transforming Pabu into something out of a storybook. But Tech barely noticed the boats in the harbor or the peaceful crunch of snow beneath his boots. He was too busy trying not to stare at the way snowflakes caught in her hair, turning her into something even more ethereal than usual.
A snowflake landed on her eyelash. Tech's fingers twitched with the wholly inappropriate urge to brush it away.
He shoved his hand into a pocket on his tool belt.
"Want to walk around a bit?" she asked. "It is pretty out here."
Tech's entire nervous system went on high alert.
She wanted to walk with him. She wanted to spend more time with him. This was good. This was very good. This was also terrifying because Tech had been thinking about asking her to walk with him for the past twenty minutes and had been composing and discarding approximately forty-seven different approaches.
"I was going to ask you that," he blurted.
Smooth, Tech. Very smooth.
"Really?"
"Yes." He pushed his goggles up, flustered, needing something to do with his hands that was not reaching for her. "I had planned to phrase it more efficiently. Something like... would you be interested in taking a short observational stroll."
Why did he sound like a particularly awkward protocol droid?
"That is one way to say it."
"Is it an ineffective approach?"
Please say no. Please tell me I have not completely ruined this.
"No. It is very... you."
Tech's heart did something complicated and wholly unauthorized.
She liked that it was very him. She was not asking him to be someone else. She was not rolling her eyes or walking away or suggesting he try being "more normal" like Hunter sometimes gently implied.
She liked him as he was.
Tech opened his mouth, closed it again, and desperately attempted to regain some semblance of composure. His hands were sweating. Why were his hands sweating? It was literally snowing.
She extended her hand slightly.
Tech's brain stopped functioning entirely.
That was her hand. Extended toward him. In a gesture that was universally recognized as an invitation for physical contact. She wanted him to take her hand. She wanted to hold his hand while they walked through the snow like people did in those romantic holofilms Omega sometimes watched.
Oh.
Oh no.
Tech stared at her outstretched hand like it was a complex equation he desperately wanted to solve but was terrified of getting wrong. His analytical mind supplied approximately sixty-three reasons why this was a bad idea.
His heart supplied exactly one reason why it was not: Because it is her.
Carefully, reverently, like he was handling the most delicate piece of machinery in the galaxy, Tech lifted his hand and placed it in hers.
Her fingers closed around his.
Tech forgot how to think.
Her hand was warm. Soft. Perfect. It fit against his like it had been designed specifically for this purpose, and Tech had to actively resist the urge to run a detailed analysis on the statistical probability of such a thing.
He looked at their joined hands with something approaching wonder.
This is happening. This is actually happening.
They began walking through the snowy streets of Pabu, leaving two sets of footprints behind. Tech's entire awareness had narrowed to the feeling of her hand in his, the gentle pressure of her fingers, the way she did not let go even when he stopped to record the increasing flake density.
"The flake density is increasing," he noted, lifting his datapad with his free hand. "Fascinating."
He was absolutely not letting go of her hand to use both hands for his datapad. His data collection could be slightly less precise for once.
"You really like snow," she observed, watching him with fond amusement.
I like you, his brain supplied helpfully. I like the way you smile at me when I talk about atmospheric phenomena. I like how you listen when everyone else tunes me out. I like how you make me feel like being exactly who I am is not just acceptable but somehow... enough.
"I am interested in uncommon meteorological phenomena," he corrected, defaulting to technical precision because feelings were complicated and snow science was not.
Then, because apparently his mouth had decided to bypass his brain entirely: "But yes. I like it... significantly more when you are present."
Tech's face heated approximately three degrees.
He had just said that. Out loud. To her. Where she could hear it.
There was a pause, and Tech braced himself for awkwardness or gentle rejection or that particular expression people got when he said something that revealed too much.
Instead, she smiled.
Not a polite smile. Not an uncomfortable smile. A genuine, warm, absolutely devastating smile that made Tech's heart perform what could only be described as a barrel roll.
They continued walking until they reached a small open area overlooking the ocean. Snow collected on the stone wall like nature itself was setting the scene for something significant. Waves crashed below, their usual roar muted by the gentle hush of falling flakes.
Tech exhaled softly, his breath misting in the cold air.
"This is ideal."
"It is beautiful," she agreed.
Tech glanced at her, then looked away quickly, his face heating again.
She thought the view was beautiful. Tech thought she was beautiful, standing there with snowflakes in her hair and the ocean behind her and that soft smile on her face that made him want to recalculate every life decision that had led him to this exact moment.
His ears burned. Definitely from embarrassment this time, not the cold.
"That is not exactly what I meant," he admitted.
She tilted her head, curious and patient and entirely too perfect. "What did you mean?"
Tech's mouth went dry.
I meant that having you here is ideal. I meant that I have been alone for most of my life and I never minded until I met you. I meant that atmospheric conditions are fascinating but your presence is essential.
"I meant that the conditions are ideal," he said carefully. "For collecting data." He hesitated, then added in a quieter voice: "And for... other things."
"What other things?"
Tech avoided her eyes, focusing very intently on the snow-covered wall.
For falling hopelessly for someone. For realizing that hand-holding is significantly more pleasant than any technical manual suggested. For wanting to kiss you so badly that I have run approximately one thousand scenarios in my head about how to ask.
