Chapter Text
It is his fourth visit to the cove upon arriving on Pabu when Crosshair first sees you.
It’s nearing dusk, the sky above painted in orange and purple hues, similar to the streaks of paint Crosshair can just barely see on the canvas over your shoulder. You are standing on the golden sand with your back to him, facing the sea. He notes the flawless and practiced way your hand moves to paint those dainty little streaks.
You are also covered in paint.
Crosshair stands by the edge of the overseeing seawall above, his hand tightening so carefully around the barrel of his gun, feeling more inconvenienced than irritated to find his previously assumed unknown spot was, in fact, known by others. Hesitantly, he allows to indulge himself by watching the way you paint the view of the setting sun on the horizon.
Crosshair lingers only for a short moment more, then turns to leave.
He will have to train later.
*
Crosshair soon learns that his training spot on the cove isn't known by many as he had assumed, but seems to only be known by him and you.
He discovers this on his ninth visit to the cove, considering his visits are often vacant of others besides you, and he also learns that you appear to prefer this particular spot during dusk.
Today he finds that you are not painting on your usual easel, but instead laying on a picnic mat with an opened journal in your hands and a bowl of fruits by your side, a bowl one would assume had to have been offered by Shep and Lyana.
You are on your back, feet bare and pointed to the water, journal outstretched above you. Of all the times Crosshair has seen you, he has yet to see your face, only ever seeing you with your back turned. Even now, spread out on the beach looking so incredibly peaceful, your face is covered by your journal from where he stands.
Crosshair intends to turn to leave as he so usually does when he notices your presence, however he is a beat slower today. The abrupt way you snap your journal shut and place it down causes his breath to embarrassingly hitch in his throat, and he particularly curses the stars when your eyes finally meet.
Your chin tilts upwards as you peer up at him from an upside-down angle, the long distance between you suddenly feeling incredibly short to Crosshair. He shifts his foot self-consciously against the rock atop the seawall as if he plans to flee.
But you don’t seem to react in a way Crosshair thought you would. In his mind, he envisioned you would look uncomfortable to catch him staring at you, especially at this remote part of the island, and especially when you realise he is an outsider. So it is to Crosshair’s surprise when you simply gaze up at him owlishly, unmoving, and instead quite curious.
Crosshair can’t seem to tear his eyes away from you either, choosing to remain very still. Thanks to his enhanced vision, from this distance, he does not miss the way your eyes flicker all over him. He observes how you spot the rifle in his hand and the net of fruits in the other, then his armour-cladded body, then the frown pulled tight upon his lips.
It’s to Crosshair’s surprise, once more, when unlike him, you cast a kind smile his way.
Crosshair stills, stares for one, two moments, then turns to leave without a word.
*
His tenth visit finds him at his usual spot atop the seawall, a noiseless sigh leaving his nose when he notices you, annoyingly again, at the same place where he wants to be for the afternoon.
It hadn’t bothered Crosshair too much before, but now with it being about the sixth time your presence has stopped him from training, it is beginning to slightly irritate him.
It would be smart for Crosshair to simply visit the cove at a time other than dusk, but instead, an infuriating tug in his ribcage urges him to arrive at the same time as you do, which is quite frankly, very stupid of him.
He recognises her arrival before she can even say a word. “I was just leaving,” he tells Omega as she comes to a stop beside him.
Omega follows Crosshair’s gaze to where you stand on the beach before your canvas and easel, and she recognises you with a smile. Nearly two weeks of this silly endeavour, and Crosshair finally learns your name.
“She paints here all the time,” Omega continues your introduction, glancing curiously up at her brother. “She owns a shop here, you know. She sells paintings.”
She waits for Crosshair to say something, staring openly up at him. A beat passes, but the stubborn man only continues to chew on his toothpick and observe you paint.
Omega tries again. “Have you met her?”
“No.”
“Do you want to?”
“No.”
She rolls her eyes, and Crosshair fights the irritation that swells in his chest when she cups her hands over her mouth and calls out down to you. He breathes deeply and slowly in an attempt to stop himself from snapping at the young clone.
At the call of your name, you pause your ministrations and peek over your shoulder. Crosshair watches the way your whole expression immediately brightens at the sight of Omega. Stars, it’s the most blinding thing Crosshair has ever seen, and he’s been blown up.
You raise the hand that is holding your brush and wave at her, your grin only widening, and Maker, Crosshair silently wonders how anyone could ever smile so bright. His brow ticks and his frown deepens.
