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The Mandalorian sat down at the quiet bar, setting his blaster down on the wooden counter with a dull thud. If the bartender minded, he didn’t say anything. He glanced over at the high stools, then back towards the small child in your arms. Not trusting it to keep itself sitting up, the Mandalorian reached for the creature and set it gently atop the counter. You sat to his right, words fast and excited as you recounted the way the child babbled a few words in Galactic Basic the day before.
You may have been unaware of the stares you drew from the other patrons, mindlessly lost in the chatter of your own head, but the Mandalorian wasn’t. He saw the way the locals eyed your body up and down when you entered, and he didn’t like it. Not wanting any confrontation, he settled for placing a gloved hand on the small of your back, a silent warning. Hopefully, they got the message.
He did his best to appear interested as you talked, though he knew he wasn’t doing a very good job. The loose gap at the top of your shirt, revealing the bare skin of your shoulders, was far more interesting.
You had traveled together for almost a year and had been together for half that, but the Mandalorian still found himself floored whenever he remembered that you were his. He was yours, too. He’d been surprised you lasted as long as you did, but you were no fool. You’d helped him far more than he helped you, especially with the child. Kriff only knows where he would be without you at his side.
You stopped talking for a moment, looking at him with curious eyes when you noticed his silence.
“Everything alright?” you asked when he didn’t say anything.
Everything is perfect, he thought as he looked at you and the child. Everything is perfect.
Before he could answer, a noise drew your head to the entrance of the bar, where a group of rough-looking men entered, dragging in the ripe smell of sweat and alcohol as they slurred to each other. Run-down watering holes in the middle of nowhere didn’t exactly have high-profile clientele, and they seemed to take pleasure in making as much noise as possible.
You did your best to ignore them, turning back towards the Mandalorian and dragging your finger across the rim of your glass. When they sat near you, making the counter shake, you could see the Mandalorian’s shoulders tense up as his hand left your back to reach for his blaster. Lightly squeezing his bicep, you looked at the child out of the corner of your gaze and spoke quietly, trying not to draw attention.
“Hey,” Your voice was soft, placating. “It’s fine.”
He wanted to believe you, but decades of bar brawls and bounty hunting had made him skeptical. He’d knocked out one too many teeth to be optimistic at this point. Sighing, the Mandalorian looked towards the rabble, now haggling with the bartender and knocking back hard liquor, and moved away from the gun on the counter, trying his best not to do anything rash.
You could handle yourself, you’d proven that a thousand times over, but some small, ugly part of his instinct couldn’t help but rear its head when he noticed one of the men’s gazes shift to your chest. The Mandalorian didn’t say anything when the man smirked, eyes clouded with cheap drink, and turned to face you with a shitty pick-up line. You’d complained about being coddled by him before, so, for now, he wouldn’t do anything. It was getting damn hard, though, as he noticed how uncomfortable you were.
You only offered a passing glance at the man as he spoke, lewd and callous, but he proved to be relentless.
Breathe, the Mandalorian told himself, but the reminder only served to make it come out heavier through his helmet. A mantra repeated in vain as his vision spilled over with crimson. She can handle herself. She can handle herself. She can handle herself.
When the man’s hand drifted to settle at your thigh, however, whatever illusion of calm the Mandalorian attempted to cultivate had broken. Along with the man’s nose.
As he lifted the child up and led the pair of you out the bar, there was nothing subtle about his arm wrapped tightly around your waist. The Mandalorian barely even noticed the crowd gathering around the man lying on the ground, groaning weakly as blood pooled around his face.
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You smiled as you tucked the sleeping child into its crate, turning off the ship lights and making your way back to through the Razor Crest. When you neared your quarters, you were greeted with the Mandalorian’s back, bare and tanned as he reached to take off his shirt. His helmet had been shed hours ago, but his hair was still mussed when he reached to smooth it down, laying in his cot.
Stepping to climb in beside him, you moved close and reached to card your fingers through his hair, making it stick up even more. The cot was small. A bit too small for the both of you, if you were being honest, but that only gave you an excuse to press closer into the warmth of his chest. To feel his heartbeat against yours. To inhale the scent of leather on his skin.
“You know,” you said as you tucked your face into his neck, breathing deeply, “You really didn’t have to do that earlier.”
The Mandalorian hummed quietly and reached down to swing your legs over his, fingertips digging softly into the sides of your thighs.
“He was touching you,” he mumbled after a moment, mouthing at the side of your jaw, his lips hot and gentle.
You pulled his head back slightly to meet his eyes and scoffed, hands still wound in his hair.
“You broke his nose!” you protested, “Almost knocked him unconscious, too. We could have just left.”
He didn’t answer, choosing instead to tighten his grip around you and kiss your cheek, his eyes soft. You found yourself sighing, rolling your eyes with a smile as any anger dissipated with the feeling of his body against yours. You couldn’t stay mad at him for long. Not with the way he looked at you.
Letting your eyes shut, you moved your hands to rest at his shoulders, feeling the planes of muscle shift around your palms as he settled against your touch. He was warm in your grip and it only took a few moments for your breathing to even out, mind foggy and almost dreaming.
Before you could fall asleep, you felt the Mandalorian mumble an apology, his breath tickling your hair.
“I’m sorry.”
You sighed and smoothed your palms over his back, your nails scraping lightly over his shoulder blades.
“It’s fine,” you answered, and really, it was fine. Endearing, actually, how much he cared about you. Eyes still closed, you asked softly, “Just try not to do that kind of stuff in front of the kid, alright? Makes me nervous.”
He nodded and rested his hands at your waist, drawing you closer.
“Okay,” he whispered, his lips against your forehead.