Commander Mayday - Tumblr Posts

This is both true and hilarious.

I love this recurring theme that wherever Crosshair goes, he is doomed to connect emotionally to someone and make friends even though he hates everyone. He is gonna be surrounded by people who love him and you bet your ass he is going to complain about it.

Remembrance

God DAMN this moment made me cry 🥲

I hope I did Mayday justice ✨✨

What I say: I’m fine

What I mean: Crosshair has known Mayday for a day, and yet after the avalanche he was ready to do whatever it took to keep him alive. The clone who hated regular clones carried an injured reg for two days, only caring about his survival. He gave him his rifle to use as a crutch. He asked for his life on his knees. He looked at Mayday before shooting the imperial. He came back after who knows how long, never forgetting him. He cared so much, for a first time in a long time.

Crosshair is a bratty little bottom for Mayday

Thank you, that is all

here have this ramshackle of a fanfic 🫴

might have been inspired by Genius Next Door by Regina Spektor, idk

others said it must have been the weather

Summary: Crosshair struggles to adapt to the complexities of civilian life, while grieving the loss of commander Mayday.

Characters: Crosshair, Hunter, Rex

Word Count: 6k+

Warning: This story contains graphic descriptions of depression and an attempted suicide, if you are sensitive to those topics fuck off no story is worth the cost of your mental health, love yourself by steering clear, unclenching your jaw, staying hydrated, and the sensation of suddenly becoming aware of your tongue in your mouth. It's a big muscle you know. The body of it goes away down your throat. Now is also probably the time to mention that Im high. But. Enjoy the story.

ps. I wrote this immediately after The Outpost so everything that happened in the season finale is ignored because fuck that noise

Crosshair shouldn't have been surprised when his brothers turned up to rescue him. He shouldn't have been, but he was. They were brothers after all, right? Wrecker had said it himself in the wreckage of Kamino: "We would have taken you back..."

It hurt anyways, of course, a confusing mixture of anger and guilt. He had warned them to stay away. Rescuing him was foolish, they had put themselves and Omega in harm's way for nothing, completely ignoring the warning he had sent, and he was infuriated by their foolhardiness, incensed by their rejection of his sacrifice. 

They were stiff and guarded—Hunter especially—watching him carefully from the corners of his eyes, as if he was a deactivated roller who might spring to life at any second. Hadn't they grown up together? Had his choice to remain with the Empire really damaged their relationship so severely that he was little more than a stranger to them? It has been a rational decision; a decision millions of other clones had made. They were soldiers, bred to die, purposeless without violence of war. The galaxy wanted nothing to do with them—even when they were war heroes the Republic had seen them as nothing more than droids with skin and bone. With the Empire, there had been a promise of food and shelter and purpose. Tactically, it made the most sense. 

Until it hadn't, and the Empire, as Lt. Nolan had made so perfectly clear, had no use for them. 

But perhaps, what he saw etched in the expressions of his brothers, was nothing more than a projection of what he felt he deserved to see. Perhaps the distance between them was artificial, built up like a wall to shield Crosshair from the burning agony of forgiveness. Perhaps he was afraid that, if they peered at him to closely, they would see everything he had suffered, everything he had lost and, being empathetic to a fault, they would fail to see the responsibility he'd had as the maker of his own suffering. Somebody much wiser than him had told him once, "We make our own decisions. And we have to live with them, too." 

Crosshair had never been a 'plan for the future's sort of person. War rarely ever offered that sort of long-sided perspective on things. He had never truly considered the possibility of having to live with the consequences of his actions. He had never truly considered the possibility of having to live at all, after the war. After all, the notion of a 'glorious death for the sake of the Republic' had been drilled into him as a thing to be celebrated for as long as he could remember. 

So, while Crosshair had been prepared to die on Tantiss, perhaps living was a more suitable punishment.

And Crosshair was more than prepared to wear his decisions, to let them line his pockets like pebbles. 

They brought him to some tropical planet. They had told him the name of the planet, the name of the town, over and over, but he couldn't ever seem to recall it. The information never stuck. It wasn't as if somebody was going to ask him where he lived. It wasn't as if that place was his home. Clones—regs and Clone Force 99 alike—had barracks and ships, places they rested as they waited for deployment. They weren't meant to have homes, to be domesticated. They were soldiers, that was their purpose. 

Was their purpose.