Then his thoughts come to an abrupt halt when he sees you notice him, and your waving falters only for a split second before you continue. Despite the brief pause, your smile doesn’t falter, and somehow, your attention exasperatingly steals the breath from his lungs like he’s been punched in the gut.
Omega waves back with her arms outspread, but Crosshair doesn’t move an inch.
“You can still train here. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind,” Omega says to him with an encouraging grin, much to his chagrin.
Crosshair thinks about the many ways you might look at him if you ever see him miss his shots, and his chest tightens.
“I’d rather not,” he grumbles.
“You could also always ask.”
Crosshair doesn’t say anything, and Omega rolls her eyes again.
The two of them notice you waving them over, and it gives Omega all the encouragement she needs to begin to rush down to meet you. Crosshair, however, remains glued to his spot, deciding to watch Omega hurry over to give you the most bone-crushing hug.
He may not have advanced hearing like Hunter, but he can still hear the echo of your laughter from high above the seawall as you affectionately ruffle the girl’s blonde hair.
Crosshair leaves before he could be blinded any longer.
For his own good.
*
Crosshair would like to blame the many missed intended training sessions for his lack of improvement on his awful aim, but he would be kidding himself.
With a frustrated grunt after yet another near-miss, he leans away from the scope and shakes and clenches his right hand as if it would somehow remove the tremor from it. He glances down, and notes that the tremor, disappointingly, is still there.
Crosshair places his rifle down and clutches his hand, digging his left thumb into his right palm and glaring. A mix of displeasure, annoyance and distress falls over him like a thick blanket, and his jaw sets as a waterfall of memories flows through his mind.
Tantiss. Testing. Hemlock. The Empire.
Again, and again, and again.
Suddenly, it feels like he’s drowning. It’s like there is an unforgiving surge of water begging to escape behind the confines of Crosshair’s ribcage.
It hurts.
His thoughts are suddenly interrupted by the sound of tumbling rocks. Quickly, Crosshair turns and snaps his head up, his hand automatically reaching out to snatch his rifle, heart-rate spiking.
Instead of the whirlwind of terrible things Crosshair instantly envisioned would be behind him, he finds you looking like you’ve just stepped on a moon-yos’ tail.
Well, it seems the tide has turned now.
You stand at his own usual spot above the seawall, a wooden box tucked under your arm, Crosshair can only assume would be your easel folded up, and a large satchel across your torso. Your shoulders are high up to your ears, and it shows that you clearly did not mean to interrupt him.
The glow of the setting sun casts you in a bright haze of gold, softening the edges of your face, and Crosshair briefly wonders whether the sun offers him the same justice when he stands in your place. He would, of course, doubt that, especially compared to someone like you.
Out of all the times he’s seen you, he realises this is the only time he’s ever seen you mess-free of paint.
Crosshair can only stare dumbly up at you as you cast him a guilty smile. The sun only makes your smile shine brighter, bright enough that he even winces.
Like the many times you have caught him staring before, he only stands and watches you gain your footing. He wordlessly notices the way you discern the rifle in his hands and the neatly lined-up fruit resting on a rock in the water just a few meters away, taking in his training setup on the cove.
He breathes deeply, suddenly feeling incredibly foolish for a reason unknown to him, which only irritates him to his core.
Just as he thinks for sure that you will hop down the wall to join him, you do not.
Instead, you offer him one shy wave and a nod of your head, then you simply turn and walk away along with your paints and easel.
You disappear above the seawall, and Crosshair ignores the disappointment that settles in his stomach, deeply and utterly confused.
*
“She asked about you, by the way,” Omega suddenly says one evening as they sit face to face in the Marauder’s main hold.
Crosshair pulls his gaze away from where he is currently wiping down his rifle to regard her with a fixed stare.
She says your name as an explanation.
“Oh,” Crosshair says with a mumble, “great.”
He ignores that annoying little tug in his ribcage.
He had gone to the cove earlier today to train, and you weren't there. It really is hit or miss, and he’s always unsure whether to feel relieved or let down to find you absent from that spot on the cove.
“Who’s she?” Wrecker chimes in as he emerges from the hull of the ship with Batcher, who rushes over to Omega.
“She’s the painter who owns that shop by the fishing docks.”
“Oh, yeah! She’s super cool and paints really good,” Wrecker says, grinning, which Crosshair finds extremely unhelpful.
Omega enthusiastically nods in agreement as she pats Batcher affectionately, then attempts to find Crosshair’s gaze again with a grin of her own. “Well? Don't you want to know why she asked about you?”
“Should I?” he asks, tone laced with the usual sarcastic bite to his words.
