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The first time you land the Razor Crest, your hands are trembling like dead leaves shaking in the wind. The Mandalorian has showed you how to enter coordinates, which he gave to you based on a digital schematic of the planet Quanera. The landscape is fairly open, which you’re thankful for, as you don’t have to worry about landing on a sandbar or a cliff’s edge. You hold the controls steady as the ship thunders to a rumbling halt.
You hold your breath until the Mandalorian, who stands steady beside you, holding onto a latch above your head, hums, “Not bad.”
The pride you feel flushes in your cheeks, and you duck your head down, busying yourself with fussing over the small child’s robe. He’s perched in your lap, happily suckling on a necklace of an indiscernible shape. You wonder how he got it, now that you’re able to focus on something that isn’t the ship’s controls.
“Where did you get this?” you coo, brushing your thumb over the child’s cheek as he continues to nibble on the sterling silver pendant. His large, dark eyes blink owlishly at you, and it never fails to make you smile.
“Temperature’s on the cooler side. Looks overcast, too,” the Mandalorian mutters, and you feel his eyes on you even behind his helmet. “Come with me.”
Shouldering the child up in your arms, you rise from the pilot’s chair and carefully follow him out of the cockpit. He’s since turned on more lights, and though it’s still too dim to see as clearly as you’d prefer, you’re not in complete darkness. He turns down the narrow passageway to another room, and you hesitate at the threshold.
You hear the wrenched metallic sound of a locker being opened, a lot of shuffling, and then he returns and drapes a heavy cloak over your shoulders that nearly buckles your knees. The hem pools a bit on the ground, and you know that it’s his by that. And the scent.
Wobbling for a moment, his gloved hands cup your shoulders, and you reach one hand out to the beskar chest plate, grateful for the stability. Your eyes flicker along the gleam of the armor, your stomach fluttering when his hands seem to form to the top of your arms before quickly retracting.
“Should do for now,” he mutters, then turns on his heel and descends the ladder.
Blinking, you follow wordlessly, feeling lighter in spirit and physically more cumbersome at the same time. You draw the cloak around the child in your arms, protecting his ears as a cool wind blows into the hull of the ship while the hatch opens. The ramp lowers, and you bite your lip with excitement at finally being able to stretch and languish in the outdoors.
“Stay close,” the Mandalorian says sternly, and a small furrow bends your brow.
“Where else would I be?” you mutter as a reflex. Your eyes widen at the insolent edge to your voice, and the Mandalorian stares at you for a moment, seemingly just as surprised as you by your words. Where did that come from? “S-Sorry, I-”
And then, an unmistakable noise comes from his helmet: he snorts .
Your face turns completely red, and you press your face to the top of the child’s head, sinking your neck back into the cowl of the cloak. His voice is quiet and low when he speaks again. “Come on, then.”
Quanera isn’t freezing, nothing close to somewhere like the planet Hoth you’d heard was iced over, but it is cooler than all the other planets you’ve been to. You can feel it kissing your cheeks and the tips of your ears, but it doesn’t calm the drum beat of your pulse as your eyes drink up the landscape around you.
It’s so green. Green and grey, with splashes of purple and blue. You pause in your walking, kneeling down to touch one of the oily swirls of color in your vision. You feel the plump leaves, then the silky petals of a flower. It’s nothing but a watery, violet smear to you in the cloudiness of your sight, but you prick it up between two fingers, and the child in your arm coos in wonder as you pass it to him.
“What are you doing?”
The Mandalorian has stopped on the narrow dirt road, looking back at you with a curious tilt of his helmet. You grin when the child burbles in delight as you pluck another flower, this one blue.
“He likes flowers!” you say with excitement, fully sitting on your knees to shift the baby in your lap. This wasn’t just an exciting excursion for you, but it was for the baby as well. You planned on getting him something from town to help keep away his boredom, as the Mandalorian spoke of a market that sold all kinds of wares.
The child wrinkles his nose up after sniffing at the flowers, then sneezes adorably, sending a few purple petals flying up into the air.
Suddenly, the Mandalorian is hovering over both of you, and his voice is near a panic. “What’s wrong? Did he eat it? How do you know that’s not poisonous?”
You tilt your head up at his voice, raising your eyebrows. You have a small smirk on your face, unable to hide it. “No, he only sniffed it.”
The Mandalorian lifts the child from your arms, and the flowers slip from his small three fingered grip to land in the dirt. The warrior checks over the child with a fierce tenacity, and a small pinch of annoyance irks you.
“Do you think I’d really poison him?” you ask tersely, pushing yourself to stand up and dusting off your clothes. Your hands rest on your hips, feeling brave surrounded by wildflowers and overgrowth.
“Not on purpose,” huffs your employer, nearly an afterthought. He seems satisfied that once he’s checked over the child personally, finally looking towards you.
You draw in a breath, slow and steady, then let it out. You don’t recall having to tame your temper before, but for some reason, this tests your patience. Tapping your fingers at your hip, you straighten your back. “Poisonous flowers don’t have single leaflets,” you say slowly to prevent snapping. “They have three.”
