Sharp Edges: Crosshair x Reader [NSFW]

The Nightmare

You'd fallen asleep, first together, then drifting apart. You didn't know what time it was, but it was still dark, when you felt some jerks and twitching across the bed. Great, you thought, a heavy sleeper . You rolled over to face him, feeling a sense of indignation rising at the disruption to your sleep. Crosshair arched his back, face pressed into the pillow, hand clenching in a fist next to his head. Maybe he has night terrors , you mused, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. But then he let out a gasp and a whimper that broke your heart in two, as it was so uncharacteristic, so absolutely raw, and he began to mumble under his breath.

"Go... hurry..." you could barely make out the words, only a few discernible between the groans and mutters, "Too late... no!" His breathing began to become more labored, panicked, as though he were truly reliving whatever was happening in his head, and you felt any hardness melt away at the sight of this tough-shelled soldier struggling next to you, completely unguarded. "Scout! Mmmmfffnnnoooo... he's there... Scout..."

His whines and desperate pleas were so heart wrenching that you wanted to rescue him, and you reached over tentatively to touch his shoulder, but he didn't respond. The murmurs faded slightly, but he was still turning his head, eyes moving rapidly under his lids, barely visible in the glow from the lights outside. You weren't sure what it was within you that rose so strongly, but you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him against you, nestling his head onto your chest between your breasts, and rubbed a hand up and down his back.

Part of you feared his response if he woke up, but you pushed it aside, intent on doing what you could to chase away the horrors that haunted him. He fell quiet, slowly growing still as you caressed the back of his head, and after a while, finally seemed to be peacefully sleeping once again. You took a deep breath, watching his silvery hair rise and fall with you, and slowly lightened your hold on him, eventually drifting back into sleep with an unsettling sense of affection and tenderness toward him.

The next morning, you woke up early, trying to be quiet as you gingerly picked up your scattered clothing throughout his place. It had an industrial feel, cool and sleek, much like its occupant, you mused. You pulled on a shirt and pants, one of the many layers you'd brought to the rooftop lookout, and couldn't resist scanning his kitchen for a little something to start your day. Your eyes landed on a simple, single-cup caff maker. Bingo . It looked as though it had never been used, the little drawer beneath it containing a basic assortment of sample cups of different brews and flavors. You popped one in and began hunting through cupboards for a mug, surprised to discover that most of them were almost entirely empty, save for a few spices, a pot and a pan, and a place setting for... one person. Clearly, he wasn't into entertaining.

A sudden movement out of the corner of your eye startled you, and you whipped around to face it. On a shelf across the room lay a black cat, curled up, watching you with intense disinterest. Its tail hung down from the shelf, idly curling and waving occasionally, and you realize that's what you'd seen. You watched it for a moment, sizing it up, and smirked at the fact that it absolutely radiated a standoffish vibe that matched everything else. Fine. You were more of a bird person anyway.

You slid the one mug under the caff maker, closing it and pressing the button, waiting eagerly while it hissed and bubbled. The plan was to be done with your mug by the time he got up, but alas, the plan was foiled by the sudden arrival of Crosshair, looking insanely suave for having just woken up. He wore a long, black robe and black slippers that almost looked like dress shoes. It made sense. You felt awkward all of a sudden, offering him a sort of half-smile as he approached, hands in pockets, and... where the hell did he get a toothpick first thing in the morning?

"I couldn't resist a quick cup of caff," you offered sheepishly, gesturing to the maker, "I hope that's alright."

"Be my guest. Those pods are disgusting," he answered, and your smile turned genuine.

"Then why do you have them?"

"It was a gift," Crosshair said, and your interest was truly piqued. He sauntered to the bar counter that separated the kitchen from the living room, half-sitting and half-leaning on a stool.

"From who?" you nosed, as a beep signaled that your mug was ready.

"I think it's 'from whom', and it's none of your business," he answered, and you felt a bit of hurt welling up within until you saw his eyes, that flashing glint clueing you in to the charade you'd both been so good at holding up.

"You could have just said it was from your mom," you jabbed, then suddenly winced as you remembered who (and what) he was. "Sorry --"

"My mother was a test tube," he hissed, squinting maliciously but still holding an edge of sarcasm. Did he start every day with a verbal sparring match with anyone who would listen?

"Well, less chance for childhood trauma that way, I guess," you countered, cringing inwardly. You needed at least two cups of caff to be on your game; he was playing with an unfair advantage.

"You'd think so," he muttered, a trace of pain lacing his words. This was not a good way to start off, and as you took a sip of the hot liquid, you approached the counter across from him.

"I uhh..." you began, trying to extend an olive branch of nicer conversation, "I have to get home to get ready for work soon. Where's the closest train station?"

He described the best route, and the two of you fell into a more gentle, safe conversation about the neighborhood and how it had changed over the years. It almost gave you a sense of whiplash, going from constant jabs and snarky remarks to more civilized discussion, although all of it was closely guarded by both of your self-preservation instincts. The occasional glimpse past them was both rewarding and scary; you'd never met someone who acted so much like your friends always accused you of acting.

"So who's Scout?" you asked, assuming he would brush it off or deflect it like you usually did when people got too close to something. But you also genuinely wanted to know, and kind of wanted credit for comforting him in the middle of the night if he didn't remember. The response was not what you expected. Crosshair seemed to freeze, although he already hadn't been moving much, but now was so still that it was disconcerting. He lowered his chin a tiny bit, staring at you so intensely that you wanted to wither under his glare. His face was like stone, absolutely unreadable, and the glimmers of personality and character were completely gone from his pale brown eyes.

"What?" he growled, chilling you to the bone with just the one word.

"Uhh," you stammered, needing to get out of this dangerous territory immediately but not seeing how, "You were talking in your sleep last night... Nightmare or something... and that was one of the things you said." You wanted to share how you'd held him, calmed him, but that felt even more risky than what you'd already said.

The pain that flashed across his face was unmistakable, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a simmering rage. He slowly rose to his feet, every movement more jerky than his usual smoothness, and walked to the front door, opening it and standing beside it, staring at the ground as though he couldn't bear the sight of you anymore.

"Get out."

"What? Crosshair, I'm sorry... I just..."

"Out. Now."

You stared at him, speechless, hurt, indignant, and couldn't find anything to say. You slowly lowered your mug, hating the tears welling up in your eyes, and grabbed your pile of clothing, brushing past him without another word. The door clicked behind you, and you stood there for a moment, indescribably hurt, angrily indignant, and thoroughly confused.