Rivalry: Tech/Crosshair x Reader

"So the seven sisters continued their quest, nearing the end, only to reach the impenetrable fortress of the dark queen. She sent out her evil winged wolves, who slayed all of the sisters except Alcyone, who outsmarted them by disguising herself as a tree. She made it in the castle and upon reaching the top of the spiral staircase, said the three deadly words to the queen--"

"Dark victory nevermore," you mumble at just the right time, interrupting Tech's narrative rendition of a famous piece of Twi'lek mythology. You jerk your head up to look at him, finding him staring at you, brow furrowed and mouth open with the words he was about to say.

"I thought you didn't know the Quest of the Pleiades," Tech says, tilting his head. "Otherwise I wouldn't have recounted the entire epic."

You're caught, and you know it. Staring back at him with an equally surprised look, you force yourself to admit, "My father used to tell it to me when I was a kid. But it's been a long time... Honestly, Tech, I just like to hear you talk." Your admission is as unexpected to you as it is to him, and you clap your mouth shut quickly, feeling your cheeks redden without your permission.

Tech notes the physiological symptoms and body language of embarrassment, connecting the dots in his head... somewhat. "Perhaps you enjoy my vast wealth of knowledge and photographic memory, but why would you consent to hear a story with which you are already familiar?"

"I... uhh... I don't know," you finish lamely, because the truth is too mortifying to share with someone as literal as him. You're just not ready for that conversation, nor is it one you even should have. You've felt that warm calm come over you every time you share a room with him, and find it leading you to other thoughts, more thoughts... 

"Hmm. That is a curious one," Tech muses, cocking his head to consider it for a moment further before leaning back in the pilot seat. "If you do determine the root of that inclination, do let me know."

You smile, feeling somehow charmed by his factual curiosity, and give a nod before turning forward in your copilot seat to watch the streaks of hyperspace weave every hue of blue together in a shimmering blanket of light. 

***

"OWW!" Wrecker yells, swatting your hand, "That stings! Just use the bacta!" Your favorite beefcake has managed to tear up the entire lower part of his back, one of very few places not covered by his armor. 

"I will, Wrecker," you say insistently, placing a hand on his knee for calm and connection. "I have to get this on there so the plant spines don't work their way in. I'll be quick." You give his leg an encouraging pat before returning to your work, spraying the liquid across the angry red skin. 

"What if you apply pressure on the edges to push the spines upward and grab them with a tweezer instead of chemically reversing their barbs? It will take half as long." You hadn't even heard Tech come in, but there he is, standing behind you with his eternal supply of advice. 

"Yeah! Do that!" Wrecker said emphatically, leaning forward to grab the back of the chair with white knuckles. 

You open your mouth to tell Tech why he's wrong... and can't find a reason why. Well, maybe one: "It will hurt more that way," you reply, "Something this size will require a lot of pressure."

"Oh, don't do that then," Wrecker responded, shaking his head immediately. 

"Perhaps," Tech countered, "But likely not nearly as much for someone like Wrecker. You may have forgotten to account for our mutational differences."

"Oh! Then yeah, do that!" came the fully confident declaration from Wrecker.

Damn Tech and his polite little lips, he was right. You look at Wrecker, "I'll try it and you can decide," you say, rising to your feet to apply the necessary pressure. It works like a charm, and ten minutes later, Wrecker is wrapped up and trotting off for a snack. 

Tech lingers, absently performing a maintenance check on a nearby panel while you clean up the tray and stuff the rest back in your med pack. He shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, and you can tell he's trying hard not to say something. You sling your pack over a shoulder, tilting onto a hip with a trace of sass, and watch him expectantly, "Yes?"

"My intentions were purely of assistance, yet I fear I may have inadvertently caused harm to any sense of pride that you may harbor."

How could he insult you as part of an apology, and why did you find it somehow endearing? 

"It's fine," you say quietly, slinging your bag over your shoulder, "Thank you."

He inclines his head slightly, pushing his lips together in the tiniest hint of a smile. "You are highly skilled and humble as well," Tech ascertains, "And a delightful addition to our crew." 

You feel the heat rush to your face again and can't resist a bashful grin. He draws closer, placing a hesitant pat on your shoulder, before ducking out of the room.