The Mandalorian pauses, looking up at you in silence while the baby coos and reaches out a grabbing hand towards the ground where his flowers lay. You lean down and pluck two new ones, pressing them into the child’s fingers and pat his head.
“How do you know that?” he asks, guarded and wary.
“I read about it.”
“You can-?” He stops suddenly, his voice choking on the question.
“Yes,” you mutter, letting your arms fall. “I can read .” After a pause. “Can you?”
A heavy, strained silence hangs between you.
You step around him and continue down the dirt path, planting your feet with a little more force than necessary. The absolute chagrin in the form of a Mandalorian following behind you is akin to the clouds that hang in the sky overhead. You have no interest in appeasing him, either. You have one job, and that’s to keep the little one safe. He really thinks you would do something that would let harm come to the child?
It’s nearly an hour before your annoyance dissipates, and you let out a small sigh. The Mandalorian has matched you in stride, now walking beside you and still holding the baby in his arms like he’s afraid to let him go.
Perhaps...perhaps you were too hard on him, you think, touching the back of your neck. He was only worried about his child, after all. Could you blame him for putting his safety first? You think of your own father, so long ago, laughing as you played in dirt and ran barefoot and climbed trees. He had never seemed worried about you getting hurt, simply laughing at your foolhardy smile when you’d proudly present him with a mud pie or a shiny new river rock.
Would he still be alive if he had?
Would you be able to sleep through the night and not wear a scar on your neck if he had?
Tears clog your throat, and it’s all you can do to swallow them down.
The town you landed the Razor Crest near is a bustling, thriving community on the edge of a mineral deposit. Quanera is wealthy in its earth and soil, and it has made a name for itself as a trading post for being such a small planet. You follow silently behind the Mandalorian as he walks like a shadow through the marketplace, deeply inhaling the different scents of food, spices, and perfumes.
Weeks of being isolated on the Razor Crest gives you a hunger for the lively atmosphere. It’s different than the cantina. It’s not contained, like a pressure that builds into a headache. Instead, you find yourself listening to peoples’ conversations, peering into the different vendor stalls, and smiling at the sound of children laughing. With the renowned warrior walking ahead, you assume he’d either been here before, or it was something he saw all the time. He didn’t seem affected by anything around him, until he stepped up to a shop and turned to the side.
You blink, skidding to a stop, and he bows his head slightly at the open doors.
Oh. Oh .
You step in first, and only then the shadow of beskar follows you inside.
The shop smells antiseptic and seems chillier than the outdoor air. You shuffle next to him and listen as he speaks with the vendor about bacta kits, splints, and waterproof bandages. Your eyebrows raise with surprise, leaning closer to hear. It hadn’t occurred to you he’d need such extensive medical supplies, but now that you consider it, bounty hunting isn’t exactly for the faint of heart or the weak of body.
When your arm brushes his elbow, the child peeks around the gleaming pauldron to blink coquettishly at you. With a small hand, he offers his blue flower towards you that has lost most of its petals from how he insists on waving it about with triumph.
Smiling, you take the little bloom and tuck it in the soft fold of your dress’s neckline by your collar, and the baby coos in delight. The sound gives you the warmest feeling in your chest, and you’re suddenly struck with an intense realization that makes your face fall.
The Mandalorian has just put away his purchases in a pack slung over his shoulder when he seems to notice your disquiet. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice holding a worried edge.
“N-Nothing,” you say slowly. Your mouth suddenly feels dry, a violent red blush flaming your face. “I...I just…” The emotional peaks and valleys suddenly make sense, you think, and being around the medical supplies has only confirmed your suspicions. “I’d like to buy something here.”
“Oh.” His tone is nothing but surprise, and when you don’t elaborate, he tilts his head to the side.
“Could I have some privacy?” you whisper, ducking your gaze down. You’re grateful the vendor has moved down the counter to rearrange his stock that the Mandalorian has just emptied.
It only takes a moment for your employer to seemingly understand. “Of course,” he says with such a level politeness in his voice, you wonder at it. You expected awkwardness-as many men project on the subject-but he bows his helmet towards you with deference. “I’ll wait outside.”
You don’t move until you hear the door close, and you take a deep breath, moving down the counter to speak to the shopkeeper. Having never needed to discuss such a topic with someone before, especially a man and a stranger, you feel a little clumsy about it. Thankfully, the older, wizened voice puts you at ease. You tell yourself that this isn’t the first time he’s had this conversation, being a vendor of medical supplies. It once again makes you think of Kuiil.
“I have several options,” he says, tapping his fingers in thought on the counter. “But, if you’re traveling, you might find a cycle suppression more convenient.”
Chasing after a small child and living on a rather confined ship with limited privacy has given you an appreciation for convenience. You happily pay the credits for the small implant to be injected into your bicep, which he does with no trouble and a minimal discomfort. You find it ironic how grateful you are for the slight sting when you were so nervous about the transmitter being removed from your neck before.