What was their purpose now? Who were they supposed to be? Where did they belong, obedient dogs, bred for battle? They were too vicious for civilian life, they didn't have the skills for it. They didn't know how to live without the structure of an army. Where would they live? How would they make money? What would they eat? Where would they sleep and for how long? Who would be willing to teach them how to function outside of war, how to manage the panic and the sudden fits of rage and the flashbacks and the immense sting of survivor's guilt because if anyone should have survived that avalanche—

What did it matter? Logistically, the clones were abandoned.

Crosshair's recovery had gone smoothly and he had expected, once he felt well enough to feel again, that he would, in fact, feel something—sorrow or regret or relief or even joy. But those feelings never came. Crosshair felt nothing except, perhaps, for the unceasing, insatiable anger that grew without incentive, and a distant ache that came with the realization that his life was, essentially, over.

When he had avenged Commander Mayday's death, under the shadow of the relentless scavenger, he had been prepared to die. He had anticipated his distress call to be his final words. He had been bred to be a soldier, after all. He had been taught, since birth, to prepare to die. 

Living was a much more difficult concept. A fitting punishment.  

Crosshair had only ever been good at one thing. And that one thing had been useful on the rare occasions that the Batch left the planet to assist Echo and Rex and their network of rescued clones, but those sorts of missions were becoming scarcer and scarcer as the rest of the Batch began assimilating into more domestic roles. They made money fishing or repairing machinery or hauling heavy equipment. There was no need to engage in mercenary activities when they had everything they needed at home. Besides, it was what was best for Omega's development to stay away from conflict.

Assimilation came easily for the others. For Crosshair, not so much. He came across as standoffish and rude and his skills as a sniper were worthless to the civilians. He was hostile and short tempered and the civilians, for the most part, gave him a wide berth. As they should.

Crosshair had always been an ass—rude and sarcastic. He said things, cruel things, because he liked to keep an aire of indifference, of superiority, around him. He had never been an angry man, merely cold and condescending. But now? Now, Crosshair felt completely out of control. The civilians and his brothers would do things that made him so angry he felt like his head was going to pop off—loud noises and bright lights were enough to make the sniper furious. He would get angry when the weather outside was too cold, and he couldn't seem to stop himself from making snide remarks about how much Wrecker ate, driven by a bizarre insecurity that there wouldn't be enough food left.

He snapped with people looked at him the wrong way; he snapped when he smelled ozone or heard sparks crackling; he snapped when he felt the texture of rough wool; he snapped when he heard Omega laugh; he snapped whenever a particularly cruel thought whispered, in a voice that was entirely vagal, that his brothers should have shot him on Kamino when they had the chance. 

He felt like he was losing his mind, like the all-too-familiar smell of the ocean had crept beneath his skin and settled into his bloated veins like a fat, indulgent parasite. The long days became plagued with migraines, and the bitter nights became plagued with restless dreams. 

He missed Mayday, wasn't that strange?

He missed having somebody who understood what he had gone through, what he had sacrificed and why. 

"So what made you want to leave?" Echo had asked once. 

Crosshair never answered and Echo never asked again. 

Crosshair never spoke of Mayday, never described the avalanche, or the armor that so many clones had lost their lives to protect. He didn't talk about the thirty-two rotations he had suffered on Kamino, that his body had metabolized all of his muscular tissue by the time that they had found him, that it had taken weeks to eat solid food again, and months before he could return to active duty. He never talked about Cody, or Dr. Hemlock, or Tantiss, or the torture, or Mayday—because wasn't it always fucking Mayday?—because he couldn't  the conversation would end with anything other than an, "I told you so." 

He didn't talk about any of it. Except, just once, to Rex. 

"Have you heard from Commander Cody?" Crosshair had asked, and Rex had responded tersely:

"I have." 

Crosshair had waited in silence for the captain to continue, but Rex said nothing. So Crosshair mentioned that the last time he had spoken to commander Cody was the day before he defected and—

And then he asked, interrupting himself, "Have you ever lost a friend before?" 

Rex had made a face as Crosshair had told the story. The sniper couldn't identify the expression—he assumed it was pity, or contempt. Which was understandable, he supposed. Rex had fought the chip tooth and claw, had made it his life's mission to help clones escape the Empire; Crosshair had fought tooth and claw to stay with the Empire. Expecting any sort of sympathy or brotherhood from Rex was astoundingly stupid, and Crosshair was quick to recognize the mistake and harden once more. 

"Have you told the others?" Rex asked. 

