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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 8 months

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Star-crossed in the Crosshairs (John Price x Reader)

Chapter 1: It's Bigger Than You

Fic Summary: This mission is the pinnacle of your efforts for the past three years. Your whole team and yourself have worked countless hours, slaughtered hundreds, risked life and limb for scraps of intel, and now it all boiled down to pairing up with another taskforce to get this job done and dusted. An unexpected spanner in the works comes in the form of your best friend, now also a Captain and somehow resurrected from his KIA status, John Price.

You can't afford to let feelings - old and new - get in the way of your purpose. No matter how much you've missed, wished for, loved him, and no matter how much he might feel the same.

Content warnings: Usual COD content (violence, torture, death, guns), mutual pining, back from the dead, friends to allies to lovers

Reader is GN, some use of Y/N.

Masterlist // AO3 Version // Chapter 2

The long term was drawing to a close, ultimately. More and more of the covert ops were starting to bring up more details that bore fruit in the form of puzzle pieces, all the same colour and shape so that putting the fragments together was a near impossible ordeal. But your team had finally made connections, threads of red stabbed into satellite images, maps, and post-its with scribbled intel, ready to be uploaded to the higher ups overseeing your dirty work.

Your team was not the only one to make headway against this new threat. Which is why you were all loaded into a heli, shipped to your new temporary home bordering Russia to pair up with another taskforce.

Taskforce Banshee was eager to work with the 141. You’d been briefed names, not faces, and delivered those to your subordinates who teemed with delight – especially Crash who was eager to meet with someone she’d trained with upon entering the armed forces.

You hid your reluctance well. You weren’t ungrateful for reinforcements, especially from an elite squad of soldiers whose names rang clear with reputations earned in the blood of a thousand. But one of those names conjured an image, and it did not have to travel deep into the archives of your memories, since you had been offered a gentle reprieve between punches from some cocksure wannabe torturer not one month prior. As you spat in your captor’s eye, that image had appeared in your head to comfort you. It was far from your end, but it seemed to rub balm over your mind as it grew dizzy with the wonder that perhaps he’d done the same when he was in this same position: captured whilst assuring their team’s escape. So when you were discharged officially and ready for active duty, and Chief Laswell said the name of the man whose memory had comforted you in your closest interaction with your own death, you were not best pleased. Your ribs were healed enough for you to join your team for this collaboration. But they ached around your sternum with the remembrance of the man you would have laid your life down for.

The heli jolted its passengers, though you all maintained composure besides an exchange of raised brows. Stepping off onto solid tarmac was much appreciated. You were met by a younger man, classic London charm in a baseball cap and tac vest.

“Sergeant Kyle Garrick,” He offered you his hand first, “Call me Gaz.”

You introduced yourself, without an additional nickname - the one you’d been assigned by your squad was lost many years ago, in transfers and promotions. Then came your team who shook hands with the Sergeant as you role-called: Sergeant Rosie “Crash” Simmonds, Sergeant Grant “Bronze” Ray, and Second Lieutenant Lucia “Chance” Halloway. Although Rosie needed no introduction. She and Garrick entered into a brief but elaborate looking handshake before bumping chests with broad grins. You liked that about Rosie. She had a good sense of humour, made you feel a half a decade younger. Not quite the entire decade. Precious few people could bring that version of you out. But she made your life a bit brighter, and it was an honour to mentor her.

“We’re starting briefing in a few. I’ll take you right there.”

He walked with a brisk pace, effectively flushing the stiff joints

As much as you’d rehearsed this in your head, it didn’t stop your ears from feeling like they were stuffed with cotton wool.

Your captured essence of John Price, back when you were both fresh meat with hardly any hairs on his chin worth keeping around, vanished and was replaced by the man he’d become. His body had bulked up beneath the uniform, his features framed by facial hair that finally connected moustache to beard.

He was leaning over the room’s table, one hand to balance his inclined weight and the other pointing at the centre of the paperwork gathered for this mission. At the sound of the door opening, he’d turned his head ninety degrees right to meet the gaze of all who entered. He was looking directly at you, his eyes in the shadow thrown by the brim of his boonie.

You only stared at him for a second. It was long enough for the room to notice, you feared. So you resumed your business-like appearance to the best of your acting ability.

“Captain,” and you reached out to shake his hand.

Blinking three times in quick succession, John Price accepted with a firm grasp in a fingerless glove.

“Captain,” He repeated after you, his voice like dark roasted coffee. He only gave your hand a single shake. Yet it still managed to send shockwaves up through your muscles and reverberated against your bones whilst, in their bulky uniforms, Taskforce Banshee shuffled around into position, chair legs screeching along the floor before they took up their manilla folders. You had your own handed to you by Captain Price. Your head despised how his forefinger reached out to brush against yours, like Hannibal Lector had done in his final meeting with Clarice Starling, against the wills of everyone else in that prison. However your heart leapt into your throat at the accidental touch, and you had to clear it a little harshly to ensure you could talk through it before the briefing started.

