Chapter Text
Crys could only stare at the shadow clinging to his skin, a poor echo of what would have been a painful injury curling around his eye. He traces the shadow, first with his eyes, then with his fingers. Each touch makes the imprint swell with warmth, and Crys knows he is not the only one who feels it.
It isn’t uncommon for clones to wonder about the shadows that litter their skin, often spending their rare downtime comparing and searching for those that match their own. Crys had done the same back when he was a much younger cadet, and when the war seemed so far away, he had thought he would never leave this soaked rock.
Now, he’s getting ready to ship out and no longer needs to wonder about finding his soulmate.
He knows precisely who carries that scar.
The fresher door slides open, and Crys lunges for his helmet. He has to keep this quiet. Crys knows how unrealistic it was to think he could keep this a secret forever, but he has to try. He ships out tomorrow morning. He’ll figure out what to do when he lands… wherever he’s going.
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He’s assigned to the Negotiator.
He buries himself in his tech and keeps his bucket on right.
And carries the rare glimpses of the Commander close to his chest, running his fingers over the shadow on his face to keep himself warm throughout the nights.
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He makes friends with Gearshift and Longshot despite his best attempts not to. The three of them are often assigned to the same shifts, so he grows familiar with the pair grabbing him away from his workstation and insisting that he grab midmeal with them. Neither one of them asks about his armor. That’s probably why Crys likes being around them so much.
He continues to watch the Commander from a distance, and every glimpse he gets reignites his drive. He’s still just a shiny, with no paint or scars of his own to mark him as worthy of that Commander’s time or love. He needs to be better. The need to be worthy of his Commander is what pushes him on through each of his projects, training as hard as he can with whomever he can. There aren’t many that are willing to train with a shiny in full kit, but he makes due. He has to.
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One day during midmeal, Crys watches as his friends compare their own scars and shadows, a fond smile hidden away underneath his helmet. Gearshift’s most noticeable shadows take up the majority of his chest and sides, wounds that appear far too neat for something earned on the battlefield. Crys knows that if it wasn’t for the occasional brush of warmth that still runs through the shadows, Gearshift would have been devastated.
The space around his eye grows warm, and despite himself, he turns, scanning the mess for their Commander. He spots Cody through the sea of brothers, locked in some kind of conversation with Lieutenants Waxer and Boil, his head propped up by his fist. It’s the barest of movements, but Crys watches as Cody’s thumb strokes over that scarred skin, slow and repeating. Crys’ mouth goes dry, and he turns back around quickly, cheeks burning and chest aching.
He doesn’t even know the Commander, has never had a reason to even speak to him. He’s just a shiny tech.
This is just some joke. He has no right to the Commander, no right to bear his shadows.
Crys’ eyes burn as he stands, pulling his friends’ attention back to him, the two of them wearing matching expressions of worry. “Crys..?” Gearshift starts, but he doesn’t have the time to get more than a word out as the tech turns and leaves the mess.
He wanders the ship, initially heading for his workstation, but pauses, blinking through his tears to stare at the blank white walls. He should get back to work and should be doing more to prove himself. But the other techs were still on shift, and the last thing Crys wants at the moment was to be around anyone else. So he turns back towards the barracks, shoulders slumping in relief when he sees it’s just as empty as he had expected. He settles on his bunk and, in the quiet space, removes his helmet, sucking down a ragged breath before burying his face into his arms. Crying over this feels pathetic. He knows who his soulmate is, and he knows his soulmate is alive. That’s already so much better than so many others. He hasn’t even spoken to the Commander, so it isn’t like he’s missing out on anything.
Crys has always known he would never be enough for his soulmate; he’s known that ever since his shadow appeared.
The doors slide open, and Crys startles, shooting up from his bunk, not even a moment to think about grabbing his helmet. His breathing catches in his throat at the sight of Cody leaning against the doorway, all too relaxed and at perfect ease. He can see the moment Cody processes that shadow on Crys’ face, and can see the way his eyes widen just a fraction. Can see that perfect little smile forming.
“So that’s what you’ve been hiding, shiny.”