"For companionship," he said finally. "Specifically yours."
There. He had said it. It was out there now, hovering between them like the snowflakes drifting through the air.
"Are you saying you like spending time with me?"
Tech frowned, genuinely confused. "I assumed that was obvious."
Had he not been clear? Had he not spent weeks finding excuses to work near her? Had he not memorized her schedule and her favorite foods and the particular way she laughed when something genuinely delighted her?
Apparently not.
Tech's brows pulled together in thought. If his feelings were not obvious, then he needed to make them obvious. Clarity was important. Precision was important.
She was important.
"Then I will make it clearer," he said, meeting her eyes with an effort that felt like courage. "I enjoy your company. Significantly. More than I initially expected, though the trend has been increasingly apparent for weeks now. You listen when I talk about things others find boring. You ask questions that indicate genuine interest rather than polite tolerance. You make me feel..."
He paused, searching for the right words.
Seen. Valued. Like maybe I am not too much or too different or too everything that people usually find exhausting.
"...like myself is sufficient," he finished quietly.
Her breath caught, soft and audible, and Tech's heart hammered against his ribs.
"Well," she said, her voice equally quiet. "I enjoy yours too."
Tech's entire world tilted sideways.
She enjoyed his company. She had just said it. Out loud. Where he could hear it and record it and replay it in his mind approximately seven thousand times.
He shifted closer. Only by an inch, but for Tech—who carefully calculated personal space and rarely breached it—that inch felt like a leap across a chasm.
More snow settled in his hair. He did not care.
She reached up and brushed the flakes away, her fingers grazing his temple.
Tech froze like every circuit in his body had simultaneously overloaded.
"Does that bother you?" she asked softly, her hand still hovering near his face.
Bother me? BOTHER ME? You could reprogram my entire operating system and I would thank you.
"No," he responded immediately, his voice slightly strangled. "No. It does not bother me."
He needed her to know. Needed her to understand that her touch was not unwelcome, that it was in fact the opposite of unwelcome, that it was possibly the best thing that had happened to him in recent memory.
"It is... pleasant," he added, which was possibly the understatement of the century.
Pleasant. Like atmospheric pressure was "interesting" and hyperspace was "fast" and she was "acceptable."
Tech looked out over the ocean, then back at her, then down at the snow, trying to organize his thoughts into something coherent. His thumb moved without permission, lightly brushing across her knuckle.
He was still holding her hand.
He had been holding her hand this entire time.
Somehow that felt more significant than any technical achievement he had ever accomplished.
She touched his arm gently, grounding him. "Tech, what is going on in that head of yours?"
Everything. Nothing. You. Mostly you. The fact that I have been trying to find the courage to tell you how I feel for weeks and now that the moment is here I am terrified of saying the wrong thing or saying it wrong or somehow ruining this perfect moment with my complete inability to process emotions like a normal human being.
Tech inhaled slowly, gathering his courage like ammunition.
"I was trying to determine the appropriate moment to ask you a question," he admitted. "I wanted the moment to be... memorable. For you."
"What question?"
Tech looked at her finally, really looked at her, taking in the snowflakes on her eyelashes and the gentle curiosity in her expression and the way she was watching him like what he had to say actually mattered.
His heart felt too large for his chest.
Here goes everything.
"I would like to know if you would consider walking with me again another day," he said, each word carefully selected. "Not for research. Not for data collection. Simply because I enjoy being near you. Because I find your presence... necessary. In a way I did not anticipate but cannot seem to quantify or diminish or ignore."
There. He had said it. All of it. Or at least as much of it as he could manage without completely short-circuiting.
Her face transformed, softening into an expression so warm that Tech felt it like physical heat.
"Yes," she said simply. "I would like that."
Tech's shoulders dropped with relief so profound it was almost painful.
"I am very pleased to hear it," he said, which was possibly the calmest way he had ever expressed the sensation of wanting to reprogram himself into someone who knew how to properly celebrate good news.
She laughed, bright and genuine, and Tech wanted to record that sound and play it on loop.
"Tech. You could have asked me that without all the snow science."
He tilted his head, genuinely confused. "But the snow science is important."
The snow science provided context. Structure. A framework for this interaction that made sense when his feelings decidedly did not.
"I know," she said, and her smile was so fond it made his chest ache. "And I love hearing it."
Tech stared at her.
Love.
She had said love.
"You do?" he asked, because apparently he needed confirmation. Needed to hear it again. Needed to be absolutely certain he had not misheard or misinterpreted or invented that particular word in his desperation.
"I do."
Tech's hand twitched with the overwhelming urge to reach for her again, to close the small distance between them, to do something that expressed the magnitude of what he was feeling.
But his restraint held. Barely.
She took the initiative instead, slipping her fingers between his with an ease that suggested she had been thinking about it too.
Tech let out a quiet breath he had not realized he was holding.
They continued walking, hand in hand, while Tech occasionally rambled about ice crystal growth patterns and atmospheric pressure. But for once, he was only partially focused on the science.
The rest of his attention was dedicated to memorizing this: the feeling of her hand in his, the sound of her laugh when he got particularly enthusiastic about dendrite formation, the way she leaned into him slightly when the wind picked up.