Price went first, introducing the other members of his team: Sergeant John “Soap” MacTavish and Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley. Your team replied with their own names, probably hoping for this section of the briefing to be over before someone suggested they tell each other a fun fact about themselves to aid bonding. Thankfully, Price took back over and began explaining the intel he and his team had uncovered. You recounted it in your mind from what you’d seen before, trying not to breathe in the cedarwood beard oil that matched an all too familiar aftershave.

You spoke next, after Price smoothly handed the subject to you, briefly about the history of this project. Then you delegated to Bronze who had completed his last mission solo and discovered the info that clinched this entire operation together. He informed everyone about the name that had sporadically popped up in the background noise of missions over the years: Jaromir Čiernik. How, over a period of years and months, he’d built up his terrorist portfolio over in the three countries he’d earned residence: Russia, Belarus, and Odristan (his place of birth and comfort zone). He’d only slipped under the radar due to his many precautions and wide spread net of contacts and aliases. Except last week, he’d grown impatient, tripped on his ego enough for your team to force entry into this new cell.

The meeting looped back to you and the plan to poison this organisation against itself. You’d made with your taskforce in mind but modifications were included to best make use of your new allies in 141. Speaking of which, your gracious hosts were delightful audience participants: Ghost offering a single nod, while Gaz and Soap offered their compliments to the detail without speaking over you.

After a thorough ten minutes, you made it to your closing statement and your offer: “Any questions?”

A few head shakes were sent your way, eyes still on the written details or the map on the big screen.

Price took hold of the two straps of his vest, addressing Taskforce Banshee: “My men will show you to your quarters. Heli leaves at 1800 hours. See you there.”

With the meeting closed, the door to the room was opened. Your team filed out after their hosts, though you noted Chance lingering a few feet behind and watching you shuffle your papers back into its file.

“Something the matter?” You prompted, openly, not interrogatively.

Chance’s eyes flicked over to Captain Price for a split second then returned to you: “Nothing, Cap.”

You nodded, filing this conversation as something to address before leaving at six, and watched the door close behind her. Out your back pocket, you tapped on your work phone an alarm for twenty minutes before launch.

“Y/N?”

Your lungs were still and holding you ramrod straight on your suddenly unsteady feet. If you dared to let even a hint of personal feelings out of its cage, you would be ruined for this mission and you couldn’t let that happen. Not to you, your team, the innocents who would lose everything and not even know your name to blame you for it. So you took the greatest amount of care to face Price with all composure maintained inside and out.

His hat was on the table besides the laptop, his eyes bluer now they were out of the shadow. It was a blow to see him again, but to see him with the full eight years on his face, each grey hair that flecked his strong brown beard, the sparse ones that lined against his temples, and more sprouting along the hairline that had shot back a centimetre. Crow’s feet carved against his eyes, brackets from his nose shielding his mouth beneath the beard. Which meant he still smiled the same, and he had done so often in the gap since you’d seen him.

The freckle, off-centre near the end of his nose, caught your attention, and your geeky younger self’s desire to kiss it reared its ugly and humiliating head, spawning right next to your thundering heart. The sound of which, you hoped, was muted beneath your protective layers, and you hoped that John didn’t realise how much energy you were spending on soaking up his presence again like a lovesick teen.

He cleared his throat, “I think I should explain-”

“It’s good to see you again.”

You didn’t mean to interrupt what was likely a well-rehearsed speech, your eyes wide to take him in in his entirety.

But you meant what you’d said. There was no part of you that felt anger at his sudden resurrection. Only relief that your wishes to see him once more had been granted, and melancholy at all the time you’d lost and would not be able to recapture or resume until this mission was far in the rear view mirror. If only this mission was the kind where everyone walked away.

He was still, watching you, his hand frozen two inches raised from his side and you realised that he had gone to reach for you. You didn’t back away, trusting that he wouldn’t do that to you after all that you’d gone through, his fault or otherwise.

Finally, he replied, “You too.” And his hand lowered cautiously back to his side.

You gave him a quick nod then spun on your heel to leave the office. The echo breadcrumb clues of footsteps and mild chatter led you back to your team who were just entering their respective rooms.

“Yours is up here, Captain,” Gaz said with an arm out to indicate his direction.

The spare quarters were just down the corridor and to the right, your rank allowing you the privacy of a room to yourself – if only for the time you needed to prepare yourself for this mission. You thanked the Sergeant, finding your belongings already dumped in the corner.

The lock twisted in the door handle, darkness collapsing behind you. A breath slid out of your mouth with a whine. Your hand snapped up and pressed your palm to your lips, a silencer to the bullet that burst through your chest, as raw as the day they told you Price was KIA. How you’d wept silently and unknowingly at an empty grave, poured a drink to it and hid in shame from other visitors to the graveyard, as if your grief was an embarrassment. A decade’s worth of recuperation, dashed to pieces like a ship on rocks, and you were taking water fast, sinking down against the weak door. If anyone heard this distress, they could easily kick the door in, and they would see you in your moment of weakness.

The room was shrinking against your efforts to see the corners of it. Boots stiff and dusty, you planted them down with your knees bent for ease. You began forcing yourself to breath slow by blocking your airways for set amounts of seconds, counting down each second as accurate as a timer.

