Rivalry: Tech/Crosshair x Reader

"Field drills? Really?" you ask, squinting from one set of brown eyes to another. Your eyes land on Crosshair, and the hint of a smirk plays on his lips. You feel like you could smack him. The crew is in various states of sitting and standing in the cockpit, having been gathered to share the news.

"Those are the orders," Hunter confirmed, shrugging innocently. You couldn't shake the suspicion that he had somehow been put up to this, but by whom and for what, you didn't know. You hadn't done field drills since academy, but had clearly proven yourself over years of excellent performance. It was almost insulting to be assigned to this now. 

"You worried you might fail?" Crosshair taunted, lazily rolling the toothpick in the corner of his mouth. "What would you do then? Perhaps you could be the ship's cleaning crew." He smirked, leaning on his elbow and bending his head slightly to meet his hand, gently pulling the toothpick out, all without breaking his gaze with you. 

You smirk, having built up a thick skin over the years of working with this type. You're inflating for a snarky retort when you suddenly become aware of a flutter in your chest at his smoldering gaze. Pausing a second too long, the opportunity is gone.

"She certainly will not fail," Tech spouts, throwing a hand out to the side, palm up, in a reactive gesture of dismay. "She is an indisputably proficient and efficient medical professional." 

"Tech, stay out of this. Humor is not your wheelhouse," Crosshair retorts, casting a glance to the side at him. 

"If I do fail," you finally snap, brain returning to working capacity, "You'd better keep an eye on those stitches, because..." you drift off, dumbfounded at how your thought train immediately leaves the station as soon as Crosshair's eyes return to you. The sultry intensity is doing something to you that you hadn't anticipated and were wildly unequipped to deal with.

"Okay, while you're figuring out the ending of that, can we please finish this up?" Hunter interjects, reaching the end of his patience. "You know the drill. We'll prepare our scenarios and you get ready on your end," he says to you, waving off Wrecker's request to hear the rest of your fight with Crosshair. 

"Fine," you say, striding out of the room, frustrated at your sudden incompetence. What you don't see is the silent, slightly prolonged glance between Tech and Crosshair as they turn to leave after you. 

***

[TW: slightly graphic description of blood for a practice medical scenario]

Field drills were an opportunity to practice rusty skills or stretch your comfort zone for a variety of possible injuries. You never knew what you were running into, but your proficiency as a combat medic depended on your ability to maintain a level head no matter what lay before you. You've proven yourself in this again and again. There is no reason today should be any different. Except your brain has been a distracted mess lately, cluttered by a perpetual tornado of thoughts and feelings that have no business being there. 

Armed with your med pack, you stand in the doorway, watching your wrist panel. A small light turns from green to red, and a stopwatch begins. You spring off into the forest, eyes scanning the area. You come across Wrecker first, complaining of some obscure and rare condition that you realize halfway through is a combination of two viruses. Whether he got his prompts mixed up or he was trying to trick you, you're quick to combine antidotes and get him fixed up in no time. 

Next is Hunter, and his scenario ends with him rising to his feet with both legs in makeshift braces that still allow locomotor movement while setting the bones together. He gives you a cheesy double-thumbs up, sharing your sarcastic disdain for this whole activity, and you're on your way.