After a while, they reached a small lookout near the upper walkways. Snow dusted the rooftops below like powdered sugar, turning Pabu into something from a storybook.
Tech reluctantly released her hand only long enough to collect a snow sample in a small container. He lifted it up with the kind of pride usually reserved for significant tactical victories.
"I will be able to analyze the composition later."
She smiled at his excitement, and Tech felt it like sunlight.
"I like seeing you happy," she said softly.
Tech's datapad nearly slipped from his fingers.
"I am..." Tech paused, trying to find words adequate for the feeling expanding in his chest. "I am frequently happy around you. It is a variable I did not anticipate, yet it is welcome. Very welcome."
You make me happy. You make everything better just by existing in the same space. I have been lonely for so long and I did not even realize it until you showed me what it felt like to be anything else.
Her expression softened further, impossibly tender. "I am glad."
Tech stepped closer.
He was not entirely sure what he was doing. His body seemed to be operating on some kind of autopilot, driven by feelings too large to contain and too powerful to ignore.
His heart hammered. His palms sweated. His mind supplied approximately seventy-three reasons why this was a terrible idea.
He ignored all of them.
"I would like to kiss you," he said quietly, because if there was one thing Tech believed in, it was informed consent and clear communication. "But I am aware that doing so without asking would be inappropriate. So I am clarifying. Would that be acceptable?"
He held his breath.
This was it. The moment where she would either reciprocate or gently explain that he had misread the situation entirely and they should probably return to being just friends who occasionally held hands during meteorological events.
"Yes," she said softly, her eyes bright. "It would."
Tech's brain blanked entirely.
Yes. She said yes. She wants me to kiss her. Me. Specifically me.
He nodded once, confirming parameters more for his own benefit than hers, then very gently lifted his hand to her cheek.
She was so warm.
His touch was careful, reverent, like he was handling something infinitely precious. Because he was. He was holding something precious and perfect and somehow, inexplicably interested in him.
Tech leaned in with soft determination, his heart racing faster than any ship he had ever piloted.
Their lips met.
Soft. Warm. Perfect.
Tech's entire world narrowed to this: the gentle pressure of her mouth against his, the way she leaned into him slightly, the small sound of contentment she made that sent electricity down his spine.
He relaxed against her, letting out a quiet sigh that carried approximately six weeks of pining and hoping and wanting.
This. This is what all those holofilms were trying to explain. This is why people write poetry and songs and ridiculous romantic nonsense that I always found illogical.
This makes perfect sense.
When he pulled back, his face was burning, his heart was racing, and his brain was attempting to process sensory data that far exceeded any predictive models.
"That was far more agreeable than my calculations predicted," he said, because apparently his mouth defaulted to technical terminology when overwhelmed. He reached up to adjust his goggles, needing something familiar to ground himself. "Exponentially so."
She laughed, breathless and beautiful, and Tech wanted to kiss her again immediately.
"I liked it too," she said.
Tech's heart performed another unauthorized acrobatic maneuver.
She liked it. She wanted to do it again. This was not a one-time experiment or a moment of temporary insanity.
This was mutual.
"Good," he said, attempting to sound calm and collected despite feeling anything but. "Then I believe it would be reasonable to do that again. Later. That is, if you desire to do so."
Please desire to do so. Please let this be the first of many. Please let me keep this.
"I agree," she said, grinning.
Tech felt like he could reprogram a Star Destroyer with his bare hands.
Snow continued to fall around them, transforming the world into something magical. Tech shifted closer until their shoulders touched, needing the contact, needing the confirmation that this was real.
For a long moment, they simply stood together on the snowy lookout, watching flakes drift down and dissolve on the warm stone.
Tech's mind was uncharacteristically quiet. No calculations. No analysis. Just this: her warmth beside him, her hand in his, the peaceful silence of snowfall.
"Would you like to resume our walk?" he asked eventually.
"Yes," she said. "With you. Always."
Always.
Tech looked at her like she had just solved an impossible equation. Like she had given him something he had not known he desperately needed. Like she had taken every lonely moment of his life and rewritten them into something bearable because they had led him here.
To her.
To this.
To always.
He gently took her hand once more, marveling at how natural it felt. How right.
"I am very glad you came outside today," he whispered, his voice raw with honesty. "I find these moments with you... irreplaceable."
She squeezed his hand, her smile soft and sure. "So am I."
Together, they walked through the quiet snowfall, leaving two sets of footprints side by side.
Tech cataloged every detail: the crunch of snow, the warmth of her hand, the way their steps naturally synchronized. He stored it all in his memory with meticulous care, knowing that years from now, he would want to remember this exactly as it was.
The day it snowed on Pabu.
The day he stopped calculating and started feeling.
The day she chose him back.
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banners by @saradika @saradika-graphics @perfectlywingedcrusade
authors note: hey guys i’m so sorry this art is so lacking emotion and depth… i had to rip Seris from a character sheet i was working on for lack of time… ALSO this is my first digital art piece ever *gulp* so yeah I know it is not great and I don’t know how to render but I hope you enjoy this sketch anyway! also used a side profile @zaana did of Tech as an inspo!
anywhere he's a little drabble of them meeting and talking for the first time! sorry there isn't more, my irl duties have been intense lately!