Crosshair pressed his lips into a thin line and responded, coldly, "They wouldn't understand," 

"You might be surprised," Rex had said. 

Crosshair had felt something burn within him, unidentifiable. "I think I know my squad better than you do, captain," he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. 

"They haven't been 'your squad's for a long time," Rex had pointed out, and Crosshair couldn't breathe. 

Still, Rex had been generous enough to offer him advice—sometimes, writing letters to the deceased helped with the process of parsing through one's grief.  

It was stupid, but Crosshair was desperate for relief, so he wrote. It helped, for a little while. It made him feel less alone, less numb. Never once in his letters, did he apologize. He had tried, many times, but the words were always wrong and every attempt ended in unceasing anger, as a little voice in his head whispered, "Remind me not to die on your watch." 

Crosshair was a quick learned, so it wasn't long before he found himself avoiding the subject entirely. Instead, he spoke of useless things in his letters to the dead man. He described the weather, made remarks about the humidity and the tropical storms. He spoke of the locals, the food, his appreciation that somebody was finally able to cook a dish that was spicy enough for him. He talked about the Batch, described them in detail and wrote of their antics—after all, Mayday had pressed, once, about who his squad had been. Surely he'd want to know? 

Crosshair found himself writing about his feelings—as distant and muted as they were. He spoke of the unfair resentment he felt towards Omega, of his unfounded inability to trust his brothers, of his immense shame. He about the gaping chasm of anger that sat in his chest. It was oddly comforting, talking to a dead man he had only known for three rotations. 

Just once, after a particularly frustrating day—the rain and the cold had made him inexplicably furious—he wrote himself a letter, as if he was Mayday—as if Mayday was still alive. He wanted to indulge in the fantasy that his shame was unfounded, that he hadn't failed his friend. 

The letter read only one sentence: 'Great to hear you're doing well out there.'

There, Crosshair froze. 

He deleted the letter almost instantly, as if, with a sharp inhale, reality dawned on him: What was he doing? What was the point? Mayday was dead. He was nothing more than an strewn pile of bones, picked clean by the vultures. What did he even care? They hadn't even been friends. They'd held two stiff conversations in half a rotation before the avalanche, and that was it. If he was alive, he wouldn't care about the weather or Crosshair's love of spicy food. 

They weren't friends. 

They weren't anything. 

Crosshair had nothing. 

There was nothing. Everything was empty.

He never wrote again, after that. The action was pointless. Mayday was dead. Writing letters wouldn't undo the avalanche, they couldn't turn back time. The dead were dead were dead. Crosshair, in a fit of frustration, cast the datapad across the room, hurling it against the wall with all his might. It clattered to the floor, abandoned, and was never touched again. 

It was funny, really; perhaps Mayday liked the letters because as soon as Crosshair stopped writing them, the commander started showing up in his dreams more and more frequently. Or perhaps the letters—the rumination—had appeased the commander in some way, had served as penance of some sort, as the commander's visage in the dreams became more and more cruel, more and more decomposed. 

Unfortunately, it wasn't as if the things Mayday said in his dreams weren't true. 

Everything was empty: even the yawning void where Crosshair's anger use live, festering. But there was nothing anymore, no unceasing rage, no flinching at the wrong smells and sounds and touches, even the nightmares, after some time, eventually faded until he stopped dreaming all together, and he begun to wake up just as exhausted as when he had gone to bed. 

The more time passed, the less real Crosshair felt. The numbness stretched across his skin and sunk deep into his belly. He no longer felt hungry or thirsty or tired. Even physical pain felt far away. He stopped speaking because his voice stopped sounding familiar, and he stopped spending time with his brothers and Omega because he discovered that, if he stared at them for long enough, their faces were no longer recognizable—like how a word repeated too many times becomes a noise without meaning.

Perhaps, he was no longer human. Had he ever been truly human? Or had the entirety of his manufactured life been artificial?

Food lost its appeal, spice no longer enticed him. Eating became a chore, but he never stopped—when hunger tugged at his stomach, his heart would race, gripped with something that might have been panic, if it wasn't so far away. 

Hunger was an interesting thing, Crosshair learned. When the pangs struck, he wasn't on the tropical planet, he was back on Kamino, with it's cold oceans and maelstroms—and the one rogue wave that had slapped the platform and nearly washed him away. The pangs of hunger transported him to a tiny platform in the middle of the sea, curled on his side as the wind howled and the rains fell in relentless sheets. 