Using the door to support yourself, you pushed up into standing and closed your eyes. Your mind brought forth a picture of your posture, your position, and everything that hung from you. It began to adjust itself. Your shaking hands steadied out from wrist to fingertip. Spine aligned, hips adjusted, ready to carry half your weight in gear, you stopped timing your breathing and went on with your pre-mission routine: brushing your teeth, flossing, final deodorant checks, quick piss.

Then your phone buzzed with the alarm. You silenced it fast then turned it off completely. You knocked at the doors of your subordinates, all waiting for your go-ahead, then you made your way back to the tarmac.

Drawing up to the heli, you found Soap with a large crate that he was just crow-barring open. Brimming with the weapons necessary for your future, and he was letting your team take their pick first.

“Cheers,” Bronze said, and the rest of the team – yourself included – echoed the sentiment as you loaded up.

The M13 found itself in your gloved hands, taking it apart and putting it back together like pieces in a Lego set. If you’d allowed it to become a coping mechanism, rather than a day-to-day task, it might’ve allowed you to ignore the rest of 141 joining you for their canisters of tear gas and grenades.

“How’d you know what the Captain likes?” Crash cracked, and Soap seemed to glow under the wit.

Then, for the first time, Ghost spoke: “Price organised it.”

Anyone could tell the portion of silence that followed was the awkward kind, but you just continued loading your weapons, not lurking on what Ghost had said (and implied).

“Chance?” Your head tilted back once you caught her eye. Checking the chamber of her M21, she followed you back into the hanger, though you kept in sight so that the others would know you weren’t late.

“What did you want to ask me earlier?” You asked, loud enough to be heard over the propellors but not so that anyone else could hear.

Shifting her weight onto her left hip, Chance glanced back at the teams assembling before the belly of the heli before turning back to you: “You met Captain Price before, right?”

As calmly and nonchalantly as you could muster, you answered: “Yes, why?”

“Just seemed like you knew each other. No introductions, you know?”

“Hmmm,” You tried not to avoid eye contact nor stare for too long, “We worked together in the army. Briefly.”

That last word caused Chance’s right brow to quirk up. Too much effort to seem effortless on your part. But she accepted this and no other follow-ups when you asked if there were any. She wasn’t questioning you or your authority or your judgement. In fact, you were happy she asked. It kept almost kept you in check, ensured your team understood your rationale and trusted your decisions as their leader. Still you had no clue why your cortisol levels were rising at the idea of your team knowing the answer to that question.

It'd have to be filed with the other doubts you had about your role as a Captain, the ones you kept to yourself, only to be challenged with your therapist on the other end of the phone once or twice a month.

You wondered when you would speak with them, but you knew you would definitely discuss seeing Price again.

The other had loaded themselves onto the heli during that private chat, so you went and found yourself your seat beside Crash. She didn’t acknowledge you, too busy engaging eagerly with Gaz, and you didn’t hide the fond smile that sight caused.

At five to six, the heli closed itself up and the propellers kicked into high gear, the lift off causing your stomach to drop an inch despite knowing full well what was happening. You rubbed a fingertip beneath your watch, swiping the sweat from the inked skin underneath. One of these days, you’d pull that watch off and your tattoo would be distorted by the impression left behind – now as permanent as each other.

“Good?” Bronze said on your right.

As you turned your head, you tried not to focus on the boonie hat that tempted in your sightlines opposite you. This was the culmination of countless efforts. It was your responsibility to get your team through this, to give your lives to keep the world spinning for a few minutes longer. Not some retreat to reconnect with your risen-from-the-dead best friend. He would not be a distraction. He would be an ally, and nothing more.

You tapped your fist to Bronze’s, “Solid.”

______________

AN: Hello and welcome to another series I'm writing. But I have this one half finished so I'm dead set on getting this one completed, especially since it's one near and dear to my heart.

Thank you to @mockerycrow for your permission to use your post/now a fic as inspiration! I'm running away with it, and I'll come back to see what you do with it too! Make sure you send them some love for their updates <3

Final note, if you wanna be tagged, talk to me about this fic or any others, or even request a fic/update on this, inbox me! I'd love to talk more COD content, and the more you talk to me, the more likely I'll post sooner!

#john price #captain john price #john price x reader #john price oneshot #john price fanfic #captain price x reader #captain john price x reader #captain john price fanfic #cod #mw2 #cod fanfic #cod x reader #my writing #mw2 fanfic #r: gen #wc: >2k

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allie-scribbles · 2 years

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Love, Found

Summary: It’s the big reunion. But will it be a happy one?

Pairing: Crosshair x fem!reader

Word Count: 3k (whoops)

Series Tags/Warnings: Angst, sad feels, implied pregnancy (now there's a baby!), cussing because I can't help it, a smidge of violence.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Interlude | Part 4

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You swear you aren’t force sensitive, but the way you step outside one day and somehow, deep down, know he’s there makes you re-evaluate that assumption - if only for a second.