The clone they called Tech barely looked at Seris when Rex said her name.
His goggles were already angled back toward his datapad before the introduction was finished, fingers moving in small, efficient strokes across the screen, and she found herself watching those hands longer than she thought appropriate. He had more equipment strapped to his armor than the others, small instruments and tools slotted into every available surface. He wore all of it with casual ease, a solider or some sort of technician used to the weight of his loadout.
She stopped noticing him eventually. She had a room full of people to hold in her attention, a mission to absorb, Rex's grave voice mapping a path into dangerous territory. The unconscious assassin on the table. Omega's small, fierce questions cutting through the briefing like light under a door. There was plenty to occupy her.
Which is why it took her a moment to realize, when the group shifted toward the corridor and the low preparations for departure, that Tech had matched his stride to hers.
His datapad was still in hand but his eyes now flicked sideways with an attention that was oddly thorough. She felt it move across her face, her posture, the circular headpiece at her brow, the way her hands settled at her sides when she was thinking.
"Your headpiece contains Helerian truth and justice symbols," he said, in an even tone. "Traditional emblems from your homeworld's philosophical tradition. Predating its inclusion in the Republic by approximately seven centuries."
Seris missed a step.
"You're familiar with Helerian cultural history?"
"I maintain databases on planetary cultural identifiers," he replied. "Useful for mission contexts."
The explanation sat in the air between them, tidy and sufficient. She considered it, gently turned it over, while her years of diplomatic training for the Senate mulled it over more thoroughly.
He had catalogued seven centuries of Helerian philosophy for mission contexts?
"Of course," she said, and she matched his tone so precisely that the corner of his mouth shifted just slightly.
Plot Summary: Tech escapes the overwhelming chaos of Senator Chuchi’s New Year’s Eve party to the balcony, where he takes a quiet moment to review recorded memories from the past year. When you find him and the two of you reflect on how you’ve become part of the squad and what you mean to each other, Tech finally stops analyzing his feelings long enough to act on them.
Warnings: socially awkward Tech, sensory overload mention, Tech being a sweet big brother to Omega, NYE party, pining and confessions, fluff, SFW, first kiss
Authors Note: I was too late to get the last Tech fic for my 12 Days of Batchmas fanfiction challenge, so here is little New Years Eve holiday special for you all to make up for it! I included the same tag list for this fic, but if you would like to be added to my permeant tag list aside from the 12 Days of Batchmas, please let me know and I will add you! This will just be regular fanfiction and requests instead of strictly holiday content!
The decibel level at Senator Chuchi's New Year's Eve gathering was approximately fourteen points above what Tech considered tolerable for extended exposure.
He had known this would happen. He had calculated the probability of sensory overload at eighty-seven percent before they even left the Marauder. And yet here he was, standing against the wall with a glass of something blue that he had not touched, watching Wrecker's animated retelling of a mission that had definitely not involved that many explosions.
Wrecker's laugh boomed across the senator's large apartment, a sound that could probably be registered on seismic equipment, and Tech felt his jaw tighten. The music was too loud. The conversations overlapped in a cacophony that made it impossible to distinguish individual words. Someone had spilled something sticky near the refreshment table, and the inefficiency of the entire social structure was genuinely painful to observe.
He did not understand parties. He had tried. He had read literature on social gatherings, studied behavioral patterns, even attempted to calculate the appeal. The math never worked out.
Yet his brothers seemed to have adapted with concerning ease. Hunter was engaged in what appeared to be a genuine conversation near the viewport. Wrecker had attracted a small crowd now and even Echo had relaxed slightly, though he remained positioned near the exit in a way that suggested he shared at least some of Tech's discomfort.
Tech adjusted his goggles and began calculating the most efficient route to the balcony.
Three steps to the left to avoid the cluster of senators. Four more to circumvent the makeshift dance floor. Two additional to reach the door without appearing to flee, which would inevitably result in Hunter giving him that look that meant he needed to try harder to socialize.
He was trying. He simply preferred to try from a location with fewer people.
Tech executed his escape route with precision, slipping through the balcony door and into the cool Coruscant night. The temperature was approximately eight degrees lower out here, which was perfectly acceptable. The noise level dropped by an estimated seventy percent.
Better.
He exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the air, and allowed himself a moment to simply stand in the relative quiet. The city stretched out before him, a vertical landscape of lights and speeders and millions of lives he would never intersect with. From this height, it almost looked organized. Structured.
Tech turned slightly, intending to review his datapad in peace, when movement inside caught his attention.
There.
You were dancing with Omega.
He had not intended to look back inside. He had not intended to pause with his hand still on the balcony door. He certainly had not intended to watch as you lifted Omega's small hands in yours, spinning her in a careful circle that made her giggle with pure delight.
Your smile was genuine. Unforced. The kind of expression that indicated actual joy rather than social obligation. And Omega, she was laughing in that breathless way that made her sound like any other child at a party, not a clone with more trauma than most adults would experience in a lifetime.
Something in Tech's chest tightened and loosened all at once, like a mechanism clicking into place that he had not realized was misaligned.
