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Corin hates the desert.
The sand, the suns, the endless stretches of nothing. The occasional skeleton or rotting carcass. The ever increasing chance of being robbed or murdered by some bandit or other, or eaten by the weird monsters that live in the dunes. And now he gets the lovely added bonus of enjoying the sweltering heat that comes with wearing full armour in temperatures high enough to melt flesh off bones.
He’s never been good with the heat (hence why he joined the snow troops), but there’s an extra sort of vicious irritation that comes with being stuck under the twin suns and watching someone else in the same position handle it well. Which is exactly what the Mandalorian is doing.
He’s in the same boat as Corin (iron armour, thick leather clothes, his helmet, and a fucking cape) but doing fine; or at least, if he’s as bad at handling heat as Corin is he’s hiding it much better. He strides ahead (no dewbacks or speeders, just weary feet), angling towards the town at the edge of the horizon. Corin’s not 100% certain that the town actually exists: under the suns it looks wobbly and grainy, like a mirage, and he thinks that they’re definitely tired enough to hallucinate. Corin knows for a fact that the Mandalorian hasn’t slept in over 24 hours, mainly because he’s been awake for that whole time too.
The cause of this (of course) is the tiny child strapped to his chest. Before they landed it had been enjoying a particularly long and harrowing game of hide and seek that began just after the fourteen hour mark of them being awake, and only ended when (after the Mandalorian had turned the ship around and flown half way back to the planet they had just left, thinking that they had abandoned it there on accident in his panic) Corin had found the Child sleeping at the bottom of the weapons cabinet nine hours later. All the excitement must have tired it out though, because it’s been sleeping ever since, and didn’t even wake up when they landed.
Of course, piloting a ship while running on such minimal energy has it’s problems. The Mandalorian had overshot how far they had to land outside the town, and because of the speed at which ships travel, they had ended up several hours journey away. And now they have to walk. In the suns. In the desert.
Corin can feel the beginnings of a headache coming on.
Caught up in his own thoughts and not looking in front of him, he doesn’t notice that the Mandalorian has stopped at the top of the dune’s crest to scan the area for threats. Corin keeps trudging along, cursing the sand that’s somehow made it into his shoes, and bumps into his back, nearly knocking them both over. The Mandalorian’s arm jumps out to steady them both, his hand circling Corin's wrist. There's a moments pause as they rebalance. As ridiculous as it sounds, Corin swears he can feel the heat of the Mandalorian's hand on his skin through the gloves, and his eyes stay fixed on where they're touching. Then time starts up again and he lets go and gives Corin one of those glares that he can just feel through the helmet, before carrying on into the valley without a word.
The child grunts slightly in it’s sleep, jostled by the collision, and then cracks weary eyes open to glare up at him accusingly. ‘You fucking woke me up’ the stare says. “Now you know how I feel.” Corin mutters back to it, and carries on. He stops again after a moment to apologise for being snappy. “The heat’s making me very irritable, but I don’t need to take that out on you.” He runs his fingertips along the edge of the child’s ears, and it hums happily. Corin smiles at the way it’s faces scrunches up as it settles.
His eyes catch on the water flask hanging from his waist, and he considers the fact that he’s walking with a small child through a hot desert, and it hasn’t had a drink in hours. He hurriedly detaches it, gently waking the Child back up again. “Hey, hey, sorry.” he whispers when it whines at him. “I know, I know you want to go to sleep, but you need to drink. Come on, we don’t want you getting heat stroke or anything.” He manages to get the Child to drink, pausing for a second so he doesn’t knock it and spill any water. And considering the fuss that the Child had made about waking up, it drains the whole flask once it starts drinking.
“Huh. Ok, there’s none for me now. That’s alright, I’m bigger than you so I don’t need it anyway. That’s how it works, right?” The child stares up at him with it’s big eyes and blinks, and Corin takes that as confirmation that he’s right. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Anyway, we can’t be more than an hour or two from the town now, I’ll have a drink when we get there.” They start walking again.
