The Clone Wars One Shots

Elite Part 3

Warning: chapter contains mentions of sexual harassment. Nothing too graphic, but it may be triggering to some viewers. The beginning and ending of the scene will be marked for anyone who wishes to skip over it.

Four bars in to your squad's spree, you were finally starting to cheer up. You had been moping about Crosshair flaking on you for the past hour, but now you were dancing alongside your squad and dozens of strangers, drink in hand and confidence skyrocketing. Perhaps it was just the alcohol and your surroundings, but you were starting to feel better.

The bar, 79's, had excellent music, hundreds of drinks, and enough floor space for a thousand people. You had grown up not far from it, but had never been inside. You were glad you had agreed to go with your squad to experience the amazement of the clone bar, even if Crosshair had decided not to come.

Little did you know, the sniper had spent the past hour regretting that mistake, and intended to correct it.

You had taken your commlink with you in case anyone needed to contact you while you were out, and decided to switch on the tracking device attached to it when you first left, hoping that Crosshair would eventually join you. Since your commlink was directly connected to his, you figured he would take the hint and shove his pride aside long enough to have a little fun. The poor guy needed it.

You hadn't expected to be right.

Crosshair adjusted the collar of his shirt for the umpteenth time since he had left the elite squad's temporary barracks. Before he left, he had taken the time to clean up and dress in the only outfit he owned that wasn't armor under suits. It wasn't much, but he figured you would appreciate it. He only did it to impress you.

As he walked, the sniper ran through what he would say to you in his head.

'Hi, Y/n. I was just wondering if you-' No, too overused. 'Major L/n, fancy seeing you here.' No way. Too cliché. 'Would you care for a drink, Y/n?' They're bar hopping, you idiot. They probably have a drink.

Frankly, he had no idea what he was doing, nor what he hoped to accomplish, but he figured winging it would do the trick. If it worked in combat, how bad could things get?

...Kriff. Did I just jinx it?

He had faced down hoards of Yalbecs, flipped off highly trained assassins, made Separatist leaders cry with just a glare and a few well-aimed remarks, and destroyed battle droids with his bare hands. He had stared death straight in the face more times than he could count without even an ounce of fear... and yet, as he stood outside the bar, he was afraid. Knowing that you were inside with the rest of the squad - the possibility of you waiting for him - was enough to make him freeze, terrified.

It's Y/n, Crosshair, he told himself, though the thought offered him little reassurance. Relax. It's just Y/n.

He had a vision of how things would go. He would find you, have a drink, perhaps share a few laughs, then, if it felt right, he would tell you how he felt about you. With any luck, you would feel the same, but then what? Surely a relationship wasn't allowed, so what good would a confession do? Would it make him feel better? That seemed selfish to him, putting his heart on the line and encouraging you to do the same, just to find himself unable to move forward.

This was unfamiliar territory to him. Normally, he and his team would scout ahead, research, and gain as much information as possible about a new environment before making a move, but he didn't have his team now. All he had was you, and one wrong move could easily change that.

Was it worth it?

⚠️ ⚠️ ⚠️ (beginning of scene) ⚠️ ⚠️ ⚠️