It was a good scene. Objectively. You in your dress, Omega in hers, both of you spinning without a care for the mission parameters or survival calculations that usually governed their lives. You cared about his sister. Really cared. Took time to make her smile, to give her these moments of normalcy that were becoming increasingly rare.
He watched for longer than was strictly necessary, cataloging the way Omega's eyes lit up, the way your hands steadied her when she stumbled. These were the moments worth remembering.
You had been the one to convince them to attend tonight. "It's tradition," you had said, as if that explained the logic behind celebrating an arbitrary marker of planetary rotation. "Besides, Omega should experience these things. Normal things."
Normal things.
Tech was not convinced that crowds and loud music and sticky floors qualified as desirable experiences, but he had agreed anyway because you had asked and because somewhere over the past months he had developed the extremely inconvenient habit of wanting to say yes to things you suggested.
Even when those things involved parties.
Omega stumbled slightly again, and you caught her with easy grace, laughing. She said something Tech could not hear over the music and voices inside, and you nodded, then glanced around the room.
Your eyes swept the space with clear intent. Searching.
Tech stepped back from the door and closed it before his brain could fully process why. His heart rate had increased by approximately twelve percent. Fascinating. And inconvenient.
He turned away from the party entirely and pulled up his datapad, needing the familiar glow of data to ground him. The device hummed to life, and Tech navigated to his personal files with practiced efficiency.
He should review maintenance logs. Or perhaps analyze the atmospheric data from their last mission. Or literally anything productive that did not involve thinking about the fact that you had been looking for someone in that room and wondering if that someone might have been him.
It did not matter.
Except his fingers had already bypassed the maintenance logs and opened his memory archive folder instead.
Tech frowned at his own lack of discipline.
The folder contained image captures and video segments from the past year, moments he had recorded for documentation purposes. For reference. For entirely logical and practical reasons that had nothing to do with sentiment.
His thumb hovered over the first file.
He opened it.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
FILE: MEMORY_LOG_001.vid
DATE: 13.2.54 GrS
LOCATION: Pabu, Lower Docks
DURATION: 00:00:47
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The image flickered to life: you and Omega sitting on the dock, legs dangling over the water. Omega was pointing at something in the distance, probably a boat or a bird or one of the many things she found endlessly fascinating about their new home. You were listening with complete attention, nodding at whatever she was saying.
Then you had turned toward the camera, toward him, and smiled. That particular smile that made his systems feel like they needed recalibration.
"Tech, are you recording us?" you had called out.
"I am documenting Omega's adaptation to civilian life," he had replied, which was true but not the complete truth.
"Document THIS!" Wrecker's booming voice came from behind before he scooped up Omega and tossed her squealing into the water, cannonballing in after her. You had laughed so hard you nearly fell off the dock yourself.
He closed the file and opened another.
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FILE: MEMORY_LOG_015.img
DATE: 17.4.54 GrS
LOCATION: Marauder, Cockpit
TIME: 03:47
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This one was just an image. You had fallen asleep in the co-pilot's chair after a long mission, your head tilted at an angle that would definitely cause neck pain upon waking. Tech had noticed and retrieved a blanket from the cargo hold, then draped it over your shoulders.
He had told himself saving this memory was useful, to track sleep patterns and their correlation with mission efficiency.
He had not shown you the image.
He scrolled further.
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FILE: MEMORY_LOG_023.vid
DATE: 02.6.54 GrS
LOCATION: Pabu, Market District
DURATION: 00:01:32
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The market. You had insisted on going, claiming you needed supplies. Tech had accompanied you because someone needed to ensure you did not overpay for substandard goods. At least, that had been his stated reasoning.
In the recording, you were haggling with a vendor over the price of fruit. Your technique was entirely inefficient. Too much smiling, not enough data on market value averages. Yet somehow you had walked away with both a lower price and the vendor's recommendation for the best meal establishment in the area.
"How did you do that?" Tech had asked, genuinely curious.
"Do what?"
"Negotiate a favorable outcome using methods that contradict all established protocols."
You had laughed. "Tech, sometimes being nice works better than being right."
He had disagreed on principle, but had recorded the interaction anyway for further analysis of unconventional negotiation tactics.
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FILE: MEMORY_LOG_037.img
DATE: 19.8.54 GrS
LOCATION: Pabu, Residence TIME: 22:15
NOTES: Requested assistance with translator calibration. Process took 3.2 hours.
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He stared at that one longer than necessary.
You had sat beside him at the workbench for three hours and twelve minutes, handing him tools and asking questions about the calibration process. Most people found his explanations tedious. You had taken notes.
"You really love this, don't you?" you had said at one point.
"Love is not the terminology I would use. I find technical work satisfying."
"Same thing," you had replied, and the certainty in your voice had made something in his chest feel too tight.
The image captured your profile as you leaned closer to examine his work, your shoulder pressed against his. He remembered that contact. The warmth of it. How he had adjusted his position slightly to maintain it rather than pull away.
Tech closed the file and opened the next one before he could think better of it.
A simple walk. He had asked if you wanted to accompany you to check on some equipment at the island's edge. It had been a transparent excuse. The equipment had been functioning at optimal levels. But you had agreed anyway.
