Scraps of Cloth
Author's Note: This idea has been haunting me for a while. I couldn't stop thinking about why Hunter's bandana is... different, and this angsty, hurt-no-comfort fic is the result! Enjooooy! :D
Also, the backstory of why Hunter grew out his hair is inspired by a comic drawn by Shyranno on tumblr. I consider most of her comics canon. :)
~ Amina Gila
When Hunter was young, he kept his hair short in the regulation haircut. He looked like the regs, and they were welcoming to him because of it. He'd been too young to fully realize how much they ostracized his brothers when he wasn't with them, but after a few too many fights that mysteriously only broke out when he was not present, he'd begun to understand. He tried to make peace, to keep peace between his brothers and the regs, but to no avail. And one day, after a particularly vicious fight instigated by Crosshair, Hunter had tried to talk to him only to be yelled at.
Crosshair wasn't wrong that Hunter couldn't understand what it was like to look so different and to be ostracized for it. He'd started growing out his hair after that. He let it get as long as he could, about a foot before it started becoming too messy during training exercises. He considered cutting it off – his point to the regs made – but he couldn't quite bear to part with it. It'd become a part of him in the same way his enhanced senses were. Instead, he found a scrap of cloth long enough to tie around his forehead, keeping his hair out of his eyes.
He endured the teasing and mockery of the regs without protest and without care. He might look mostly like the regs, but he's not one of them. He's part of Clone Force 99. He's part of the Bad Batch. He wants to stand out. He wants to be distinct.
Hunter doesn't know what triggered it exactly, but one day, unexpectedly, when he's sitting at the table in their barracks, Crosshair slides a piece of cloth across the table to him. "For you," he says, leaning an elbow on the table and resting his chin in his palm.
Hunter takes it, feeling the softness of the red fabric between his fingers. It's not rough and coarse like the bandana he currently has. There's a white skull embroidered on the side of it, and he feels something in his chest twist when he sees it. That – the skull is their symbol. They picked it together a few months ago. Seeing their mark on the fabric makes him feel overwhelmed in a way he can't even explain.
"Did you… make this?" he asks, looking up. He doesn't ask how Crosshair got the materials to do the stitching, but it's clearly Crosshair's work. The lines are precise except for a few places where he mis-stitched. It's the work of… well, a six-year-old. A little imperfect, perhaps, but the care behind it is unmistakable.
Crosshair shifts a little, cheeks coloring. "Thought you might like it," he mutters.
"I love it," Hunter tells him, reaching up to untie the bandana he's currently using. "Want to…?"
Crosshair brightens. "Yeah." He picks up the fabric, brushing Hunter's hair back before he carefully wraps it around his forehead, tying it in the back. Hunter glances toward the window, seeing his admittedly somewhat hazy reflection in it, but it's clear enough for him to see the new bandana on his head, the skull emblem standing out starkly. It's – it's perfect.
"Looks good," Crosshair decides, studying his face for a long moment.
"Yeah," Hunter agrees. "Thanks."
"S'nothing." It's not quite a grumble, but it is almost as Crosshair shifts uncomfortably. "Thought you should…" He waves a hand as though it'll complete his sentence for him. "Represent us, y'know?"
Hunter nods, understanding. He's still young – only six – but when they're no longer cadets, Hunter will be the one to lead them out there. He'll be their leader, their sergeant, and he'll be responsible for them. But then, he already is responsible for them. He takes care of them. Protects them. It's what he's always done. It's what he'll always do.
"Crosshair," he says seriously, "Thank you."
His little brother flushes a little deeper. "If you're gonna put a skull on your face, you might as well get used to looking at one in your reflection," he grumbles.
Hunter laughs, reaching up to lightly touch the skull. "Thoughtful."
Crosshair rolls his eyes, but he's smiling.
**w**
Crosshair is gone. Crosshair chose to stay on Kamino.
And now, Crosshair is a prisoner of the Empire.
It was Hunter's duty to protect his squad, and he failed. Crosshair might have chosen his own path, but that doesn't negate the ways Hunter failed him. It doesn't change all the failings Hunter has made since then. It doesn't change that Echo left them to help Rex. It doesn't change that Tech died on their mission to get Crosshair back. It doesn't change that Omega was captured by Hemlock and taken away from them.