As the planet’s twin suns climb higher into the sky, Corin’s head starts to throb. He doesn’t stop walking for fear that he won’t start again if he does, but he squeezes his eyes shut in a desperate but futile attempt to block out the painfully bright light. It doesn’t work. When he brings his fingers up to pressure his temples, they feel papery and dry, like all the water in his body has been evapourated.
The Child coos, sounding upset, and Corin opens his eyes again to stare down at it. It’s head is cocked, expression concerned as it reaches up to pat his cheek with it’s tiny hand. He tries to smile at it, to reassure it that he’s fine, but all he can muster is a brief quirk of his mouth. “M’okay, kid. Just tired.” He takes a hold of it’s hand and carefully tucks it back into the sling before the Child can get any ideas about exhausting itself using it’s powers to cure something as trivial as fatigue.
He tries telling himself that the headache will go away if he keeps walking, but as they start the gentle climb on the next dune he can feel that his breathing is irregular, fast and shallow like he’s physically exerted. It’s sort of embarrassing; Corin is a soldier (and he’s in peak physical condition, thank you very much). Walking up some tiny hill shouldn’t be making his heart pump this fast, or his chest feel so tight. He tries to even it out, breathe deeper, but that just makes his head feel light. Then comes the final nail in his coffin.
Corin can feel his stomach tying itself in knots, the sensation of nausea odd after so long without being ill. Storm Troopers were kept in peak condition, and he hasn’t been unwell for so many years that he’s almost forgot what sickness feels like. The feeling unsettles him, and throws him enough that he stops walking, trying to banish the pain by pressing an arm over his abdomen. The Child makes another noise of distress, louder this time, and it catches the attention of the Mandalorian.
“What’s going on?” Corin hears him ask, and when he looks up he nearly falls over from surprise at their sudden proximity. The Mandalorian is standing awkwardly, head half-ducked to try and get on Corin’s eye-level but clearly uncomfortable at showing any outright sign of consideration. Corin shakes his head to try and get rid of the sudden dizziness, but when he tries to speak his words come out slurred and slow, like his tongue is weighed down. “Noth’n. Kids fine, m’fine. Need to keep goin’.”
The Mandalorian gives him one of those looks, something so pronounced about the way that he’s postured it’s almost as though Corin can see through the helmet and see him frowning. “Are you ok?” His voice is cautiously neutral, and Corin snorts. Ok? Of course he’s doing ok. “M’doing fine. M’great. Good. Good as a Gornt.” He says (which is a very convincing reply, if he does say so himself).
Another wave of light-headed washes over him as he speaks. Ok, maybe it’s a lie. But the Mandalorian doesn’t need to know, right? Like yeah, maybe his head feels like it’s been trampled by a herd of Bantha, and his skin is dry and hot, and his chest feels tight when he breathes like there isn’t enough oxygen, and he’s slurring his words, and he might throw up, and wow ok, there are big spots in front of his eyes now and his vision is going black and-
When Corin wakes up, he’s lying down.
He’s in a small room, on a bed by a window. There’s an empty cot by the door, a fan by his feet, and a cold flannel on his forehead and he’s- he’s fucking shirtless what the fuck? Where the hell even is he anyway? The last thing he remembers is the desert, the suns, the dryness of his skin and his desperate thirst giving way to darkness and-
A thought comes to him, making his breath catch and adrenaline spike. Where’s the Mandalorian? Where’s the Child?
He sits up sharply, and then winces at the sudden jab of pain he receives for his efforts. His whole body feels weak and weary, and as the flannel flops pathetically onto his lap he feels ridiculous. What the hell kind of Storm Trooper is he, getting sick and passing out and losing his- his-
What are the Mandalorian and the Child to him?
