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Weeks spent in the cold cavern of the Razor Crest sometimes offered disassociation with certain things of the natural world. The air was stiff and recycled. The walls and floors were made of unforgivable metal that often made your legs and feet sore the first few weeks aboard, since your shoes weren’t exactly made for it. The worst was the darkness. Even with the glow of power ever present beneath buttons and switches, you felt your head begin to ache trying to decipher the shapes and shadows beyond the pale, unseeing veil of blindness.
Most beings thought being blind meant total darkness, but that wasn’t the case. You could make out certain shapes of things, shifts in patterns of light. Colors even bled through, if the sun shone bright enough. Sunshine afforded you shades and shadows, but the Razor Crest seemed to take your advantages and left you utterly frustrated with the dark.
So, when you woke up to a strange, cool breeze kissing your face, you wiggled your toes beneath the threadbare blanket and took a deep breath. It wasn’t the stale air of the stars, but something almost sweet. As your mind began to come alive, you became aware of the silence that missed the dull hum of engines.
Then, as you listened, you could hear the baby gurgling a little ways away, and you pushed yourself up. Pulling your soft soled boots onto your feet, you ignored pulling your outer robes on, content with the linen dress that gave you a bit of layering against the lower temperatures, because this cool breeze wasn’t just cool. It had a strange warmth to it, too, and a fresh feeling that swept up your legs and arms and made you think of bright water and clear skies.
Moving out of your quarters, you held a hand out against the rough, metal wall, and you followed the breeze as it grew stronger. The sounds of the child, now babbling, also grew louder. You’d surmised the ship was docked, but where the ship actually was, you hadn’t the first idea.
Coming into the hull, the breeze was practically airing out the heart and belly of the Razor Crest, and you couldn’t keep the sigh from your lips. The ramp had been lowered, because you could make out bright, shining sunlight reflecting off of it and illuminating the hull. Against the light, there was a shape lower to the ground, and it shifted towards you.
“Good morning.”
You kept your voice low by reflex, the hoarse tinge of your own tone undeniable. As you moved forward, you reached out to the threshold of the door, lowering yourself to sit next to the Mandalorian warrior you traveled with. Normally, neither of you spoke much, but neither of you were impolite, either. The air was so easy to breathe here, you couldn’t help yourself as you settled comfortably onto the floor, taking in the breeze.
You felt the Mandalorian shift again, and when he spoke, his voice was directed towards you, his own tone even and quiet. “Good morning.”
The baby gurgled happily, and you could nearly make out the tint of green in the sun, the small misshapen shape of the child tumbling from the darker shadow of its father and waddling towards you. It fell into your lap with a delighted coo, and you grinned, lifting your hands to gently stroke the long, petal shaped ears through your fingers. “Hello, there.”
The three of you sat in companionable silence, and you found your eyes closing in relief. It had been weeks since you’d been to a temperate climate, and one as peaceful as this. The warmth of the sun and the cool breeze mingled on your skin, rinsing your neck of perspiration from the night. You could hear animals somewhere in the distance, birds singing to each other.
Then, another sound, something you hadn’t heard in a long, long time as you paid close attention.
“Is that water?” you ask, tilting your head towards your silent employer. You can hear lapping, the sound of sloshing. It’s unmistakable, and your skin suddenly blooms with goosebumps.
There’s a shift in fabric, and he replies, “Yes.”
You can tell when the Mandalorian turns his head to you. He always does, when he’s speaking with you. It makes you feel warm to know he still maintains eye contact with you, even though you couldn’t make out his eyes even if you weren’t blind. It’s polite , in a way that you hadn’t realized you missed until you met him. Every time he does it, your heart seems to press itself against your breast.
“A river or a lake?”
“A stream, I think. Haven’t been out to check, but it’s not far.”
The child shifts in your arms, and you realize you’d lapsed in petting his ears. You return to the task, and he coos before settling again. The tranquility that blankets the three of you is remarkable, considering what a chaotic void of distress you’d come through to get here. A balancing act between security, shelter, and sustenance, and that’s simple survival. You know there are grasping hands in the dark, frigid reaches of the world wanting the little one you cradle in your lap. You don’t bother asking if where you are is safe, because you know the Mandalorian wouldn’t have chosen anything less without being on complete guard. You don’t question if you’re alone, or if you’re secure in supplies.
For now, it seems that those things can wait...just a little while. Just this once.
Without prelude, you push yourself up to stand with one hand, and you can feel the shadow ever present beside you shift. It dawns on you, as you lift the child more firmly against you, that he must expect you to fall more than you do. He himself isn’t the most graceful, you consider, and it almost makes you smile to think of how many times you’ve heard him curse under his breath if he bumps his head or smacks his side into something.
He never asks if you need help, though, and you are grateful for the allowance of asking for help yourself. You step down onto the ramp, smiling when the baby starts to wiggle in excitement.
“Where are you going?”
You pause at the bottom of the ramp, testing the earth beneath you. It’s soft-far softer than the metal flooring you’re used to padding around on. Rather than underbrush and brambles, you’re met with gentle grass. You turn towards his voice and tilt your head.
“To find the stream.” You consider his hesitation, knowing he’s regarding you and the child with no small amount of apprehension. It hangs around him like a gloom, something he masticates on without ever voicing. Perhaps he’s nervous you will trip and fall. Perhaps he’s scared the stream’s current will sweep the baby away if you drop the little one. You have to bite your cheek to keep from smiling at the notion. “Would you like to come with us?”
The Mandalorian doesn’t answer with words, simply rising to his feet with less clamor than you expect from a fully armored warrior, and he descends the ramp to follow your steps faithfully. You wait until he’s beside you, and the sound of his boots on the grass is nice. A laugh bubbles out of you, though, when he quickly passes you.
