Dreaming through the noise.

Fandom: Star Wars: The Bad Batch

Summary: Some nights, they can't sleep.

Post series finale. An epitaph.

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On nights like this, with dark clouds and soft rain and pale lightning in the distance, Crosshair can’t sleep. He slips out of bed and makes his way outside.

On nights like this, with the smell of the rain and ocean and the creak of fishing boats in the harbor coming in through the open window, Wrecker opens his eyes and watches the shadow of Crosshair pass by his open door. He leaves his warm bed and follows his brother.

On nights like this, with the potential, however rare, for the rain to turn from soft to hard, for the sea to swell, boats to capsize and homes to flood, Hunter is awake and listening and watching. An hour into the rainfall, he looks toward the hallway, watches Crosshair, then Wrecker pass by.

Hunter leaves his room, looks briefly into Omega’s room—she’s asleep on her belly, head buried under her pillow—and follows the others outside.

They wind down to the overlook and the sturdy wooden table where they’d had their first meal on the island, well over a year ago now.

Hunter can still feel the heat of that first sunset on his skin, the warmth of the breeze, the savory smell of the feast melding with the sweet scent of blooming flowers. He can hear the voices of his brothers, of Omega, joyous and awed and wondering, without saying, if this could be the place they call home.

On nights like this there is a cool breeze, shifting slats of moonlight, the salt scent of the ocean and quiet but for the soft rush of their breathing, the gentle patter of cold rain, the faint crash of the waves below.

Crosshair climbs, sits in the center of the table, ankles crossed, staring out over the ocean. Wrecker sits on his right, legs dangling over the table’s edge, thigh pressed to Crosshair’s knee. Hunter sits on his left, pressing the line of his body, from shoulder to hip, firmly into Crosshair’s side.

For a moment, quick as a lightning flash in the distance, Hunter can see them, years ago, on Kamino, small bodies pressed into a similar configuration. Hunter on the left. Wrecker on the right. Crosshair and Tech sandwiched between them, curled into and around each other like a puzzle of flesh and bone. All of them staring out the rain flecked window, watching the sea swell, wondering what the future would bring.

On nights like this, with that devastatingly empty space in the center of them, it feels like a thousand years have passed since they were all together.

On nights like this, with the great dark expanse of the sea and the pale coiling mist obscuring most of its surface, Hunter finds himself wondering if it’s possible for them all to be together again...

Some day. In some way.

It might be minutes or hours later he hears footsteps; the subtle twitch of Crosshair’s shoulder lets him know he hears them too.

Omega appears in front of them, wrapped in the blanket from her bed.

She clambers onto the table and into Crosshair’s lap. Her height and long limbs make the move almost comical.

Crosshair sighs gruffly, but his arms wrap tightly around her, left hand anchoring her to his chest. He rests his chin on her head.

“Did you know,” Omega says, sleepily staring out at the water, “that a lot of fish become more active after a storm? It’s why you see so many of the fishermen leave right after the rain is over.”

Crosshair huffs, breath stirring Omega’s hair. Wrecker tilts his head and smiles.

Maybe, Hunter thinks, in some small way, they already are all together.