“Well, I’m going to tell you anyway,” Omega huffs, and this time, it’s Crosshair’s turn to roll his eyes. “I told her that you are my brother and that you go down to that cove to train there sometimes. She says she is happy to share the cove with you if you are there.”
Crosshair glances up at her with a disapproving frown. “You asked her that, didn't you?”
“Only because you refuse to!” she answers, looking far too pleased with herself. “Plus, I also said that you also wouldn't mind sharing the cove with her.”
“Omega.”
“What?”
“I do mind sharing the cove with her, which is why I never asked,” he hisses through his teeth, his fingers clutching the cloth in his hand tighter and his jaw setting once he feels the tremble in it. He recalls, again, the looks you might give him if you notice him missing all his shots, and it’s so awful that it leaves him sick to his stomach.
“Oh, come on, Crosshair,” Omega chastises with a shake of her blonde head, rubbing under Batcher’s chin. “Having a friend might do you some good, you know. You can't be cooped up alone forever. You’re free now, remember?”
Crosshair’s lips silently clamp shut, and his frown pulls even tighter on his face. He is aware of his siblings’ lingering eyes on his trembling fingers wrapped firmly around his rifle and cloth, and he averts his gaze, suddenly feeling very frustrated.
Only because he knows Omega is right, and also because he hates the fact that he, himself, is considering it.
His sister wordlessly stares, observing the way he glares angrily at the ground and the whirlwind of thoughts she can see tornadoing within his eyes.
Free. He’s free.
Something that is hard to remember.
Omega hops up to stand. Crosshair doesn't move as she walks quietly up to him and places a comforting hand on his own trembling one. He meets her eyes, hesitant.
“Give it a try,” she encourages gently, smiling up at him with those big-brown eyes that Crosshair finds annoyingly unable to resist time and time again. “She’s really nice.”
He can only sigh and his head ducks in defeat. He allows Omega to take his hand to give it a soft and warm squeeze, managing to get him to slowly nod his head.
“...Fine.”
*
It is one month on Pabu and observing you briefly from a distance does Crosshair finally meet you face to face.
Despite the conversation he had with Omega weeks ago, he still hadn’t had the courage to meet you and continued to leave before you could ever see that he was there.
He wasn't a coward, he just preferred to be alone.
Today he is approaching the seawall at the top of the cove, head down and mind focused elsewhere, when he glances up and sees you standing on his particular damn spot.
You turn at the sound of his approach, surprise colouring your features when your gaze finds his. You both share a glance, unsure of what to say, yet unable to look away.
From here, Crosshair finally gets a proper look at you. The light in your eyes and the curve of your smile make something twist in his chest, and he can’t put a finger on what it is, which only, again, frustrates him.
His advanced eyesight hadn't truly revealed the sheer beauty he sees as you now stand only meters away from him. Stars, you're truly unlike anyone he’s ever seen before, and it truly pisses him off.
After a moment, you finally speak first. “Hello,” you say and your smile is just as blinding as he always sees it. “You must be Crosshair.”
Stupidly, Crosshair doesn't say anything because, quite frankly, he can't find anything to say. You've rendered him completely speechless just by simply standing there.
Silence stretches between you, and he can only watch as you take in the sight of him in the way you always do. You notice the net of fruits hanging from his shoulder, and your lips purse.
“You must really hate fruits.”
Crosshair blinks. “What?”
His mouth falls immediately shut, and he can only hope you didn't find what he said rude.
Fortunately, your smile lights up your face, goodness, and he doesn’t miss the way the corners of your eyes crinkle with that expression.
“Come on,” you say, adjusting the strap of your satchel and the easel under your arm. “Let’s head down.”
You turn and begin to scale the seawall down to the cove, and Crosshair curses himself for being an idiot.
He grunts lowly, clenches his trembling hand, then moves to follow you.
*
Crosshair learns three more things about you while you both spend the afternoon on the cove.
- You really are an extremely skilled painter.
- You like to hum to yourself as you paint.
- Despite the cloth stuffed in your pocket, you somehow still manage to get paint everywhere, particularly all over yourself.
You, however, most likely have learned absolutely nothing about him, only because Crosshair has simply been staring down the barrel of his scope and glaring harsh holes into the fruit sitting on the far-off rock and has done completely nothing else.
Crosshair is extremely embarrassed by his hesitancy. He was a soldier in the Grand Army of the Republic for Maker’s sake, and now he can't even snipe stupid fruit?
Many painful minutes later of holding the exact same position, Crosshair grunts, utterly frustrated, and throws his rifle against the rock. He follows suit and leans his hands against it, ducking his head forward and grinding his teeth.