You had just gotten Amaia down for a nap and were planning for a moment of peace and quiet in your garden when you felt it: you were being watched. Only this didn’t feel like the uncomfortable gaze of a stranger or a judgemental look from an acquaintance. It was calm and focused. Warm, if a bit distant. It was him, and you didn’t need to be a Jedi to know it.

It almost takes you by surprise, how quickly he’d arrived on Wrea. It had only been a couple weeks since Hunter had let you know he’d given your coordinates to Crosshair. To be honest, part of you was expecting to wait months for him to show up. But there was never any doubt that he’d observe from afar first, making his move when he felt comfortable. The Empire may have changed him, but you still were confident you knewhim like the back of your hand.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Crosshair had been in the same position for hours upon hours, yet the fatigue and stiffness didn't register. He pushed them to the back of his mind, quite easily in fact, putting all his focus on you. You, who had haunted his dreams since he begged you to defect to the Empire with him. The person who betrayed him even more than his brothers. He had bared things to you he’d never dare whisper to them, trusted you with his ramshackle heart, and in the end, you didn’t choose him.

That’s what he had been telling himself, at least, until you were there in his scope. Cliché as it was, he couldn’ breathe for a moment when he saw you. You were exactly the same, yet different somehow. You seemed softer around the edges, both physically and in the way you moved. Where your movements before were purposeful and precise, there was now a graceful ease.

He watched through the window as you readied breakfast, singing to yourself and dancing in the kitchen. He watched you slip on a shawl and shoes as you exited the front door, a bundle strapped to your chest that he quickly realized was a baby in a very fuzzy hat with Tooka ears (not an actual Tooka). He felt a sharp panic then, easily quelled when you returned from the village minutes later without the child. He knew you had always liked children, so it made perfect sense you’d help the villagers watch them when needed.

A few household chores later and you returned to the village, coming back after a short while with what he assumed was another child strapped to you - the Tooka hat was gone and replaced with a plain bonnet. He allowed himself a half smile then - you were still his girl, caring and always willing to lend a hand where needed.

That led him to now, when you stepped out to the garden alone, taking a deep breath and smiling as the wind brushed your hair away from your face. As he watched you through his scope, he felt the full weight of his situation hit him for the first time. He could reveal himself, or not… risk being rejected again, or not.

He made his decision, removing himself from the patch of ground he had made his home for the day, packing up his kit with the intent to leave you once and for all. His fragile heart couldn’t take rejection again from the one thing it loved above all else. Just as he was about to tuck his scope into its compartment, he caved, stealing one last glance your way. If he didn’t know better, he’d say you were staring right at him, a serene smile on your face, like you knew he was there. He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face and shoving the scope angrily into his kit. Whatever previous decision he made wasthrown to the wind. He fucking loved you, and he hadto try.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You were washing dishes when the energy in the apartment shifted. Your hands stilled, and you took a deep breath. This was it. The moment you had been waiting for. But your movements were slow and deliberate as you set down the now clean plate, drained the water from the sink, and wiped your hands on the towel before folding it neatly on the counter. You steeled yourself as you turned, not sure what version of Crosshair you were going to find. The imperial soldier? The stoic sniper you first met? Or the man you were irrevocably in love with?

When you turned around, he was seated at the kitchen table, feet up and toothpick in his mouth, a smirk on his face. You gave his feet a pointed look, and he huffed out a chuckle as he swung them down to the floor.

“Miss me, sweetheart?” he drawled, legs spread wide and one arm slung over the back of the chair, looking for all intents and purposes like a permanent fixture in your home instead of the (welcomed) intrusion that he was. But still you could see the apprehension, the uncertainty in his eyes. The concern that what has transpired has changed you, changed him, too much. That what you had was completely and utterly gone.

The only sign of surprise is his soft “oof” as you flung yourself at him, arms around his neck and knees hitting the floor as you hug him as best you can in your awkward position. He immediately returned your embrace with one arm, the other hand resting under your chin. Both work in tandem to guide you both to a standing position. Though he still says nothing, you can see how much he missed you shining in his eyes, felt it vibrating through his body, tasted it in the searing kiss he pressed to your lips as he held you close.

You stood there together reveling in the closeness for what seems like hours, until a soft cry from the next room breaks the silence. Panic flooded through you; while Amaia was asleep you had been able to pretend this moment you’ve dreaded would never come. But Crosshair doesn’t seem surprised, which you guess made sense if he had been watching you. But did he know?

He spun you around to face the bedroom door and pats you on the ass, a smirk on his face as he jutted his chin towards the source of the cry. You give his hand one last squeeze before you go, and his responding squeeze gave you both hope that maybe things would be just like they were.

Admittedly, you took longer than you needed to gather Amaia, drawing out changing her diaper and tidying the blankets in her crib as long as you could. You could feel your heart beating a mile a minute, your muscles tensed your skin clammy. Amaia sensed it too, refusing to settle in your arms as she continued whining and wiggling.