Alcohol quieted the racing thoughts. He had never been a heavy drinker (although he certainly had his other vices) because he disliked the way it made him unsteady (and he was also driven away by the taste) but these days, it was the only thing that kept his head afloat. Otherwise, he might just drown in the vast ocean of nothingness that hung beneath him. The pointlessness, like a sea monster, might just consume him if he dared to let go of the bottle. 

On Kamino, there had been whispers of monsters in the water; creatures who could lure their victims out to sea with their voices, before drowning them. It was a stupid scary story that Crosshair had never believed, but perhaps there has been some truth to it: perhaps singing monsters truly did live in the seas. Perhaps it was their songs that had enticed Crosshair, that had called him to the ocean. 

Or, perhaps, he was simply a desperate, cowardly man who was too timid to admit that he didn't actually have the strength to live with his choices. 

Whatever it the reason, the outcome was the same: Crosshair began to stay up late, waiting, locked in his room, for the rest of the world, for his brothers, to sleep. Then, in the cool of the night, he would creep out and make his way to the beach. Despite the horrors of the Kaminoans platform, the ocean didn't frighten him. In fact, they enticed him, welcomed him, and he would wade out into the water, fully dressed, just to see how far he was willing to go. Each night, he got a little braver and swam a little farther. It was a game he played with the ocean—how far out could he swim before the relentless tides swept him away? 

He told himself he didn't want to die, it wasn't about that. He argued with himself that if he really wanted to die, he'd just shoot himself, plain and simple. 

But sometimes, he would fill his pockets with sand and swim out until the ocean floor seemed to drop away and he would let himself sink, just how far he could lose himself. 

It made him feel alive, in a way. 

It ended the same way every night: at some point, he'd lose the urge and return to shore, his chest aching with an emotion he refused to acknowledge. As the sun rose, he'd return home, dawning with a hangover, strip naked, and crawl into bed. 

The days became a blurry mess of salt and sand and alcohol. Any residual anger melted away, numbed by the drink and the sharp, cool tang of the ocean, and the distant awareness that, with the increasing stakes of his game, any day could be his last. It was that thought, truthfully, that brought the numbness, disguised as relief. 

"Crosshair?" 

Crosshair ground his teeth when Hunter's voice cut through the haze. He sounded tentative. "Rex and Echo have been looking for you. We've got intel from Howzer about a dozen clones in prison for deserting. We've got a rescue mission planned but, well, we could use a sniper," He sounded almost hopeful, or like he was pleading. 

"Howzer?" Crosshair asked, licking his cracked lips. He was thirsty. For the first time in weeks, he was aware enough of his body to recognize the heaviness of his tongue, the way it stuck to the roof of his mouth. 

Water wasn't a problem. Luckily, for as hellish as the ocean planet was, the rain was a constant, which meant that fresh water wasn't a big concern. What was concerning, however, was the lack of food. He had nothing. Perhaps he could attempt to fish, but the ocean was cold and the current was strong. He could easily be swept away by the- 

Where was he?

"He was a captain who served on Rhyloth under you and Admiral Rampart,"

"What?" he croaked. 

"He was a captain. He served under you and Rampart on Rhyloth," Hunter said again, more slowly. He looked concerned. His hands was halfway outstretched towards the sniper. 

"And Rex wants me there?" Crosshair  asked, blinking in disbelief. 

Hunter looked expectant or disappointed, Crosshair wasn't sure.

"He and Echo asked for you specifically. He, uh, he says he needs you sober, though," Hunter said with a frown. He sounded uncomfortable. Why did that make Crosshair angry?

"I'll be there," The sniper said simply.

"Crosshair, look. I think we should talk-" Hunter sound urgent, maybe desperate. 

Unfortunately Crosshair wasn't interested in finding out which it was so, instead, he turned his back on the sergeant, signalling the end of the conversation. 

Howzer. He remembered Howzer. He had allowed Clone Force 99 to escape, had defected against the Empire. Crosshair had thought it was such a repulsive thing to do—he had never liked the captain, and cuffing the captain had brought him a sick sense of pleasure. He had been pleased to punish dissidence. 

Would Howzer recognize him? What a stupid question. Crosshair was no reg. His face was- 

Unrecognizable. 

Crosshair was staring into a mirror. How had he gotten there? He didn't remember-

He could see the burn scar carved deep into his scalp. His heart hammered as he dug his fingers into the pits. 

