Chapter Text
Cross loitered in the safe house’s common room, closely watching the nearest window with his arms folded across his chest. He could only see a handful of buildings and one street from where he was.
After a short interval the front door swung open and Killer stepped inside; he carried a selection of foodstuffs, a parcel of meat and bags of produce, in his arms. He balanced it all without threat of it falling, though Cross could see the difficulty of the stunt. Killer closed the door with his foot.
“Your turn.” He said as he piled his items onto the kitchen’s counter.
Cross stepped closer to the door, gave Killer a last passing glance, then exited the safehouse. He and Killer had been taking shifts outside to avoid being seen together.
Cross didn’t have a goal for his turn outside this time, and that frustrated him. He just knew he needed to get outside. Yet he felt like he was wasting time. He pulled his scarf up over his mouth and squinted at the sunlight streaming down on him.
He avoided the town’s main street and instead followed a path beside the villagers’ fields. It was quiet. He walked for a while, and soon Icarus’ approaching dusk light bathed the crops and livestock in a rich orange. Oasis’s rotation was shorter than Earth’s 24-hour day and such colors were seen more frequently. He heard unseen insects start up their chorus. The air gained that crisp feeling nightfall brought. Part of Cross was glad they hadn’t stayed on his ship; he would’ve longed for the sounds and smells of life after a while.
He skirted the edges of town, not going too deep, but still stopping to examine the bounty boards he came across. Killer’s face was on every one. He took note of the other quarries, as well, and collected a few tokens. He would need work once things returned to normalcy. He was still sure they would.
At a point, he found himself beside a creek. He could hear the machines working among the forest, and distant trees crashed to the floor between long intervals. Still, he could hear the water trickle above the noise. It was cooler here. The air held moisture. And insects sang from their evening vigil in the grass.
He crouched by the stream with a hand held over it, letting his fingers dip into the water. It was ice and silk on his bones. He felt the bounty tokens in his jacket’s pocket with the other hand. He thought of Killer. He pondered how he would inevitably shake him. He was sure he would, eventually. He couldn’t imagine “normal” returning with him. And he doubted this would last very long. Killer didn’t seem the type to stick around. Maybe they would fight again, and that would finally be it. He thought of their fight on the ship. And on Exile. His reflection in the stream showed him furrowed brows. Maybe things would settle down and Killer would simply slip away, through the cracks, back to wherever he had come from. Maybe Cross would even pick up his bounty again. He found that image funny and exhaled through his noise in a half-laugh. They would go their separate ways eventually. No reason not to once Killer doesn’t need his ship and Cross doesn’t need his safe houses.
Cross gained a sudden self-awareness and stood up quickly. He felt like he was wasting time again. To satiate this feeling he skirted the edge of town once more, trying to gain a sense for it. The market was still busy with vendors, despite the oncoming night. A blacksmith’s forge wafted smoke into the air through a chimney. A bakery’s windows went dark as it closed its doors. He kept note of the establishments, though none seemed particularly of interest. He also saw many bounty hunters, and he paid close mind to where they frequented.
He turned for the safe house. When he opened the door a strong savory smell wafted towards him immediately. Soup. Killer’s doing, he assumed. Cross pulled off his scarf, putting it in one pocket of his jacket. He leaned slightly against the safe house’s only table, a bar which sat flush against one of the walls, with a large open window over it. He surveyed Killer, watching him work. Pots and pans lay strewn across the counter, along with his ingredients. All cookware laid untouched apart from the pot over the firewood stove.
“Hunter,” Killer said, acknowledging his presence but not looking at him. He poured a bowl of rice into the broth.
Cross guessed Killer didn’t know how to make much else. They stood for a moment in silent. Cross surveyed his work.
“Don’t cook everything in the pot.” He commented as he watched Killer drop a slice of one of Oasis’s root vegetables into the broth.
Killer paused, and said with the hint of a laugh: “You’re really giving me pointers right now?”
“You need to roast them first if you want it to be good. And cook the meat first.”
Killer thought for a moment. Then he cleared space on the safe house’s wood stove with one sweep of his arm. He put one of his unused pans on top, vegetables and meat inside, and started a fire underneath.
“Make sure you’re seasoning the broth.” Cross continued.
Cross stood there as Killer cooked, a distance away, giving him consistent suggestions as he went. Killer listened, cracked jokes. He laughed at the situation, even challenged some of Cross’s comments with a sharp tongue (though not a malicious one), but Cross thought he might almost be having fun.
“You know a lot about this, hunter.” He commented. Cross just shrugged. He had to learn all of this when he became a hunter. He had to learn how to be self-sufficient.
Not much later he found himself sitting at the safe house’s bar, steaming bowl in front of him. They had raised the shutters and opened the window above the bar, so now a night breeze flowed through the room.
The soup was fine. Killer had finished his first and now held a cigarette between his fingers.
“Why do you know so many safe houses?” Cross asked.
Killer didn’t say anything for a while.
“Jus’ kinda always needed to have them.” He said eventually.
“Why do you care so much about cooking?” Killer shot back, a faint grin on his mouth.
“Just always needed to.” Cross replied, slightly smug.
Killer laughed. “Yeah, I don’t know what else I expected.”
Cross took a spoonful of the soup, gazing through the window. He glanced at Killer, and his eyes lingered on him a moment. Killer’s head turned toward him and quickly Cross looked back at the window.
“What d’you think? About how it’s looking out there?” Killer asked.
“We just need to keep lying low,” Cross said. “Especially you, your bounties have been everywhere.”
“What else is new.” Killer replied, not particularly enthused. “I’m starting to wonder if this will ever blow over.”
A trail of smoke wafted toward Cross’s face as Killer took a drag of his cigarette.
“I can’t say I ever expected to be here, sharing a meal with the bounty hunter that tried to turn me in.” Killer mused. “Don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”
“Yeah,” Cross said. “Me neither.”
“It’s weird.”
“Mm.”
“And boring. I hate havin’ to stay in all these houses doing nothing forever.”
“It is mostly your fault,” Cross said. “You were the one that said we had to stay together.”
Killer scoffed a bitter laugh and leaned back, arms crossed. When Cross looked over, he saw he was flipping him off.
Cross rolled his eyes. “I’m not happy about it either. I’m losing money stuck with you.”
“Then it’s agreed. We’re fucked. And miserable.”
Cross half-laughed. Killer grinned just slightly.
Cross felt so odd. He was forever unsure if he was doing something right. He wasn’t exactly sure what that ‘something’ was. Talking? He’s been on his own for so long.
He swirled his spoon around in what remained of the soup’s broth.
“You should let me cook next time.”
Killer looked surprised, and shoved Cross in the arm. “You saying my cooking wasn’t good?”