He Needs More Hugs!

He needs more hugs!

Might

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Summer of Bad Batch 2024 | Week 2 | Prompt: Injured

Rated: G | Words: 511

“Caf?” Hunter asks one morning, holding out a thick mug.

With a hum, Crosshair reaches for it, the dregs of sleep still fogging his mind.

Hunter pulls the mug back, wincing, as he says, “Uh, sorry. Uhm…other hand, Cross.”

Crosshair looks down at his outstretched hand and sees that it is missing, phantom fingers reaching and flexing. He drops his arm. “I don’t want caf,” he mutters, turning away, the flame of embarrassment burning across his face.

“I’ll just leave it on the counter if you change your mind,” Hunter says.

But Crosshair won’t change his mind. He’s already tugging on his boots and walking out the door.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, but the cool, damp air almost instantly soothes the scorching humiliation of his absentmindedness. He doesn’t know why it bothers him so intensely, why it feels like an abrasive lapse of memory. He’d seen Echo deal with the same, exact issue as he acclimated to the loss of his own limbs after his rescue from Skako Minor. He’d never thought Echo ridiculous or idiotic for it. In fact, he’d admired the reg’s tenacity, how quickly he corrected and adapted.

And yet, here is Crosshair, refusing a cup of caf because he used the wrong hand to claim it.

“Crosshair, wait up!” Omega’s voice floats behind him. He stops, but doesn’t turn, listening as her running steps get closer, tangled with the sound of Batcher’s thundering gallop. Omega trots to a stop at his left side and slips her hand into his. “Can we walk with you?”

“I’m not going anywhere…just walking,” he says.

Omega smiles up at him. “Perfect.”

He shoves his right wrist in his jacket pocket as they walk, and he can almost pretend his hand is still there, hidden from sight.

Batcher lumbers ahead, leading them down to the beach. The hound stops every little while to look back at them, making sure her shadows are still nearby. Omega swings their arms playfully, singing a soft, hummed tune that Crosshair recognizes from the docks. A melody sung by the fishermen.

“Can I help with the specs for your prosthetic?” Omega asks suddenly.

Crosshair frowns. “My what?”

“Your prosthetic,” Omega says again, patiently. “Can I help design it?”

“I’m not getting a prosthetic,” Crosshair says icily.

Omega is looking up at him, he can see her expression crumble out the corner of his eye, but he won’t look at her. He swallows, glancing away, and hiding his face entirely.

“That’s okay if you don’t want one,” Omega says after a moment, “I just thought you might.”

Omega doesn’t hum or swing his arm the rest of the way to the beach. As soon as their boots touch the sand, she chases after Batcher, laughing as the hound crashes into the surf.

Crosshair finds a piece of driftwood log to sit on and watches them play. He takes his right wrist out of his pocket and tries to imagine it with an artificial hand. He doesn’t know if he wants that.

But he might.

END