“Don’t you ever go slow?”
He freezes ahead, a dark shadow against the sunlight, and you make him wait as you walk until you’re standing side by side. You relish the grass under your soles and the fresh air running through your hair. Your thin dress flutters around your ankles, and you move the baby into your other arm.
“Not really,” comes the answering huff.
Your smile widens, and with caution, you gently slip your hand in the crook of his elbow-beneath his pauldron and above vambrace. You feel his whole body go tense, and you pause, inclining your head up towards his shifting darkness in your periphery.
“Is this alright?” you ask, gently holding on as you start walking again.
He must nod, or perhaps he just doesn’t deign to answer at all, because the silence falls back over you. You notice his pace seemed forced into submission, and you hide your smile at the stiffness in his side. It’s as if he’s concentrating on walking with you rather than on the destination for once, and you think he must feel utterly uncomfortable.
The little one seems happy to be carried until the stream’s current sings louder in your ears. You crest a small slope, making out the sun glancing off the water, and the child wriggles and fights your hold.
“Alright,” you laugh softly, gently lowering him down to the grass. The baby begins toddling away, and you can’t quite make out the distinction of the green child against the grass. You can see a shape moving in front of you, small and stocky, though, and you know he can’t go too far too quickly. Your hand slips from your companion’s elbow, and you walk forward, trailing after the little one and placing your hand on a tree. The rough bark beneath your palm is coarse and unforgiving, and you savor it.
“Don’t go far,” the Mandalorian murmurs. You’re not sure if he’s talking to you or the child.
You spend what feels like hours languishing by the stream, dipping your naked feet in after shucking your boots. The stream isn’t deep enough for anything other than to get your ankles wet, and when you hear the child coo from behind you, you feel mischievous. Kneeling down with the hand not holding your dress, you scoop up some water and flick it in his direction, earning a delighted squeal.
You feel leaves, smell flowers, and even nibble on a blade of grass. It’s tart and sweet at the same time, and you feel the baby beside you tugging on your sleeve. Smirking, you grab a blade and let him chew on it before he promptly hacks and spits it out.
A sudden chuckle from behind you makes you perk, and you turn towards the Mandalorian. He’s seated himself beneath the same tree you’d touched before, some feet back from the stream. The modulator of his helmet roughens the sound of his laughter, and you think without it, the sound must be very rich and deep.
Curiously, you move from your knees and follow the path of light where it begins to disappear in the shade. Your leg bumps his boot, and he scoots it away from you as you settle near his knee.
The child follows, flanking his surrogate father on the opposite side until he flops over into his lap with a gurgle. You’re content to sit near them both, legs curled beside you as you drink in the sun and the air and the sounds of cool bubbling water.
“H-Hey, don’t,” The Mandalorian huffs, and you turn your head lazily towards his voice. It’s harder to see in the shade, but you smile at the little babbles coming from the child as he shuffles away in the grass. The beskar clad shade shifts, reaching for the small creature, but the following ‘oof’ makes you laugh when he falls over. “Come back here!”
“Lost him?”
“He took my glove.”
“Imagine, the greatest bounty hunter of the guild, distracted and outwitted by a child.”
You could hear the baby making off with his treasure, mouthing nonsense to the frogs of the streamside as he shuffled through the grass. He’d grown into a habit of holding onto things lately. The Mandalorian’s glove was just the newest casualty, it seemed.
“He wasn’t the one distracting me.”
A shiver works its way up your back when the weight of the words settle around your shoulders. You turn towards his voice, blinking as if you might be able to bat away the pale veils clouding your sight. You lean away from his leg, tucking your chin to your chest and frowning, trying to think of what you might have done wrong.
Suddenly, he moves forward, and you stop and hold your breath.
“Don’t go.”
His hand is touching your arm, warm skin against the bare expanse your sleeve affords at your wrist. Your face slowly becomes warm at the feeling of skin-his skin against yours, thanks to his glove thief. But he doesn’t move, and neither do you. His thumb traces along the veins that lead towards your palm, and you swallow, feeling calluses against your own softness.
What you do next would have consequences, but drunk on fresh air, you do it anyway.
You shift closer, moving slowly. His hand doesn’t leave you, and you can feel his eyes from somewhere beneath that dark and shined steel watching you as you lower yourself back. Your head pillows itself comfortably upon his beskar cuisse, your neck warmed from your hair that was heated by the sun. The cool of the steel feels invigorating, and you let your eyes flutter closed. Your hands fall easily to your stomach, legs curling in repose, and you let your arm relax in his hold until he lets go.
For a long while, there are no noises other than the baby cooing to the frogs and the stream sloshing its current over mossy rocks. You begin to wonder if you should not have asked permission to be so close. You had never touched him without asking, whether it be to help remove his armor after a fight or pardoning yourself to move past him in cramped quarters. The uncertainty sits sourly in your belly, even as you begin to sink further into the grass, further against his thigh.
Before you can open your mouth to voice your concern, a titillating sensation draws a gasp from you. At first you think the child has sneaked his way back, returning for more bounty of his own, and has fallen into his guardian’s lap again-and subsequently, on your hair. But, the movements are too gentle, the rhythm too patient, and your breath leaves your lungs as you realize he’s stroking your hair that lays across his lap like a banner with his bare hand.
You let out a long, soft exhale and lay contentedly as the sun shifts above, bleeding through the leaves of the trees to dapple golden light across you. The peace that follows as you drift somewhere between dreaming and wakefulness is only mildly disturbed when he withdraws his hand for a moment. You hear the quiet rustle of fabric, the sing of metal as it brushes the grass, and you find yourself smiling as you lay next to the Mandalorian’s helmet.
It’s after that, he continues to stroke your hair.