Even after weeks of practice, multiple failed shots, being checked out by AZI-3, and meditating with Omega, it’s done nothing for his tremor, and he is exhausted.
Meters away, you stand on the sand with your canvas, and he can sense you spare him a quick curious glance from the corner of your bright eyes.
Crosshair’s mind feels like it short circuits, and he begins to wonder what in the stars is he doing here?
Knowing now that this was a mistake and that he never should have shared the cove with you in the first place, he exasperatedly moves to take back the propped fruit and leave, until your voice cuts through the silence like a knife through butter.
“I’m not a soldier or anything,” comes your gentle murmur, and Crosshair’s gaze snaps up to find you continuing to brush delicate streaks of orange onto your canvas, your eyes fixated on your work, “but I don’t think the rifle is going to shoot itself.”
It’s like a solid slap to Crosshair’s face.
A beat passes, once, twice.
“What?”
Your placid smile twists into a smirk, and you cast him an amused look across the beach. “Is that all you say?”
Crosshair is dumbstruck. Never in his lifetime would he ever expect you to have such humour, particularly with a smile as vibrant and kind as yours.
He remembers to lift his jaw and gain his bearings. “I am most certainly aware that my rifle won't shoot itself.”
“Then why are you glaring at it like it’s at fault? It’s your job to pull the trigger, is it not?”
Crosshair, again, fights the urge to look at you like you've grown a second head. He finds it incredibly impossible, and he can only continue to stare at you, fixing you piece by piece as if he were solving an irritating jigsaw puzzle.
“Omega said you were grumpy,” you tell him when he refuses to speak, teasing. “I’m starting to think she was right.”
“Omega says a lot of things,” he answers.
“Unlike you?”
You snicker at his expression, and he’s unsure how to feel when he can see that you are clearly and thoroughly enjoying the conversation.
The stars above bless him when he finally manages to tear his gaze away from you and instead peer at the fruits taunting him from afar. He doesn't make a move to return to his task of taking back the fruit and returning to the ship, and it somehow gives you the invitation to continue speaking.
“You must really hate fruit.”
“Do you think you are funny?”
“Extremely,” you hum, pleased.
Crosshair now inwardly debates whether he preferred you before you had opened your mouth, and when he catches you continuing to snicker at him, he decides that, yes, yes he did.
He’d be lying to himself, though.
He does absolutely not find your humour endearing.
After a few moments of silence, Crosshair observes the way you take a step back to admire your work. Your smile is as bright as ever as you wipe off the excess paint on your cloth and give a satisfied nod. From this angle, he can’t see your painting in full, but he doesn't need to see it to know it's been expertly crafted.
“A while back, I stopped painting,” you suddenly tell him. You are leaning down to pack up the paints and brushes around you. “I realised I hated it. It was messy, got everywhere, and took a lot of time and effort.”
Crosshair’s stare briefly darts over your paint-stained body. At least you are self-aware of the messy part.
A pause. “What changed?”
You finally meet his eyes again, and his stomach flips. He watches you clean up the rest of your things into your satchel and take the canvas in your hands. He’s completely rooted to his spot, unmoving, hand trembling by his side as you begin to approach him.
Your bright smile softens, and when you come to a stop in front of him, Crosshair can catch the hint of your vanilla perfume, subtle but impossible to ignore. You extend the canvas out to hand it to him, and he can do nothing but wordlessly take it from you.
“I picked up the paintbrush again.”
You leave him with his thoughts on the cove.
Crosshair glances down at the canvas you've handed him. It's painted in those familiar orange and purple hues of the cove at sunset, but right in the middle of the canvas, there is a rock aligned with three familiar fruits atop of it.
Breathtakingly, there is a barrel of a familiar rifle and a blaster bullet shot straight through the fruit in the middle. It's as if someone had taken a photo right at the rare moment when Crosshair had finally managed to snipe the fruit, its pieces splattered and flying in the air.
Crosshair looks up to where he last saw you scaling the seawall of the cove, but, much to his chagrin, you are already gone, and he is left behind on the cove with his own thoughts.
His gaze drops down to the canvas, admiring the delicate and gentle strokes of the paint. When he moves it to the side, he finds his rifle leaning abandoned on the rock. He stares at it for an age, and Crosshair briefly wonders whether staring is all he ever does now, possible only when it comes to involve you.
An audible sigh leaves him, and Crosshair thinks back to your astonishing smile that somehow rivals the sun setting over the horizon. He carefully places the canvas down onto the rock.
He picks up his rifle, aims, then fires.
The fruit explodes.