Rex and Echo wanted him on that mission? With Howzer? Why? 

I'll be there. 

He would not.

He was no coward.

He spent the evening strolling the streets, gathering pebbles. When night fell, he swam farther that he ever had before. He fell deeper than ever, his pockets lines with pebbles. When his lungs cried out for oxygen, he surfaced, furious, cowardly. He was angry at Rex, angry at Echo, angry at Hunter, angry at Howzer, angry at Mayday, angry at himself. So he took it out on the ocean, cursing at it, as if he could enrage it enough to incense it to violence, as if it would crush him beneath a furious, rogue wave.  But the tides remained gentle, and the night was calm. 

Crosshair in his anger, dived. 

Usually, when he sank, he simply exhaled and let the water drag his body down. There has never been any intention behind it, no motion of energy. But now? Now there was fury. Still-powerful limbs propelled the sniper into the darkness, too upset to really think about what he was so determined to accomplish. 

The first time his lungs cried out for oxygen, Crosshair, out of spite, pushed himself even deeper. 

The second time his lungs cried out, reality set in and, suddenly, all of the burning grief and desperation and rage, rage had been smothered, leaving only the smouldering ashes of regret, and the charcoal taste of terror. 

What had he done?

He was down so deep that the pressure hurt his ears. He twisted in the total darkness, suddenly away, for the first time, of the possibilities that big, hulking, singing monsters swam in the depths. He felt like prey. As he tried to right himself, he lost his sense of direction. Which was was up? He exhaled sharply, up went the bubbles. Crosshair, scowling, followed them up. He wouldn't die. He wouldn't let himself die. Just like on Bracca and Kamino and Barton-4. He would not die. 

He had no right to die. Commander Cody had said-

He clawed upwards. His eyes stang and his lungs felt like they were going to collapse in on themselves, but still Crosshair persisted. Up and up and up and up- 

The urge to inhale was immense. He refused. It would not happen. Even as black spots began to appear in his blurry vision, as his brain tingled and his limbs ached, the determination persisted. 

His body exhaled and inhaled in spite of himself, hijacked by instinct. Everything burned. He thrashed, attempting to cough and sucking down more water. 

The surface was close. The bubbles lead the way up. At the sight of them, Crosshair's brain produced an image and a voice. 

"Vicious creatures, but you've got to admire them. They find a way to survive."

He was the ice vulture. It was him. He had sacrificed everything to survive, he chose cast his brothers aside like carrion and now he had to live with those choices.

Vaguely, he recalled breeching the surface. He remembered thrashing and and choking. He recalled the itchy feeling creeping up the back of his throat, the way his stomach heaved, and the taste of bile. He recalled gasping, his body convulsing autonomously towards the shore, practically dragging himself against the current, which had grown strong. He recalled he recalled seeing lights beyond the shore and crying out for help, only for his salt-damaged voice to fail.

He continued to gasp and spew water until his toes touched the sandy shore, he heaved himself forwards and collapsed, at last, on the beach. It took all of his energy to roll up onto his knees. He pressed a fist against his stomach and pressed down on it as hard as he could, forcibly expelling the excess water from his lungs. 

It was funny—he remembered gasping for air. He remembered his eyes falling shut. There had been sand beneath him. When he woke, there was grass beneath him. He opened his eyes, blurred with seawater. Despite that, the figure who stood before him, arms crossed and back straight, was unmistakable. 

"Rex," Crosshair sneered, his voice rough. 

"Have a good swim?" Rex asked, his voice was cold. Before the sniper could answer, the former captain cut in sharply, "There better be a damn-fucking good reason why I found you half dead on the beach," he snapped. He almost sounded worried. 

"I don't answer to you," Crosshair growled, forcing himself to his feet. He staggered forward, stumbled and- 

Rex caught him, steadied him. It was a kind gesture. 

"You should have let me fall," Crosshair hissed, petulantly swatting at Rex's hands. He sounded almost... Mournful. It would have felt good to fall. To sink. It would have made him feel alive. 

"Crosshair..." Captain Rex didn't sound so cold anymore. 

Unfortunately, Crosshair was stubborn. Severe and unyielding. He wrenched himself from the reg's arms and staggered forward. "Fuck off," he spat, unable to think of anything more eloquently to say. 

