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There was a saying you had heard once in your childhood about a way to categorize people. Something about a cup that's half full or half empty? Optimists and Pessimists? You'd really like to think of yourself as the former but even you couldn't deny that this was bad. Very bad.
Injuries were far from uncommon between the two of you what with the state of the galaxy and the type of life the Maker has decided you fit in, you both have had your fair share of scrapes, bruises, and cracked ribs. But it's never mattered much to you. You had him to reach the places on yourself you had trouble getting to and he had you to patch up the holes he didn't fully know how to fill himself. So this shouldn't have been an issue. Except it was. Because as much as you adore your Mandalorian, he's incredibly heavy in all his armored glory, which is now streaked down the back in a trail of blood, and you're almost positive he isn't breathing. You couldn't even joke or tease as usual. Tell him "I told you so, shiny" like you usually do, all in jest because he truly was a great judge of character and could sense a bad feeling from a mile away, but you loved to get under his Beskar and he let you stay there.
There wasn't a chance for that now. Not when you've got a whimpering child clinging to your shoulders on your back and dragging Mando with the best balance of urgency and care as you could back to your home. Your shortness of breath and the pain in your body is the least of your concerns, especially when you see the Razor Crest finally coming in to view. It felt like it's taken hours to get back and the thought has you breathing even heavier. Are you too late? Is he even alive? Maker knows you should have been checking along the way but your tunnel vision was so focused everything else around you seemed to blur into shadows and shapes.
Dragging him up the ramp was no walk in a field either. At least before you had an even surface to pull him along, him getting tugged on the occasional rock and you always muttering a tiny whisper of apology to him. Back in the familiar atmosphere of home alleviated your nerves only slightly, but you'd take any comfort you could at this point and lied him down on the ground with a tenderness that felt like you were treating a wounded baby animal. The thought, for some reason, makes you well up. With the same tenderness you checked every part of his body making sure no wounds were too deep and not bones were out of place. In the process, you began to remove his armor as delicately as you could manage. Being a partner to the Mandalorian required you to pick up on some of his culture, and it certainly wasn't beyond you how his Beskar was meant to be treated with care when absent from battle. His weapon belt was next. The blades and blasters were an extension of him. As was his helmet.
His helmet.
You felt your throat start to tighten, closing in on itself making your chest burn bright and your eyes sting even more. While taking off his pauldrons you felt even more of the blood running down his neck. Hands warm and red and sticky were now shaking more than they ever had before. You knew what choice you had to make. He told you of the time an IG unit saved his life and the loophole that was able to aid in that. But that droid wasn't here. You were. And you knew you needed to save the life of the man who had saved yours in every way imaginable. You knew if you let him die something in you would break so violently that you would cease to exist right along with him. So, you acted. In a frantic motion you ripped a strip of cloth off the bottom of your ruined tunic that was practically hanging off your body at this point and tied the bloody rag around your eyes. You really tried to ignore the way Din's blood left a smear on your cheeks in the process. And, for the very first time in all the months you've known him, you took of his helmet and placed it on the floor like it was made of glass.
The absence of his helmet and armor made him significantly lighter and with a less of a struggle you maneuvered his head and shoulders onto your lap so you could start applying the bacta spray where you blindly felt the gash at the bottom of his skull pour the most blood. When all was said and done and you felt satisfied with the amount of coverage the medicine provided and his pulse read more steady underneath your fingertips, you exhaled. It was impossible to ignore how warm he felt on top of your thighs. The desire to lift your blindfold left a deep pit of guilt in your stomach. You respected him too much to even entertain the idea, it made you sick. But you let yourself a small luxury and started to comb your fingers through his hair. Longer than you expected, but surprisingly soft. Silently you wondered if he was starting to show any grey hairs. It would suit him. The fact he was unconscious during this whole charade helped greatly, but there was no telling what would happen if-when-he finally woke up. Would he be calm? Not likely. Furious? Sounds a bit more like him. Before you could play out another fantasy in your head, you felt your head being yanked back by your hair in a death grip with a knife at your throat.
You sometimes wish you didn't know him so well.
The only indication of his consciousness is a near feral growl and his breath on your face. And while you didn't blame him for the abrupt action, you were terrified and even underneath your eye covering you could feel the tears trying to escape. The thought dawned on you suddenly that upon waking he might not have realized it was you who was with him.
"Stop, it's me! Din, it's me!" You whimpered.
"You-"
"I promise I didn't see you, I put the blindfold on first! I'd n-never ever do that to you, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, you were dying, I could feel it and I panicked and I didn't know what to do but I just couldn't let you die, I couldn't let you d-die."
He drops the knife from your throat like it burned him, horrified. He could clearly see you were too. The hand that nearly sliced your throat open is now pulling you to his chest in the tightest embrace you've ever felt. It was nearing on uncomfortable with his strength but to feel his lungs fill with air and his heart beating steady and strong against your ear gave you such relief all you could do now was let yourself fall into his body like a ragdoll.
"It's alright, I belive you. Calm down now. Can you breathe for me? You can do that for me can't you?" You nod, though it's hardly convincing with how much you're shaking. And you know you should be checking his wounds now that he’s alive to the world but you feel frozen in place. And his fingers are running through your hair in the way he knows calms you and that just makes you want to move in even closer to his warmth.
"I promise I didn't see a thing. Not even a lock of hair. I would never-" and he stops your nervous rambling again with a finger under your chin, tilting your head up to look into where you believe his eyes would be. You feel his breath on your face again and you realize now just how close the two of you are to each other. You don't mind it. And as much as he wanted to, now was not the time to kiss you, so he allowed his forehead to rest against yours.
"I know, mesh'la. Thank you." He whispered.
"You don't thank me for that. I'm always going to save you. Just...please don't do that again."
He couldn't help but laugh a little at your fierceness, not to be taken lightly. Your care for him has wedged something deep into his heart. A heart full of fondness for you. "No promises, but i'll try my best."
It's enough for now. It has to be.