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When the three of you make it back to the Razor Crest, the Mandalorian disappears into the depths of the ship’s innerworkings, as if he has had enough of rest and sunlight. It makes you smile, listening to him tinker and work on the panels beneath your feet. You’re pleasantly drowsy from your time outside in the fresh air, but you don’t want to waste it. You take the time to wash some of the clothing that has been soiled over the weeks by sweat, sand, and blood, even though the Mandalorian insists you needn’t take care of him. Nearby, the child babbles happily to his stuffed bantha toy, hugging it every now and then and falling over from his tenacity to show it love.
As you hang the clothing to dry over several hooks inside the refresher, a thought occurs to you that the Mandalorian brought you and the child here for more than just some fresh air, because it is the first time since Tatooine that you had not woken up from unpleasant dreams. Your fingers are pruned from the soapy water, but you touch your lips as you smile, feeling a gentle warmth fill you from the inside out. You have never been taken care of before, and the realization makes you oddly unbalanced. Lightened.
You occupy yourself with taking the last bit of fabric from one of the bolts you’ve been gifted, sitting just inside the hull’s bunk so you can keep an eye on the child as you cut, sew, and hem. The cloth is a lovely shade of wintry lavender, and you lose yourself in the familiar motions of making stitches. Ever since the bounty hunter had turned the control lights on for you in the cockpit, you notice there were more lights on everywhere in the ship.
The Mandalorian shows himself after a while, quietly scooping up the child with a nod in your direction before disappearing once again. There’s a humble peace on the ship, on this planet, that your heart sings to, a deep comfort you’ve never felt. You catch yourself falling into daydreams throughout the late afternoon, making a slow work of the pattern you’re working on.
You only realize you’ve been sitting in the same position for hours when the chill in the night echoes through the open hatch, making you shiver. The sun has gone down, and as you stand to stretch, you catch the scent of woodsmoke and follow it outside.
A few feet from the ramp, there’s a vermillion glow of flames snapping and sparking in the air, and you hear the Mandalorian speaking softly to the child. The smell of burning wood and seasoning fills the air, and the closer you get, the warmer you feel. He turns his visor up as you carefully step through the soft grass, and he stands up when you’re close enough.
Politely, he holds out his hand, and you take it, letting him help you sit on the hefty fallen log he’s rolled over. You’d seen the Moff do this for his wife many a time, and it causes a fluttering in your belly. Your voice is a touch raspy when you say, “Thank you.”
He nods his head, kneeling back to the fire where he’s created skewers to roast the last of the meat you’d bought on Quanera. The child toddles up to your ankles, huffing with the exertion of running this way and that way, and you smile as he falls into your legs. He looks up at you and coos happily when you reach down to pick him up.
“Hello, little one,” you murmur, kissing his tiny nose and letting him pat your eyes affectionately. You set him in your lap, gently taking the metal ball he offers you with pride. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were out here. I could have helped with dinner.”
“It’s no trouble,” the Mandalorian says, and you can tell he’s smiling beneath the beskar. You remember feeling the cool metal of his helmet resting beside you when you’d fallen asleep in his lap, and a blush heats your cheeks. Creeping embarrassment threatens to silence you, but you fight it down.
“I want to do my part,” you say softly, watching as he moves the skewers so the meat cooks evenly. You can smell seasoning in the air, and your mouth begins to water. “I have never not been useful in some way.”
The Mandalorian is kneeling in the soft dirt, and when he inclines his helmet towards you, the fire dances on his beskar. “You do more than you know.”
You duck your head, hoping the heat in your face doesn’t quite show in the dark, and you pet the child’s forehead with gentle strokes. He leans back against you with a contented sigh, tilting his head to gaze upward with large, blinking eyes. You notice the pendant he’s suckling on once again, and you laugh. “What is this? I never see him without it.”
The Mandalorian moves to sit back on the ground, his pauldron brushing the side of your leg. He draws one knee up, leaning an arm lazily against his leg, and you think you’ve never seen him so relaxed. Perhaps he needed this planet’s fresh air and sunlight as much as you did.
“It’s mine. I gave it to him.” He turns his visor to you, watching as you gently extract the pendant from the baby’s fingers. There’s a quiet moment as you inspect it with your fingers, tracing the shape of horns or tusks, biting your lip in concentration. “If you…”
Your eyes are drawn to him, noticing he’s turned his head away now. “Yes?”
There is something he’s struggling with, you think, watching his fingers roll and flex in the air where his arm is perched against his knee. Weeks ago, even days ago, you may have hesitated to reach out, but now you don’t. It’s second nature to lay your hand softly against the warm fabric where his shoulder and neck meet, gently imploring him. What’s even more surprising is he doesn’t pull away.
A decision is made when his fingers curl into a fist, and he shifts to face you. His gloved hand closes over your hand that holds the necklace. “You need to listen to me carefully.” You frown, tilting your head as he tightens his fingers. “If something happens to me, and I can’t protect you-”
“No!” Your voice is so sharp and sudden the baby jumps in your lap, looking between the both of you with a worried pucker of his brow. You clutch him against your belly with one hand, the other tightening in the Mandalorian’s grip. Your heart is just beneath your jaw now, thundering away. “Don’t say that.”
“This is important,” he murmurs, taking a deep breath before saying your name so softly that it isn’t picked up by the modulator. “Please. If something happens, and I am not able to go on, you need to take the child and this to Nevarro.”