He’s loyal to them. He cares for them. Hell, he would travel to the ends of the Galaxy and then further if he was asked to for them. But he doesn’t have a name- he’s a tag-along, an outsider so generously allowed to stay with them, to look out for them, right? Right. And even if he had a choice, what would he even want them to be? (and he knows that answer, it springs to mind before he’s even finished thinking the question; but it’s unrealistic and painful and so he pushes it down, deep deep down. No point dwelling on things that will never be)
“What are you doing?” A voice cuts through his thoughts and the Mandalorian walks into the room, the Child curled in the crook of his left arm. And ok, that’s one weight of his chest. But then there’s a whole new issue, and it’s the Mandalorian freezing when he notices that Corin is no longer lying down, it’s the way he’s suddenly storming over, clearly angry though Corin doesn’t know what at, what he’s done wrong this time-
“Why are you sitting up? Are you stupid?” Corin can’t really process these questions because the Mandalorian has set the Child down at the edge of the bed (where it immediately makes a grab for the damp flannel), and now his hands are on Corin, on his bare chest, pushing him back down, strong but gentle. “Lie back, di’kut.” Corin can’t do much but comply, allowing himself to fall back against the pillow again.
The Mandalorian pries the flannel from the Child’s hands, hissing out words in Mando’a (it’s the most talkative the man has ever been, he notes). He pulls a bowl of ice water out from under the bed and submerges it, wrings it out, and folds it back over Corin’s forehead. He rearranges the linen blankets that are at the end of the bed, and then after a beat of consideration, pulls the thinnest one up over his legs.
The Mandalorian gets up briefly, walking over to a sideboard to pick up a cup of suspiciously neon blue water and a tiny white pill. He returns to kneel by the edge of the bed, placing both items down on the side table so he can pick up the kid (who had taken the opportunity of the Mandalorian turning his back to crawl up on top of Corin’s chest and pat the flannel incessantly) and put him in the cot.
“Here, take this.” He hands Corin the tablet, slides his free hand under Corin’s neck to help him lift his head without the flannel falling again. Corin feels it dissolve on his tongue, pulls a face at the bitter flavour, and gratefully accepts the offer of the suspicious too-blue-to-be-true drink to wash the taste away.
It’s simultaneously the most frustrated and the most caring the Mandalorian has ever been towards Corin, and it throws him off. He’s never seen him show affection towards anyone but the Child, if this forceful and angry attempt at nursing him back from his faint spell can be counted as affection.
“What is that shit?” He asks when he finishes it, finally finding his voice again. The Mandalorian places the glass back on the table, pulling his hand away from Corin (and he definitely doesn’t miss the touch) and standing up again. Corin doesn’t know why he’s moving around so much, sitting and standing and pacing when there’s so little space in the room to go. Why can’t he just keep still, it’s making Corin dizzy just watching.
“Muscle relaxant. Pain killer. Rehydrator. Sleep inducer.” Corin balks at sleep inducer. “What? What the fuck, I don’t needed to be knocked out, I’m fine.” He struggles to get back into an upright position, determined to prove to the Mandalorian that he’s in perfect health again. Unfortunately, that muscle relaxant has already started working, and his body is not in the mood to cooperate. He ends up wriggling aimlessly, proving nothing except that without muscles humans may as well be noodles. The Mandalorian places his hands once more on Corin, stopping his failing attempt. “Relax. I’m being serious, you need rest. You had heat stroke.”
This works in getting Corin’s attention. “What?” The Mandalorian sighs. “You’re not used to the heat, are you? You didn’t recognise the signs and pushed yourself too far as a result. The medic here said that there isn’t any serious damage, but you need to rest to recover.” Corin lies back, thinks this over. “Huh.”
There’s silence for a while after this. The Child starts fussing in it’s cot, clearly unamused with being shunted to the sidelines, and so the Mandalorian heads over to calm it. He starts speaking Mando’a again, so softly that Corin can’t discern seperate words. The light filtering through the window is gold, and wow was the room this blurry a minute ago? Corin realises that it’s probably the sleep inducer kicking in, but he’s so goddamn tired that he can’t bring himself to be disgruntled by it.
He yawns, see’s the Mandalorian look over to him. The suns shine on his beskar, and for a split second Corin thinks he can see the outline of the man’s jaw illuminated through the visor. It fascinates him; sometimes he gets so used to the armour that he forgets there’s a person underneath. Then he blinks, the light shifts and the Mandalorian turns back to the Child cradled in his arms.
Corin hates the desert, he’s working on a comprehensive list of reasons why. But there are other things in his life now, things he loves so much that sometimes he can forget about the sun. They outshine it anyway.