When you exit the shop, feeling calmer and more collected, the Mandalorian is lounging against the wall, listening intently to the child babble up at him while he waves his flower with vigor. That familiar warmth in your belly returns, and you wonder if this emotion is your body’s fleeting hormonal responses, after all.
The Mandalorian straightens up as you approach. You fold your hands in front of you like you were taught as a handmaiden, a habit hard to break. He’s looking at you, and you give him a small smile of appreciation.
“I owe you an apology,” you say after a moment of silence, looking down at your hands. “I shouldn’t have-that is, before, on the road-”
“No. I-” He stops, tweaking the child’s ear fondly, busying his fingers. “I do- you know , trust you.”
The words meant more than anything, and you take a deep breath, feeling your lip tremble. You bite it. “Don’t stop worrying after him,” you murmur, stepping closer. You lay a hand over his glove where it holds the child’s tinier one. “He’ll never doubt you care for him, even if he fusses about it.”
The helmet tilts down to look at the little green baby waving the flower up at you, or, perhaps he’s looking at your hands. Either way, you step closer. “May I hold him now?” you ask softly.
“You-” his voice is thick, but you think he may be smiling. “You don’t have to ask.”
The child offers you his flower, just as before, and you take it with a little grin, gathering him in your arms. Thinking better of it than to pair it with the one you already wear, you step even closer-and you certainly hear the way the fearsome bounty hunter sucks in a breath through his modulator-and gently tuck the flower inside the bandolier across his chest.
The baby gurgles happily at this, and you giggle, shouldering him within the confines of your cloak so he’s kept warm. “Come on, let’s try to find you a toy,” you murmur with the most conspiratorial voice, walking off into the traffic of the market. It only takes a few moments for the Mandalorian to follow dutifully behind you, just as silent as ever. That’s where he remains as you purchase a few things from various vendors.
He is ever present yet not overbearing, and you can feel his gaze as you choose clothing items to replace your threadbare dress and robe. He silently pays for the stuffed bantha with crossed eyes and lopsided horns that you pluck up for the child, and he doesn’t question you when you buy leafs of paper and pencils. When you near the food stalls, he quietly picks out various items that you comment on that smell so good your mouth waters, and he only nods when you remind him to get extra of something because the child has a tendency towards things with bones.
“We should try to leave soon. It’ll be dark before we reach the Crest if we’re not careful,” he says, his voice low as he steps close enough that his chest plate brushes your shoulder.
You were in the middle of running your hand over a spine of a book, the raised curvatures and nodules telling you it was a book on sentientology. It was unique to find a braille bound book, and you were impressed the vendor still had it. Most were collector’s items, since they could not be transferred to datapads or digitalized formats. You already knew it was too expensive for you to afford, even if you envied its future owner, and you withdrew your hand.
“Will we leave immediately?” you ask, turning your face to look up at the sound of his voice. The child was beginning to fuss in your arms, and you lean down to press your lips to his forehead. It soothes him sufficiently for the time, and he nuzzles into your warmth.
“No.” The answer is roughened, and you hear the strain of leather when he flexes his fingers at his sides.
You nod, and you leave the stall with a polite thank you to the vendor. With two full packs, you and the Mandalorian navigate your way from the marketplace, and you only become aware of the presence of his hand on your lower back to guide you when you leave the town’s bustle behind you.
Your cheeks warm, even as the air grows cooler from the sun sinking in the sky, but you just bury your face between the child’s ears and walk quietly beside the bounty hunter.
When a light mist begins to coat the air with sweet rain, that hand on your back draws the hood of the cloak up over the crown of your head, and that’s when you stop, pausing to turn your face toward him.
Immediately, his hand jerks away like he’s been burned by your very gaze.
You open your mouth to speak, but before you can, he does.
“I do trust you,” the Mandalorian says, echoing his words from before, and you feel your heart stumble in its pace to quicken. The child sleeps against your chest, but he doesn't seem to notice the sudden change in rhythm. The Mandalorian shifts, his boots scuffing in the dirt against tiny stones. “With him. I’m-from before, I didn’t mean-
When your hand slips in the crook of his elbow, you’re very aware of the soft curves of muscle tensing beneath your fingers under the dark fabric of his clothing. “I know that,” you murmur, ducking your head a little, both to hide your blush and to keep the mist from the child’s sleeping face.
The Mandalorian stands in the middle of the road, dumbfounded by this gentle confession. When he doesn’t move, you glance up out of the corner of your pale eyes. “Shouldn’t we go?” you ask, squeezing his arm gently and leaning into him. You wonder what he’s thinking when he does this, loses himself in hesitancy and roots himself to the ground like an irontree.
Finally, you feel him jerk his head in a nod. “Y-Yes.”
Your footsteps sound as one as you lean into his side, keeping your eyes closed and letting him guide you back to the Razor Crest. You can’t make out much of the landscape in the watery sunset, but you listen to the sounds of evening insects singing songs and taste the petrichor rising from the surrounding fields. You don’t need to see the way back to feel surefooted, and you wonder if he knows your hand on his arm mirrors his own confession.
I trust you, too.