"Don't think I don't understand what you just tried to do! This isn't something you can just walk away from!" Rex argued, reaching out to put a hand on Crosshair's shoulder. "You need help, Crosshair. What happened on Barton-4 wasn't your fault-" 

Crosshair reacted violently, balling up a fist and slamming it right into Rex's face, who reeled backwards. Adrenaline was a hell of a drug and, even in such a physically exhausted state, Crosshair still had a nasty right hook. 

He imagined Rex hitting him, returning the punch, blow for blow. He imagined it might feel good, in a self-vindictive sort of way. Crosshair imagined, just for a moment, that Rex's fist was clad in clone armor and rags, that his hair was dark and long, and his beard was-

It was deserved. 

But Rex never struck Crosshair. The sniper, anticipating the blow, stumbled backwards and landed flat on his ass. His heart was beating so fast, he thought it might just stop. He rolled onto his hands and knees, and vomited saltwater.

"Hey, hey, hey! What the fucking kark is going on!" Hunter shouted, emerging from the darkness. "What the hell are you doing?!" 

"The captain and I were just having a discussion about tomorrow's mission," the sniper said, panting, as if it was an acceptable answer. 

"Rex, what's going on?" Hunter demanded again, and Crosshair grit his teeth. 

"Did you hear what I said?" he spat. His whole body was trembling from the exertion and the cold, as the seawater evaporation from his skin. He shut his eyes tight and breathed harshly against the rising nausea. Hadn't this happened before? The cold and the exhaustion, the position on his knees, even the words were-

"Help him!" Crosshair cried out, gesturing to a body that wasn't there. 

Whatever Hunter or Rex might have said was completely lost on the sniper, who was trapped in a snowy wasteland, watching, barely conscious, as the worthless lieutenant circled around him like a vulture.

'Certainly not. That would be a waste of the Empire's resources.'

Crosshair's expression fell. The shaking worsened. "He'll... He'll die," he croaked. 

And that was the crux of it, really. He'll die. He had never felt so helpless before, pleading for the life of somebody else, at the mercy of somebody else's whims. He had never been so powerless before. 

Clone Force 99 had a 100% mission success rate. Crosshair had never failed his brothers before, he wouldn't fail Mayday now. He wouldn't.  

He'll die. He recalled prying the commander's helmet off, recalled watching his chest sink and his expression relax as the spirit rose up to march alongside Veetch and Hexx. It was horrific. Mayday could have lived. He would have lived if Nolan had just felt like helping. 

Was Crosshair so powerless that his life was at the mercy of—

"It isn't real, Crosshair. Whatever you're seeing isn't real," As Hunter's voice washed over him, Crosshair lifted his eyes. He felt like he was waking up from a dream. 

"Take a deep breath, Crosshair," That was Rex's voice, nasally from the damage the sniper had done to his nose. It was bleeding something fierce. Crosshair felt almost proud. "There you go. One more," 

He was still on his hands and knees, still dripping wet, gripping the grass so tight that his knuckles had gone stiff.

"Good hit," Rex grumbled. "Consider us even," 

Before the Empire, Crosshair would have smirked—he vividly recalled incensing the captain to violence by bitching about his previous ARC trooper. Before the Empire, he used to tease Echo about it: "It's cute how much your captain loves you. Let me guess, you were the Batch Baby?" 

"You should have let me drown," Crosshair blurted out because he wasn't the same person he had been before the Empire; because he couldn't seem to stop the words from tumbling out; because he so badly wanted the help but was so scared to accept it. 

Rex and Hunter were both kneeling beside him, Hunter had a hand resting on the back of his shoulder, while Rex had a firmer hold, as if preparing to catch him. 

"You crawled out of that ocean yourself," Rex pointed out. 

"Then you should have thrown me back in," Crosshair sneered, in a tone that Hunter had come to realize was joking—but the words felt wrong, and a little too intentional. 

"We're all worried about you, Crosshair. What were you doing out there?" Hunter asked, and the younger clone squeezed his eyes shut. 

"Swimming," he said venomously. 

"Cool off, spitfire," Rex chided firmly. "You're not fooling anyone," 

Rex was talking about his tone—Crosshair's thorns were only defensive—but the words hit deeper. A pained groan pulled from Crosshair's chest as he attempted to shift his weight. He realized quickly that if he moved, he'd collapse, and he didn't wait either clone to see him in such a state. He gripped the grass even harder as he drawled, "You know why," 

Crosshair anticipated stunned, humiliating silence, but Hunter offered none. Without missing a beat he asked, "Why?" When Crosshair didn't response, Hunter asked again, more urgently, "Crosshair, why?" 