You took one last deep breath to fortify yourself, and slipped back into the main room. Crosshair was examining some baby paraphernalia carefully, as if it may bite him. His back was to you, and you couldn’t help but snort a little at his posture and the confusion you knew was on his face. But your laugh gave you away, and he suddenly spoke as he turned toward you.

“I should’ve known you’d be helping out with the village’s babies. You were always so good with my…” his voice died mid sentence as he took you in.

He froze, going stiller than you’d ever seen before. His eyes darted from Amaia to you and back, tracing every similarity the two of you share and cataloging each difference. You could see him connect the dots almost instantly… how could he not? A shock of white hair, his warm eyes set just as yours were, and his skin tone on a face shaped exactly like yours left no doubt. In your arms was a perfect blend of him and you.

You want to plead with him to not be mad, to let you explain, to do anything to make him stay, but when you registered the newest emotion on his face as fear - true, genuine fear - the words just didn’t come. You could count the number of times you’d seen this man scared on one hand; hell, on one finger. And the one thing you had learned is that a scared Crosshair was an angry Crosshair.

So when you softly whispered, “Cross-,” part of you wasn’t surprised when his blank mask snapped back over his face, or when he simply stated, “No,” and stalked right out your front door, gone as quickly as he appeared. Part of you knew it was coming. But the other part of you collapsed on the floor, sobs wracking your body as you held Amaia close.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

It was 2 a.m. when you heard the door to your and Amaia’s shared room squeak. When you finally worked up the nerve to roll over some minutes later, you saw a tall, thin figure slightly bending over the crib, backlit by the soft nightlight.

You slipped out of bed and padded over to Crosshair, stopping a few feet away. You could see the tension in his shoulders, yet they’re slumped almost in defeat. He tentatively reached out as if to brush a lock of silver hair off of Amaia’s forehead, but retracted his hand a millimeter away, quickly as if he had been burned.

“I had a right to know,” he whispered, and there was no mistaking the anger, the fear in his voice. “I had a right to know about her,” he practically spat, and that was what snapped you out of your trance. There was no way he was getting away with talking about your daughter in that tone.

You grabbed his wrist as firmly as you could, and dragged him into the main room of the cottage where the low light over the stove casted just enough light.

“And I had to do what I thought would keep our daughter safe,” you seethed. “Do you know what the Empire would do with the daughter of a clone? Because I don’t, and I don’t ever want to find out.”

He jerked his hand out of your grasp. “I could’ve kept you safe,” he all but whispered, anger lacing his words. “If I had known, I could’ve kept you and her safe.”

“Her name is Amaia,” you threw back at him, “and since you decided to leave, I had to do what I thought was best.”

You stared at each other for what felt like an eternity before the unthinkable happened. Crosshair broke. He slumps into your kitchen chair, head hanging in his hands, and you swore you see a tear make its way down his cheek.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confessed in a broken whisper. “I love you and I think I love her, and I don’t know what to do.”

You felt all the anger leave your body at the sight of the broken man in front of you. Slowly, you crossed over to him and sunk to your knees between his legs as best you could, in a more somber mirroring of your earlier position. You took his hands in yours and lowered them from his face, releasing them only to wipe the tear track from his cheek. Pressing your forehead to his, you whispered one simple word: “Stay”.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

He stayed. For the next day, at least. Much to your shock - and delight - Crosshair was a natural with Amaia. You attempted to reassure him the first time he tried to hold her, wanting him to know he didn’t have to be afraid of dropping or hurting her, but your words were met with a smirk and an eye roll.

“Honey, these are the steadiest hands in the galaxy. They don’t drop anything they don’t mean to.”

He was a bit flustered the first time she cried, but quickly recovered by standing her up and balancing her in the palm of his hand (which was met with squeals of delight from her and mild terror from you).

The afternoon found you all in your small bed, Amaia napping contentedly between Crosshair and yourself. His fingers ghosted up and down your arm, gaze flirting between your small daughter and you, and you swore you had never seen him look more at peace. Until suddenly, he wasn’t. The sound of a ship passing overhead startled him out of his daze, and he suddenly went back to his stoic self.

“I have to leave tonight,” he stated simply, as if unaware of the effect those simple words would have on you.

“Crosshair, what… why? You said you would stay!“ you whispered, determined to not wake Amaia.

He motioned for you to wait a second, and scooped her up and placed her in her crib oh so gently. Then, he beckoned you to follow him into the kitchen.

“I thought you said you were staying,” you hissed, somewhere between pleading and anger.

He slowly approached you and gently pulled you into his arms, resting his head atop yours. He held you there for a moment until your body relaxed into soft sobs.

“Mesh’la,” he whispered, tilting your chin up so you met his eyes. “Mesh’la, I’m not leaving you. I just… if I aim to get away from the Empire and not endanger you, endanger my family… I have to go back. But I’ll return to you both.”

His thumbs stroking tears off your cheeks did nothing to calm you as you tore yourself from his grip. Logically, you knew he was right. But after so long expecting him to find you and Amaia and being disgusted by what he found, you couldn’t bear to let him go after the slice of normalcy you’d gotten a taste of today. You stood by the kitchen window, sobbing into the sink.