The recording showed you walking by his side, your hands nearly touching. You had been talking about something, explaining some theory or observation, and Tech had been watching you speak. But what he remembered now was not the words. It was the way the late afternoon light had caught your profile, gilding the edges of your features. The way you had glanced at him mid-sentence when you laughed, like you were checking to see if he found it funny too.
The way he had very carefully not reached for your hand despite calculating that the probability of reciprocation was reasonably high.
He had been calculating that probability for months now.
The data was incomplete. He needed more information. More certainty. More—
"Tech?"
His entire body went rigid.
He had not heard the balcony door open. He had not heard footsteps. He had been so absorbed in his datapad, in the memories, in you, that his usually reliable observational skills had completely failed him.
Your hand settled on his shoulder, warm through the thin fabric of his shirt, and Tech's brain temporarily ceased all higher functions.
He did not look up. If he looked up, you would know he had been caught off guard. So he kept his eyes fixed on the datapad screen, though he had stopped processing the information approximately three seconds ago.
"You disappeared," you said softly.
"I required less stimulation," Tech replied, pleased that his voice remained steady. "The party was... loud."
"I noticed you were gone."
Tech's fingers tightened fractionally on the datapad.
You noticed. Of course you noticed. You always noticed. It was one of approximately seventy-three things about you that he found simultaneously wonderful and deeply inconvenient.
His eyes shifted to you without his permission. Just a glance, brief and careful. You were looking at him with that expression that made his chest ache. Patient. Understanding. Like his need for space was not a flaw but simply a fact you had filed away alongside all the other facts you collected about him.
"I did not mean to cause concern," he said quietly.
"You didn't. I just..." You paused, then moved to stand beside him at the railing, your hand slipping from his shoulder. "I missed you."
Tech's thumb stilled on the datapad screen.
"We have been in the same location for the past hour and forty-three minutes," he said, because his brain defaulted to precision when emotions became too complicated to process.
"You know what I mean."
He did. You were talking about wanting his company specifically. About noticing his absence in a way that suggested feelings he had been trying very hard not to calculate the probability of. Feelings that matched the ones he had been documenting in fifty-three files and struggling to quantify for months.
Which made everything significantly more complicated.
Tech finally allowed his gaze to lift from the datapad entirely, looking out over the Coruscant skyline instead of at you. The city lights stretched endlessly, creating patterns of movement and stillness that were almost hypnotic.
"I am not particularly skilled at parties," he admitted after a moment.
"I know."
"I find them overwhelming. The noise level alone is—"
"Tech." Your voice was gentle. "I know. That's why I came to find you."
He turned to look at you then, and immediately regretted it because you were smiling at him with such warmth that it made every carefully constructed defense feel inadequate.
"I appreciate that," he managed.
You shifted closer, leaning against the railing beside him, and Tech became acutely aware of the minimal distance between you. Approximately four centimeters. He could close that gap easily.
He did not.
"What were you looking at?" you asked, nodding toward the datapad.
Tech glanced down at the device, at the frozen frame of a memory he had been reviewing with far too much attention.
"Files," he said, which was accurate but incomplete. "I was... reviewing the year."
Your expression softened further. “Can I see?”
Tech hesitated, then navigated to a file. One he thought you would like. He pulled up an image from a few months back: all of them gathered around the Marauder’s hold after a successful supply run. Wrecker had his arms slung around Omega and Echo, grinning wide. Hunter was shaking his head at something, but smiling. You were laughing at whatever Wrecker had just said, and Tech had captured it just as Omega tried to mimic Wrecker’s exaggerated pose.
“I remember this,” you said softly, leaning closer to look. “This was right after the supply run Agamar.”
Tech nodded. “Correct. Wrecker had declared the mission a sucess and began celebrating prematurely.”
You smiled at the screen. “And Omega decided that the hyperdrive worked better if you ‘encouraged it.’”
Tech adjusted his goggles. “I had explained inertia moment prior.”
“She liked her version better.”
“Statistically, most people do.”
You laughed quietly, watching Omega mid-exaggerated pose, clearly mimicking Wrecker’s stance. “She really thought you were going to agree with her.”
“I considered it.” Tech admitted after a fraction of a pause. “For morale.”
The moment stretched and he scrolled to another image. “I have been… documenting. Throughout the year.”
“How many do you have?”
“Fifty-three entries,” he said. “Though several contain multiple images or extended video segments.”
“These are beautiful,” you said softly, as Tech began to scroll to some of the earlier files. You were quiet for a moment, just watching the images flicker past. Then you looked up at him. “It’s been quite a year, hasn’t it?”
Tech considered this. “Statistically speaking, yes. Significant changes to squad composition and operational parameters.”
“That’s one way to put it.” You smiled, leaning against the railing beside him. “I still can’t believe you all let me join Clone Force 99. I thought Hunter was going to say no.”
“Hunter’s concern was logical. You lacked combat experience.”
“I still lack combat experience.”
“Less so now.” Tech adjusted his goggles. “Your tactical analysis has improved by approximately forty-seven percent. And your ability to operate under pressure has proven… adequate.”
“Adequate,” you repeated with a soft laugh. “High praise from you.”
He felt his face warm slightly. “I meant that you have integrated well into the squad. Despite initial reservations.”