"You should tell him. Your squad doesn't want to see you at the bottom of the ocean," Rex's voice was kinder than Crosshair deserved. He clamped his jaw shut and said nothing. 

"We're a patient bunch, you know. We can do this all night," Hunter said, irritated and insistent, panicked. "Rex is right. Nobody wants to see you dead,"

Slowly, Crosshair cracked his eyes open. "You wouldn't understand," he croaked. He sounded defeated. 

"I think you'd be surprised," Rex insisted. 

"He wouldn't understand. Neither of you will ever understand," he snarled like a feral animal. 

"Well, just try!" Hunter snapped, all of his self-proclaimed patience dissolving in an instant. "If you kill yourself because you can't be bothered to let anybody help you, none of us would forgive you! Can you imagine how upset Wrecker-"

"Hunter," Rex said sharply. 

The sergeant sucked in a slow breath and then said, "Crosshair, I meant what I said. None of us want to see you dead. I don't want to see you dead,"

"That's a lovely sentiment; where was all that sweet-talk on Kamino?" Crosshair growled, still adamantly refusing to look up. 

"You're right. But we're not on Kamino. I made a lot of shitty mistakes. My biggest regret is not trying harder to go after you immediately after Rex took the chips out. And I'm sorry. You needed up and we weren't there,"

Crosshair didn't answer. There was nothing to say and the silence was stifling—like being buried under snow. 

"Cross..." Hunter said suddenly, and there was a certain desperation in his voice, despite using such a gentle tone. "I really did mean what I said. You're my brother, I don't want to lose you. All of this shit—whatever it is you're carrying—you can't go on like this, and we can't lose you. Not again," He slipped his arm under Crosshair's shoulder. "Let us help you carry this," 

Crosshair expression tightened, his breathing hitched, and he instantly felt enraged. He grit his teeth, fingers digging tight into the dirt, and in his fury he began, silently, to cry. 

Beneath the numbness, beneath the rage, was sorrow and grief and guilt and so much regret. 

"I'm sorry..." he croaked, barely able to push the words past his ruined vocal chords and shuddering breaths. 

Hunter scooted closer, pushing his arm more firmly under Crosshair's shoulder, ready to catch him when he fell. "It's okay. We forgive you. It's okay, Cross," 

The resolute sniper never made a sound, and he turned his scrunched face away, too proud to let Hunter see him cry. His whole body shuddered and his arms, at last, gave out. 

Hunter caught him. 

He tugged Crosshair close. He flicked his head—a signal to give them some space—and Crosshair heard Rex's footsteps as he stepped away. He felt foolish for his inability to stop the steady flow of tears, but Hunter just held him tighter. He didn't deserve it, he tried to hold his breath to force the feelings away, but his battered lungs wouldn't obey. All he could do was slowly drag his arms up to cling to the sergeant. 

"I'm... I'm sorry," he rasped. 

"Crosshair, I forgive you. And I'm sorry too. I'm sorry it got to this point. We all knew you were struggling but we- we didn't know how bad it was. Rex and Echo and I figured you were struggling to adjust to civilian life. We figured a mission would be a good change of environment. I had no idea—" Hunter shook his head and tightened his grip once more. "It's not an excuse. I'm sorry. It's not an excuse,"

Crosshair managed, at last, to steady his breathing. If he wasn't so exhausted, he'd pull away and stalk off. It he wasn't so exhausted, he'd run away and hide behind all of his walls and thorns, and Hunter never would have caught him. He wasn't sure whether it was a blessing or a curse, to be caught before he could sink further. After all, living was so very difficult. 

"I'm kriffing pissed at you, you know," Hunter said softly, voice hardly above a whisper. "You can't do this again. If we lost you..." 

Crosshair scowled. "You already lost me once before, and you seemed fine," 

That must've hit a nerve because Hunter inhaled sharply and his grip stiffened. "You don't know shit, Crosshair. Is that really what you think of us? That we cared for you so little that we celebrated in your absence? When you said you had your chip taken out, you have no idea how hurt and betrayed-" Crosshair tugged away, and Hunter loosened his hold, immediately cutting himself off. 

There was that shame again, burning in the pit of the sniper's stomach. His arms fell. 