You heard him shift awkwardly behind you; he was never the best at handling displays of emotion. After a few long minutes, he cleared his throat. “Baby, you know I… Maker, I don’t want to kriffing leave! But I can’t bear the thought of something happening to you. Either of you.”

His voice broke on the last sentence, and you turn around and are met with a sight you never thought you’d see. Tears were shining in Crosshair’s eyes. His hair was mussed, short strands normally kept down now flying in all directions. His hand not supporting his weight on the small table was digging into the back of his neck.

You regarded him calmly as you could, waiting for him to finish. Apparently he didn’t know where to go next, because he paced and ran his hands through his hair again.

He stopped in front of you several times as if to speak, but resumed his pacing before he finally stopped for good.

“Six months,” he breathed “Give me six months. I’ll come back. I’ll be her buir and your riduur. But I need to keep you safe.”

The look of sheer desperation on his face would have been enough to convince you. You nodded slowly, and let him collapse into your arms. After all, what was another six months when you had a lifetime ahead of you?

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The sun rose the next morning, and Crosshair was gone as quickly as he had come.

Six months. That’s all you had to endure. Six months.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You woke up, once again filled with anticipation. It had been just about six months since Crosshair left. Actually, six months and 14 days. But who was counting? Not you.

The day passed slowly and uneventfully, with you and Amaia mostly spending the time outside as you were accustomed to doing. Not only was the weather delightful, but being able to see Crosshair as soon as he appeared was a motivation you were all too willing to own up to.

Like every other day recently, it ended in disappointment. When you finally wrangled Amaia into bed, you made yourself a cup of tea and sat by the window to wistfully look over the darkening horizon until your hope for the day was extinguished.

And so passed six months and 15 days. Six months and 28 days. Seven months and 12 days. Nine months and three days. One year, two months and 17 days. Two years on the dot.

Of course there were visits from Amaia’s ba’vode. And any time they came was a delightful distraction, but even they could see the wear the waiting was taking on you. You were no longer your chipper self, convinced Crosshair had either changed his mind or was dead. You weren’t sure which was worse.

At two years, one month, and one day, you finally gave up. He wasn’t coming.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Amaia was now a rambunctious five-year-old, running around with the village children and making all sorts of trouble and mess. Today, you had sent her off to a friend's house, with the promise you would take the terrors that were your children the next day so Carra could have a break of her own.

You were engrossed in washing dishes, humming and swaying to an impromptu song. You’d finally started to feel yourself again, even entertained thoughts of seeing one of the men in the village. Kane was kind, and was never anything but gentle in his interactions with Amaia.

You were so wrapped up in your thoughts you didn’t hear the door open, didn’t hear the bag that was sat down in the entryway, or the sound of feet swung up on your kitchen table. In fact, you didn’t notice anything until you were suddenly aware of everything. The dish slipped from your hand and shattered in the sink. Swallowing in an attempt to wet your suddenly dry-as-Tatooine mouth, you could only think of one thing to say.

“Get your kriffing feet off my table, Cross.”

You could hear the smirk in his voice as he responded. “Come over here and make me, mesh’la.”

#tbb crosshair x reader #crosshair x reader #tbb crosshair #the bad batch crosshair #allie scribbles about crosshair

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allie-scribbles · 2 years

Text

Love, Alone

Summary: Crosshair finds out you’re no longer with the Bad Batch, and has to come to terms with what that means for him. Told from Crosshair’s POV.

Pairing: Crosshair x fem Reader

Word Count: 603

Series Tags/Warnings: Angst, sad feels, implied pregnancy, cussing because I can’t help it, a smidge of violence

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Interlude | Part 4

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

He has Hunter pinned beneath him, a blade at his throat, yet Crosshair is the one who feels at a complete disadvantage. His brother could turn the tables at any time, and it’s telling that he doesn’t.

“You wanna try not lying to me this time?” He hisses, despite knowing full well that what Hunter told him just moments ago was the truth.

“She’s gone, Crosshair. We don’t know where.”

Hunter’s voice is level, calm, and certain – everything Crosshair isn’t as the words sink in. She left? Why would she leave?

He can feel the eyes of the others burning into him, waiting for his next move. As if he’s volatile, a bomb about to go off. Which he supposes isn’t far off from the inner turmoil he’s currently experiencing, although he’ll never let them see it.

“Explain,” he demands, barely able to keep his tone even, eyes and knife steady on the one man who holds the answers he needs. “And tell me why the fuck you let her go.”

Hunter sighs. He knew he’d probably have to tell Crosshair all this eventually, but he’d been hoping it would be in a more neutral situation.

“She left about seven standard months ago. We just finished some work on Cyrea. I tried to talk her out of it, I really did. But she… her mind was made up. You know how she can be. Stubborn. Like someone else I know.”

Crosshair resists the urge to roll his eyes. He knows exactly how she can be, and shit, that’s why he loves her. Loved her. For the first time in his life, he’s not sure.

He removes the knife from Hunter’s neck, and practically stalks over to Tech. “And you couldn’t fucking track her or some shit? What kind of a genius are you if you can’t find a goddamn civvie?” He spits out.