“Your reservations or Hunter’s?”
Tech was quiet for a moment. “Mine as well,” he admitted. “I was uncertain about altering our operational dynamic. We had established patterns. Efficient systems.”
“And I messed all that up.”
“No.” The word came faster than he intended. “You… adapted to our systems. And when you could not adapt, you found ways to improve them. That is not the same thing.”
You were looking at him with that expression again. The one that made his pulse increase. “You know, when I first met you all, I thought Hunter or Echo would be the hardest to win over.”
“Wrecker is extremely sociable.”
“Exactly. But you…” You paused, as if choosing your words carefully. “You were polite but distant. I couldn’t tell if you just didn’t like me or if you were always like that.”
“I am generally like that,” Tech said. “With most people.”
“I noticed.” Your smile turned knowing. “It just took me a while to realize you were warming up to me."
Tech tilted his head slightly. "What indicated that?"
"You always look at me when you explain things," you said. "Even when someone else asked."
Tech frowned. "That is inefficient."
"Is it?" You bumped your shoulder lightly against his. "Because you adjust if I look confused… and when you do explain something, it's different. Slower. Different examples. Things you know I'll understand."
Tech paused.
He reviewed the pattern automatically and found it uncomfortably consistent.
During night watches, he no longer catalogued every visible constellation. He pointed out only the ones you lingered on, the ones you asked about or traced absentmindedly with your finger against the sky. When discussing the Marauder's modifications, his explanations narrowed to systems you interacted with most often.
When calibrating scanners, he let you handle the adjustments, stepping in only when your expression shifted from focused to uncertain.
"You process information efficiently," he said at last. "It was logical to tailor my explanations."
You hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Uh huh… and Omega? When did you start letting her follow you around the ship?”
“Omega is curious. I merely provided educational opportunities.”
“You taught her how to calculate hyperspace jumps.”
“Basic mathematics. Hardly complex.”
“Tech, she’s twelve.”
“Technically, she is significantly older than—”
“You know what I mean.” You bumped your shoulder against his gently. “You’re good with her. Patient. She adores you.”
Something in his chest tightened at that. “She has experienced considerable trauma. Providing intellectual stimulation seemed… necessary, rather than allowing her to dwell on difficult circumstances.”
“See, that’s what I mean.” Your voice had gone soft. “You act like everything is just logic and efficiency, but then you do things like that and like helping me. Like teaching a kid hyperspace calculations because you know it makes her happy. Like recording memories because you want to remember the good moments.” You paused. “Like coming to a party you hate because someone said Omega should experience normal things.”
Tech found he had no adequate response to that.
You were quiet for a moment, looking out over the city. “I’m glad I joined you all. Even with the near-death experiences and the constant running and Hunter’s sometimes questionable decision-making.”
“His tactical choices are generally sound.”
“I’m not talking about tactics.” You glanced at him. “I’m talking about finding somewhere I fit… about his decision to have me here, with you. And with everyone.”
“You do fit,” he said quietly. “With us. You have become…” He struggled for the right word. “Integral. To squad operations and…” He paused. “And to other things.”
“Other things?” you prompted gently.
Tech’s mouth had gone dry again.
Silence stretched between you, but it was not uncomfortable. Inside, someone had turned the music up. Tech could hear the muffled bass through the door, the distant sound of chanting and cheering beginning.
“They’re starting the countdown soon,” you observed, glancing back toward the party.
“In approximately five minutes,” Tech confirmed automatically. “Though the actual new year by galactic standard time occurred three hours ago, so the celebration is somewhat arbitrary.”
“But it matters to people.”
“I suppose.”
You shifted slightly, and suddenly your hand was resting on the railing next to his. Not touching, but close. Close enough that Tech could feel the warmth radiating from your skin.
“Does it matter to you?” you asked.
Tech considered the question with unusual care. “I find the concept of marking time in standardized segments to be practical for organizational purposes. The celebratory aspect is less logical, though I understand the human need for ritual and tradition.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He knew what you were asking. He had known from the moment you stepped onto the balcony, had probably known for weeks now, if he was being honest with himself.
“It matters,” he said quietly, “because you are here. And that makes even arbitrary celebrations feel… significant.”
“Tech…”
He turned to face you properly. “I have been attempting to quantify my feelings toward you for several months,” he said. “The data has been… inconclusive. Or rather, conclusive in ways that are difficult to process.”
“What do you mean?”
Tech adjusted his goggles, a nervous habit he had never successfully eliminated. “I mean that I have recorded fifty-three memory files this year, and forty-one of them feature you. I mean that I have memorized the specific pattern of your footsteps and the way you take your caf and approximately two hundred other details that serve no practical purpose. I mean that when you asked us to attend this party, I agreed despite my intense dislike of social gatherings because the alternative was not seeing you tonight, and that felt… unacceptable.”
The words came faster now, gaining momentum like a ship in freefall.
“I mean that you notice when I leave rooms and you listen when I explain things that others find tedious and you make me feel like perhaps my tendency to over-analyze and over-explain is not a deficiency but simply… me. And that appears to be sufficient for you. Which is simultaneously the most logical and most illogical thing I have ever encountered.”