"You have every right to be angry," Hunter said with a sigh, as if he, too, struggled to let his feelings go. "I'm sorry. I'm saying all of the wrong things. I don't want to lose you and knowing that you-" he shook his head. "I'm having a hard time controlling my emotions. That's not your fault, it's mine. And I'm sorry. I don't blame you for staying with the Empire. I understand why you did what you did. We didn't get to you before Kamino. We weren't fast enough. But we did try," he insisted. "I don't- I don't want you to think that we never tried," 

Hunter's arms loosened again, and Crosshair steadied his breath, prepared to straighten, to stand up, to be let go. But Hunter didn't let go. After a moment of hesitation his arms tightened once more. 

"I'm not going to leave you again, Crosshair. I'm not going to lose you," Hunter said firmly. "Rex is off to wake the doc. We've got to give you a physical eval, make sure all that seawater didn't fuck you up. And you need to talk to her. Crosshair, listen to me, you need to tell her that when you went out into the water, you intended to end your life. If you don't, I will. You don't have to tell her why, but you have to tell her. I won't lose you, and you need help. None of the others have to know, you can tell them when you're ready, but you have to tell the doc," he said. 

"So... I'm on suicide watch?" Crosshair sneered, simultaneously sagging into Hunter and rolling his eyes. 

"You're on suicide watch," Hunter said firmly. 

'Tell me about your squad,' Mayday had asked, breath wet and raspingv painfully. 

'Hunter is a pain in the ass. Shitty leader, pain in the ass, but he's kind. So.' Crosshair had writen in one of his useless, fucking letters.

"I lost a friend," the sniper said so softly his voice was barely audible. 

"I'm sorry," Hunter said, and it sounded almost genuine. But it was just enough to prompt Crosshair to keep talking. 

By the time Rex had returned with the doc, Crosshair was barely awake, succumbing to the exhaustion. He remained firmly in Hunter's arms and, while nothing was truly fixed, not yet, it was a beginning. For the first time since before the Empire, Crosshair felt safe.

Concept: The rest of the guys are shocked to discover Crosshair “I hate regs” BadBatch is the middle of a heated make out session with that hunky reg captain with the beard that he rescued from the Empire.

That's stories I want to read...

For character studies of course !

Mayday finds out about Crosshair’s former disdain for “regs”, and is amused at how much his opinions seem to have changed. Mayday brings it into the bedroom and asks how it feels for Crosshair to let a Reg fuck him. Crosshair loses his mind.

Now the rest of the guys know exactly how much Crosshair loves Reg Cock because they heard him squealing about it through the walls as Mayday fucked him senseless.

//Clone Ship

In an AU where Mayday survives and retires with Crosshair on Pabu, I feel like he and Crosshair would be that one sickeningly sweet couple that gets on everyone’s nerves. Crosshair would still be his grumpy self, but he’d be uncharacteristically giggly and flirty with Mayday in a way that scares the crap out of everyone because “who the hell are you and what have you done with Crosshair?”

Crosshair and Mayday would be that annoying couple that feed each other bites from one another’s plates at dinner and make out in public places like hormonal high schoolers. When they would try to do anything together, the pet names and obnoxious flirtation would come out. If anyone tried to get in the way of their antics, Crosshair would come for them like an angry, shivering Chihuahua.

Crosshair and Mayday would treat Pabu like their personal, private honeymoon, and everyone else would be subjected to it.

When Mayday falls for Crosshair, he falls HARD and becomes the sappiest romantic that the Galaxy has ever seen. The gruff captain brings out candlelit dinners and rose petals leading into the bedroom. Crosshair wants to be embarrassed, but his self-esteem has been in the toilet for so long that he finds it comforting and sexy. Mayday worships at the alter of Crosshair and wants to make him feel loved and treasured, and Crosshair has never been more turned on (or emotional) in his life.

The Return :

His slutty looks and abandonment issues have captivated me

Mayday, is it you ?

Referencia:

Por un beso de ella, aunque solo uno fuera Por un beso de la flaca daría lo que fuera Por un beso de ella, aunque solo uno fuera 🎶🎶

Like a warm sunbeam on your skin

uhh i think crosshair lost his helmet in the avalanche

I've just realized i haven't posted this one here yet lol ENJOY THE PAIN WITH ME I GUESS :""""D

me please ✋

THERE IS NOT ENOUGH MAYDAY LOVE ON THE INTERNET WHO WANTS COMMANDER MAYDAY X READER???

she does it again folks 🤩

Some Commander Mayday studies, he is a lot of fun to draw

Hope you enjoy @ladyzirkonia :)

Some mild spicy below the cut