It's just him and Wrecker now, two where there were once four. They'd promised to stay together forever, but well, that didn't happen.
The Marauder feels like a ghost. He and Wrecker hardly talk except to discuss their next plans or if Wrecker is badgering him to eat something. He tries. He really does, but he just… can't seem to keep food down. His ability to eat, to sleep, to… exist is almost non-existent. It's been like this for a month now.
For a month, their kid has been in the Empire's hands. Hunter can't let himself stop to think about what she might be enduring. He can't let himself stop to think about Crosshair at all or he'll shatter into millions of broken shards. He can't think about Crosshair or Tech. He sees the goggles every time he tries to work on the computers, a silent reminder that he can't just call for Tech and ask him to help. It's a reminder that he failed one brother already. Permanently. There is no I'm sorry that will bring Tech back to them.
There is only the ashen taste of regret in his throat and the fierce, blinding need to find Omega, no matter what it takes, no matter what they have to do. They have to find her, free her.
In the 'fresher, the skull on his bandana stares back at him, silent and mocking. You failed, it tells him every time he sees it. You broke every promise you've ever made. You're not a sergeant. You're barely even their brother. A good leader would have protected the squad. A good brother wouldn't have led Tech to his death.
He's too broken and too worn to even cry anymore, and he tugs the bandana off his head, staring down at the dirty scrap of cloth that Crosshair gave him so long ago. The stitching of the skull is still the same, but it has some additional stitches where it was repaired from damage sustained. He closes his fingers around it, sliding his other hand through his hair as he sighs heavily. Unless he wants to cut it all off, he has to at least maintain it though he loathes to take the time.
Laying the bandana down, he combs out his hair, trying to wrangle the messy curls into something semi-decent.
The skull stares at him, glaring and judging.
You didn't protect me.
It sounds like Tech. It sounds like Crosshair. It sounds like both of them, their voices overlapping and whispering to him, over and over.
Hunter looks away, setting down the comb, and reaching for the cloth before hesitating.
You don't deserve to call yourself our leader.
And he doesn't know if that voice is more his or Crosshair's.
Tears blur his eyes for a moment, but he stares fixedly at the wall, blinking them away and keeping his breathing slow and steady. There's no time for him to get all worked up. He needs to be searching for Omega.
The skull is still looking at him when he turns, and he grits his teeth, picking it up to tie it in place, faltering when he sees the skull on the side of forehead where it always is. It feels like he's trying to tie a mask in place. It feels like he's trying to step into the past, into the days when he actually deserved to carry the Batch's symbol and mark himself as one of them.
He doesn't deserve it anymore.
Their squad has been broken and flung across the galaxy – and beyond – because of him, because he didn't protect them, because he wasn't a good leader.
He thought he could be.
He thought he was.
He – but does it matter what he thought or wanted when all his failings are whispering in the dark corners of Crosshair's weapon's kit and mocking him from atop the computer console, broken lenses staring at him just like the skull is.
Hunter yanks it down, balling it up in his hand.
He can't look at it anymore. He can't –
He can't keep pretending to be something he's not. He can't keep pretending to be someone he's not. He can't keep pretending to –
Anything.
He has to stop pretending.
Hunter steps from the 'fresher, moving toward where he keeps his things, trying to not to disturb Wrecker who has finally fallen asleep for the first time in over a rotation. He is tired, too, but he can't afford to rest. Not yet. He digs down until he finds another scrap of cloth that's long enough to work and most importantly, unadorned with the symbol of the Batch.
He ties it around his forehead with jerky movements, stuffing the red one – the Batch's one, Crosshair's one – deep down where he doesn't have to look at it, at the accusing empty eyes of the skull ever again.
Empty.
Plain.
Just like him.
If he could scrub the skull from his face, he would, if only to erase the feeling of Crosshair's gentle hands touching his jaw as he checked over his handiwork when he finished the tattoo so long ago. He wishes he could rip the memory from mind. He wishes he could rip all of it from mind. He doesn't want to remember Crosshair's gentleness when it was all a lie. He doesn't want to remember anything.
He doesn't –
Hunter blows out a shaky breath, turning toward the cockpit. He has work to be doing. Omega is waiting for him, and he doesn't get to rest, not until they get her back.
Final Notes: Reviews are always appreciated! ^-^
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