He paused, breathing slightly harder than normal, his heart rate elevated by approximately twenty-three percent.
“So yes,” he finished quietly. “It matters. Because you matter. Significantly.”
For a moment, you just stared at him, your lips parted slightly. Tech began running probability calculations on various responses.
Then you smiled the kind of smile that Tech had been documenting for months.
“You matter to me too,” you said softly. “In case that wasn’t clear.”
Tech’s brain caught the implication.
“That suggests romantic interest.”
“It does.”
“You have romantic interest. In me.”
“Yes, Tech. I do.”
The information processed slowly.
From inside, the countdown had begun. Ten. Nine. Eight.
Tech became acutely aware of your proximity, of the way you were looking at him, of the fact that there were approximately seven seconds until midnight and he had spent months documenting moments when he should have been creating them.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked.
Your smile widened. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
Seven became six. Six became five.
Tech closed the distance between you with far more confidence than he felt, his hand coming up to cup your cheek with careful precision. Your skin was warm. You leaned into his touch, your eyes soft and bright and fixed entirely on him.
Four… Three…
“I have never done this before,” he admitted quietly. “I apologize if my technique is—”
You kissed him.
Tech’s datapad slipped through his fingers and clattered onto the balcony floor.
Your lips were soft and warm. Better than his calculations had suggested. His now free hand found your waist, pulling you closer.
Inside, people were cheering. Midnight. The new year. The arbitrary celebration of another planetary rotation.
None of it mattered, because you were kissing him.
When you eventually pulled back, Tech’s goggles were slightly askew.
“Happy New Year,” you whispered.
“Happy New Year,” he echoed, his voice rough. Then: “That was… was my technique was adequate?”
You laughed. “Your technique was perfect.”
“I will need to collect more data,” he said seriously. “To ensure consistency and optimize the experience.”
“Is that your way of saying you want to kiss me again?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” you said, already leaning in.
Tech met you halfway, and this time when your lips touched his, he was ready for it. Ready for the way his entire nervous system responded. Ready for the soft sound you made when his fingers tangled in your hair. Ready for the feeling of rightness that settled over him.
When you eventually pulled apart, you stayed close, your hand resting over his heart.
“We should probably go back inside,” you murmured, though you did not sound particularly enthusiastic about the idea.
“Technically yes,” Tech agreed. “Though I find I am not inclined to do so.”
“No?”
“No. I would prefer to remain here. With you. Collecting data.”
You grinned. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“It is a practical term for a practical activity.”
You rolled your eyes and took a breath. “Tech, you’re staring.”
He blinked. “I am observing.”
“That’s what I said.” You were smiling now, that teasing edge to your voice that he had learned meant you were enjoying his discomfort.
“Observation is a critical component of data collection.”
“Uh huh. And what data are you collecting?”
Tech’s mind went blank for approximately point-three seconds. “I… relevant visual information.”
“About?”
“You.”
Your smile softened into something that made his pulse forget its regular rhythm. “Yeah?”
Tech cleared his throat. “You are… currently the primary focus of my attention.”
“Just currently?”
“No.” He adjusted his goggles, a nervous tell he could not seem to eliminate. “Not just currently.”
Your expression softened into something tender and warm. “I really like you.”
“I have developed significant affection for you as well,” Tech replied, because even now, precision mattered. “Though I suspect ‘like’ is insufficient terminology for what I am experiencing.”
“What would you call it?”
He looked at you, standing there in the Coruscant night with city lights reflecting in your eyes.
“I would call it essential,” he said finally. “You have become essential.”
You kissed him again, and Tech stopped trying to categorize what he was feeling.
When you finally returned to the party, Tech’s hand was in yours, his datapad retrieved and tucked under his arm. His brothers noticed immediately. He could tell by Wrecker’s supersized grin. Mercifully, none of them said anything.
Tech did notice a shift in the room, though. The noise level seemed more tolerable. The crowded room less overwhelming.
Everything was better with you beside him.
“Come on,” you said, tugging him gently toward where Omega was waving enthusiastically. “Omega’s been looking for us.”
Tech allowed himself to be pulled through the crowd, his hand secure in yours. Omega practically bounced when she spotted you both.
“There you are! I was starting to think you’d-” She looked between you and Tech, then at your joined hands, and her entire face lit up. “Wait. Did you two finally—”
“Omega,” Tech said quickly.
“You did!” She was grinning now, that particular smile that meant she was absolutely going to bring this up later. “I knew it. I told Wrecker you would, and he said—”
“Perhaps we could discuss this at a later time,” Tech interrupted, though he could feel his face warming.
You laughed and ruffled Omega’s hair. “How about we get some of those fancy desserts before Wrecker eats them all?”
As the three of you headed toward the refreshment table, Omega chattering excitedly between you, Tech realized something. The party was still loud. Still crowded. Still overwhelming by most metrics.
But with your hand in his and Omega’s delighted rambling filling the space between you, he found he did not mind nearly as much.
Perhaps some variables were more significant than others.
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FILE: MEMORY_LOG_054.img
DATE: 01.1.53 GrS
LOCATION: Coruscant, Senator’s Residence
TIME: 00:00:47
NOTES: First kiss. Essential data point.
Recommend frequent replication.
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