Tech, to his credit, is as calm as ever. He been on the receiving end of these tantrums before. Sighing and pushing his goggles up the bridge of his nose, he launches into his explanation matter of factly. “She left us a tracking device, with instructions that she’d activate it if and when she wanted to be found. However, she also stipulated that if I tried to activate it, or in any other way tamper with it, it would damage itself beyond repair. My preliminary scans and subsequent analyses reveal that her information was accurate. She is smarter than I gave her credit for, or she spent a lot of credits to find someone to make this device to her specifications. Given enough time maybe I could find a way, but I’m uncertain-”

He makes a quick detour to glare at Hunter. “You better fucking tell me when she activates that tracker,” he spits. “That’s the only reason I’m letting you go.”

As he climbs the ramp, he can’t help but wonder why she left. Why she felt the need to be so secretive, even with his brothers. Why she didn’t even try to fucking face him before disappearing off to who knows what corner of the galaxy.

In the end, he decides it doesn’t matter why she left. All he knows is that if she really loved him, she would’ve stayed. She would’ve stopped at nothing to find him. And if he ever finds her, well… she’s a part of the Bad Batch. He’s a good soldier. Good soldiers follow orders.

#crosshair x reader #tbb crosshair x reader #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfiction #tbb fanfiction #allie scribbles about the bad batch #allie scribbles about crosshair

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allie-scribbles · 2 years

Text

Love, Familiar

Summary: On Wrea, your family meets someone special. Someone new.

Pairing: Crosshair x fem!reader

Word Count: 784

Series Tags/Warnings: Angst, sad feels, implied pregnancy, (now there’s a baby!) cussing because I can't help it, a smidge of violence.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Interlude | Part 4

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Two months. It’s been two months. Not that you’d really had a timeframe on when you thought they’d arrive - you knew they got busy on jobs for Cid, among other things. You knew they wouldn’t come here in haste, either, not if it would put you in danger. And okay, Wrea wasn’t exactly the easiest planet to get to, but that’s why you picked it. Still, that knowledge didn’t make it any easier. Every day that had gone by since you activated the tracker started with unbridled hope, and ended with crushing disappointment when they didn’t show up.

Deep down, you hate to admit that you’re scared. You’re scared something happened to them, that they won’t be coming, that that part of your family has died a horrible death.

So when you hear a ship landing on the outskirts of the village you don’t think anything of it, except for how kriffing loud it is. You don’t hear the murmurs of your fellow villagers, your friends and neighbors. You don’t even see anything as you’re hunched over working in your small garden, lost in your own little world, until a booming shout of your name echoes across the village, and you turn just in time to see Wrecker bounding towards you for a split second before you’re being swept up in his arms.

He spins you around and sets you down in front of the rest of your boys, and as they each hug you (and, in the case of Tech, begin asking you a million questions) tears spring to your eyes. You’re just so inexplicably happy, that you can almost forget that your family is still incomplete. Almost, because in the midst of the others joining tech in his line of questioning, you hear something.

Hunter hears it too, because as you turn abruptly to him in the middle of answering a question from echo, you notice his eyes widen almost comically.

“Did you tell them?” You practically whisper, not sure what you’re hoping the answer will be.

“No,” He shakes his head solemnly, and makes a frustrated gesture under the incredulous gazes of his brothers, just now realizing he’s known more than them all along. “She told me not to!” He sputters, and you stifle a snort as you feature for them to all follow you inside your small hut.

The noise that had alerted you and Hunter has since stopped, but you know it’s time.

“I’ll be right back,” you assure them as they protest at being left alone in the main room, eager to keep you in their sights. “I’m going to go get something that will explain… well… everything, I hope.”

You can hear their whispers as you slip into the only other room in the hut, gathering up a small bundle and carefully tucking it to your chest. Taking a few deep, steadying breaths, you turn and walk back to the main sitting room.

“Hunter, Tech, Wrecker, Echo,” you begin, but you’re met with quizzical gazes as the bundle wriggles a bit, followed by gasps from everyone (even Hunter) as a small head of tousled silver hair and honey brown eyes peek out at them from the blankets. You inhale deeply, calming your nerves as best you can.

“Meet Amaia.”

To their credit, they all figure it out pretty quickly. Why you left, why you stayed hidden. Wrecker immediately bursts into the biggest grin you’ve ever seen on the man, and is cooing over Amaia and asking if ba’vodu Wrecker can hold her. Tech only gapes like a fish for a solid fifteen seconds before congratulating you, and asking if he might be allowed to run some genetic tests later. Echo is holding back tears as he cradles Amaia’s head with his hand as Wrecker holds her, emotion all over his face. Hunter leans back against the wall, though, watching you and his brothers with a wistful half smile on his face. You leave Amaia in the hands of her ba’vode, and take your place on the wall next to him.

“Thanks for keeping my secret,” you whisper, quickly squeezing his hand. He hums in response, his gaze fixed on her. “Amaia, huh?” He questions. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” He turns to face you, and suddenly you can see the love and pride shining in his eyes. You both stand there for a while, basking in the love that was practically pouring out of your little home.

