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His helmet was both his sanctuary and his prison.
It had served him since he was but a child, orphaned and taken in, accepted and taught the Mandalorian ways. To never take his helmet off was the rock solid foundation of who he and his tribe were. He had never questioned it. This was the Way.
Even if in the old times it might have been different.
No. The old ways didn’t hold the power to shake him. Make him think of how it would be to walk without a helmet on a warm day and feel the gentle wind touch his face. Or look into her eyes without the barrier of the visor.
His ward compounded to the Mandalorian’s dilemma as well, he reflected as he passed the corridors of the Razor Crest, stepping into the cabin where the tiny, green child was currently sleeping. He approached the little one to make sure it was tucked in against the pervading cold of the ship. Gently, he straightened the blanket to cover the child up to its chin. Its face was peaceful. Trusting.
To sleep in the presence of someone meant trusting that someone with one’s life.
It were the mysterious workings of this tiny creature that had made a crack in his routine. That had pulled on the strings of his durasteel-encased heart. But the Mandalorian was powerless and didn’t even try to resist in that matter. He felt the compelling urge protect the child, make sure it was safe, sound and healthy. There was no other way.
There was another resident on his ship. And his feet were walking him to where she was most probably resting right now, and that was the engineering.
The Mandalorian descended the narrow, spiral staircase trying to make as little noise as possible and peeking over the rail, he saw that he had been correct. She was there, in the dimmed, greyish-blue lights of the engineering, lying on her side on the crates, wrapped in her cloak and curled into herself to preserve the warmth.
With careful steps, not raising a single dust particle, he approached her and tried to assess whether she was fast asleep or only on the verge of slumber.
Her breathing was steady and regular and the thermo vision showed temperature slightly lower than that of an awake human. She was in deep. Din noted that the cloak didn’t cover her form evenly. Her neck was splayed in front of him, with an easy access to the pulsing aorta.
She was handing him her life. She had come to trust him enough to not sleep with one eye open. And all Din wanted to do in that moment was to hear her breathing without the audio filter of his helmet.
That person who risked her life helping him protect the child, who generously shared her skills and abilities, who fearlessly went into battle. Who didn’t mind her injured arm and held tight the baby as the blaster fire was missing her by inches.
It was only the beskar that was the witness of Din reaching into the fittings of his helmet and unclasping them. Then, without a millisecond of doubt, he tugged on the helmet and took it off.
Cold air hit his lungs. Cold and smelling of oil and metal. It was the first time he would see her up close with his own eyes. Just for a little moment stolen from time itself. Din crouched by the crates to be on the same level with her, with his helmet held securely in his hands, and reminded himself to not hold his breath.
Even in the dim light of the engineering it was evident that his visor was not lying. She was beautiful. The lines of worry that had been etched into her face earlier today were gone and she appeared well-rested, younger. As if a girl.
Her chest was rising in slow, rhythmical intakes of breath, each exhale a feather-light sound. And Din was stretching his allowed time. No matter how long he looked and listened, he could not touch her. He needed to put his helmet back on right now.
But he would do just one little thing.
Carefully and this time holding his breath, he leaned into her exposed neck and when there was only a centimetre of the ship’s air between them, he inhaled deeply, his eyes shutting half-mast on their own accord.
She smelled of peaches and something flowery, violet. Like those tiny night flowers he once encountered on Ansion.
She was so close he could feel her radiating body heat.
Committing the scent to the memory, he rose in one fluid motion and without making a sound, put the helmet back on. Just as his hands were dropping to his sides, she stirred slightly, but didn’t open her eyes.
Well timed. A gift.
Without looking back, the Mandalorian returned to the cockpit.
He would not cave in to this urge. The tribe and the way were his foundation, his support. They assisted him when the child rescue operation turned into fodder. Without them, the kid would be back in the Imperial hands.
It was tempting to remove the helmet and let her hand touch his cheek. It was easy.
But there was work to be done. And a responsibility to uphold.
The Mandalorian checked the navigational charts and double-checked the controls. The autopilot was leading them safely. He could afford a nap, so he stretched his legs over the crate and closed his eyes. His eyelids closed heavily as ancient stone tombs and it seemed in that moment no power existed in the universe to make him open his eyes again.
The sleep overtook him in a flash.
He had a dream that was illegal to have. In that dream, he felt her soft hand touching his arm, caressing him and telling him something. She was looking earnestly into his eyes, her scent surrounding him and he felt that this was good. This was just as it should be.
Maybe one day.