“So… you ever gonna tell Crosshair?” He asks out of the blue. It would have startled you, but you’d thought long and hard about this, and you smirk as you turn to face him.

“Actually, you are.”

#crosshair x reader #tbb crosshair x reader #tbb crosshair #the bad batch #crosshair fanfiction #the bad batch fanfiction #tbb fanfiction #allie scribbles about the bad batch #allie scribbles about crosshair

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allie-scribbles · 2 years

Text

Interlude

Summary: Hunter’s plan sucks. But a promise is a promise, and Crosshair needs to know. Told from Hunter’s POV.

Pairing: Crosshair x fem!reader

Word Count: 794

Series Tags/Warnings: Angst, sad feels, implied pregnancy (now there's a baby!), cussing because I can't help it, a smidge of violence.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Interlude | Part 4

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“This is a stupid plan,” he muses to no one in particular, perched on a rock in the middle of a desert on… well, actually, he wasn’t sure what planet they were on.

“I must remind you that this was your plan,” comes Tech’s voice in his ear, and he’d never wanted to punch his brother in his know-it-all face more.

Yeah, it was his plan. Yeah, it wasn’t his best one. But what could he kriffing do? There wasn’t exactly a manual for how to tell your brother (whose cheese has debatedly slipped off his cracker) that you finally found his (ex?) lover who had run off and oh yeah, she had his baby while she was MIA.

Yeah, Hunter was pretty sure he was fucked.

In hindsight, this “plan” wasn’t much of a plan at all. Set up a fake mission on a remote planet, “forget” to encode a transmission about said plan and the location, show up, and wait. He just didn’t expect to be waiting in this blasted sun for this kriffing long.

So, it’s almost a relief when he senses his brother’s presence, confirmed by a bolt from his rifle hitting the sand a few feet to his left.

“Out here all alone?” Comes a sneer from over his shoulder, and Hunter turns to see Crosshair striding across the sand towards him. He holds his hands up in surrender, praying to the maker that this wouldn’t end up with him captured or dead.

“I knew you’d come,” he shrugs, “didn’t see a need for backup.”

Crosshair keeps advancing, rifle never lowering. “Maybe you should’ve,” he taunts. “What is this, anyway? A setup?”

Hunter sighs, lowering one hand to scrub across his face. “You wouldn’t have come if you thought it was.”

“Then what do I think it is?” He drawls, now within arms reach of Hunter.

“You think I know where she is. And I do,” he states simply.

Crosshair unceremoniously drops his rifle, opting instead to attempt to deck his brother in the face, which Hunter easily blocks.

“You’re lying,” he hisses, trying and failing to wrench his fist from Hunter’s grasp. “She’s dead.”

“Dead? Or dead to you?” He asks, leveling him with a glare. “I saw her, Crosshair. She’s alive. She misses you. Probably about as much as you miss her.”

Crosshair jerks his arm again, but Hunter still refuses to release him. He shoots his best “No. It’s not… she’s not. She left me. And then she died,” he whispers menacingly, and Hunter swears he can see tears forming in his eyes, his resolve cracking in the face of Hunter’s certainty. Hunter doesn’t let go, keeping his grip tight on his brother’s hand, almost as if the physical connection would force Crosshair to believe what Hunter is about to say to him, even if they both knew he’d never lie to him.

“She’s alive. She loves you. She wants you to find her.” Hunter asserts, yanking Crosshair’s arm down before releasing his grip. The two men stare at each other for what could be an eternity before Hunter breaks.

With a sigh, he unclips a puck from his belt and chucks it at Crosshair’s feet. “Her coordinates are in there. She’s on Wrea. Do what you want with that information.”

As he turns to leave he pauses and looks back to his brother, who is now cradling the puck like it’s the most precious thing in the galaxy. He has the map open, and is staring at the blinking dot as if it contains all his hopes and dreams, and all of his worst fears. Hunter can’t recall ever seeing anyone so conflicted… certainly not Crosshair.

“A word of advice,” he calls back. “Keep an open mind when you go to find her. She’s not the same as she was. She’s… there’s more.”

The sound of acknowledgement Crosshair makes is meant to be a grunt, of that Hunter is sure, but it comes across as damn near close to a whimper. And maybe, just maybe, he thinks, Crosshair is feeling vulnerable enough to finally come home. To find you, and find his place with the Batch again.

He slowly walks up to him, and can practically feel the emotions rolling off the man. He can feel his nerves, the hope and apprehension singing through them in the face of something wants but doesn’t dare believe he can have. Hunter gently places a hand on his shoulder in a silent question, the “come with us” implied in the gentle pull on his brother’s shoulder. When Crosshair whips around, his usual guarded exterior is back up, and Hunter has his answer.

With that he strides away towards the rendezvous point, leaving Crosshair to make his decision alone.

#crosshair x reader #tbb crosshair #the bad batch crosshair #the bad batch fanfiction #allie scribbles about the bad batch #allie scribbles about crosshair

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