“I-I don’t know where that is,” you whisper, feeling your eyes begin to sting. It is not from the woodsmoke.
“It’s logged into the navigation system. I’ll show you,” he says quickly, all in one breath as if he’s working to get through this. As if he can’t bear it, but he must. “There is a covert of Mandalorian warriors there, the Tribe. They will take care of you and the child.” He pauses, his fingers tightening even more over your hand until the horns of the pendant begin to dig into your palm. “Trust no one else.”
“I thought…” Your mouth closes and opens several times, trying desperately to gather yourself. Why was your heart aching as if tragedy had already befallen you? You blink hard, shaking your head. “I thought that your people were kept to their code and themselves. I am not a Mandalorian.”
The warrior at your feet grew still, considering your words. He releases your fingers so that he can cup the bottom of your hand, tender and gentle. “We are beholden to our clans. This proves to them you are that.”
Your heart flutters, and you tilt your head down at the baby before glancing toward him from under your lashes. “We’re your clan?” you ask, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. The Mandalorian nods once, careful and guarded, and you take the pendant slowly back, giving it to the baby. His little hands grab at it happily. “I’ve never been a part of a clan before,” you whisper, petting the thin baby hair back from the child’s brow and kissing him.
The Mandalorian watches you and the child for a long time, you stroking his ears and the little one nibbling at the pendant. He says nothing more on the subject of clans and codes, turning away after a little while to retrieve the food from the fire. He gently takes the child in his lap, handing you a cloth with the food carefully prepared, and begins feeding the child.
The silence, save for the snapping of the fire, is sweet. You nibble at the meat, spices and seasoning dancing on your tongue, and you make a joyful sound, eyebrows lifting. “This is-what is this?” you ask in wonder.
“There is not a word for it that I know of,” he says thoughtfully. “The Mando’a call the taste heturam . We prefer a burning, spicy flavor when it comes to food.” His patient tone makes your stomach feel light. You watch as he feeds the child a small bite, and you tilt your head.
“Over everything? Salty or sweet, even?” you ask curiously, chewing carefully and considering the flavors. It is a myriad of different seasonings mixed together, and you want to ask where he acquired it. Did he eat it as a child? He must have, you think, watching the little one smack his small bites with joy.
His visor tilts up, casting a bright red gleam from the fire. “N-No,” he says, his baritone pitching oddly low. “I like...sweet.”
You both stare at each other for a long moment, heat blooming in your cheeks and in your breast. Your food is forgotten about, noticing the light moving over his chestplate where his breath rises and falls a little faster than before. You want to say something, but there is something else being said in the quiet. You aren’t sure how to stop it.
Or if you want to.
The child decides for you, tugging at the Mandalorian’s glove with a whimper. He does a double take down at the little one, letting out a deep sigh and picking up more food to help him eat.
The heat you feel takes a long while to dissipate, and you finish eating by the time you trust your voice again. You gather the cloth up carefully, cleaning your hands and deciding to wash them later. The bounty hunter cleans the child’s face carefully with his own rag, against the little one’s huffing and turning his head away from the motions. Eventually he escapes the fussing to toddle across the short distance to you, grabbing upward with his hands. The Mandalorian sighs loudly, but fondly.
You reach your hands out to him, trying to listen and feel for the tiny creature since it’s harder for you to make him out in the darkness. Tiny, three fingered hands grasp yours, and you smile when you lift him up into your lap as if he belongs there. The child pats your own hand, playing with your fingers for a while before putting his little palm against yours. The Mandalorian has told you the bizarre circumstances in which he’d found him, how his age seems confusing and his species even moreso. Now, listening to the little child coo and bring your slim hand to his face like a pillow, you need to know more.
“Why did you choose me?”
The Mandalorian’s helmet tilts upward, as if you’ve drawn him from a deep reverie as he’d been watching the child. Your eyes are cast just to the side of his armor, between his form and the fire, feeling heat unfurl in your face again, but this was different. It was something that almost hurt you to ask for a reason you couldn’t figure out. What had been the key to your freedom? What had made him feel merciful, charitable enough?
“What do you mean?” he asks, voice raspy and low. He knows exactly what you are asking, but you take a deep breath against the rattling in your lungs.
“I mean,” you murmur, slowly, curling your fingers against the baby’s cheek with all the affection you’ve ever known. “That you...you’ve said you couldn’t kill the child when you found him. You chose to bring him with you because he needed a protector.” He tilts his head backward a little, and you hear him sigh deeply. “That you felt a connection with him. So...why me?”
There’s a long pause before he turns his helmet away towards the fire. “I needed child care.”
Your lips purse, and you know he’s smirking under his helmet. “That’s not what I asked. Stick to bounty hunting, Mandalorian. Comedy is not your strength.”
The Mandalorian heaves another sigh, pushing himself up from the dirt. He begins to clean the area, gathering the utensils he used to cook with. You suspect he won’t be entertaining your whimsy tonight on this subject. Neither of you were exactly given to reminisce, save for that night days before when you’d knelt between his boots, letting him touch your face.
What had been different then?
He’s holding a skewer between his hands, wiping it off with a cloth. He closes the distance between you, lowering himself until he sits beside you on the log, your legs pressed together, boots side by side. “My...the Mando’a who took me in as a foundling saved me from being killed by a battle droid during the Fall of the Republic,” he murmurs, drawing shapes in the dirt with the skewer. He will not look at you, so you lean close to make sure you don’t miss anything he says. “I was not with him long.” He sighs again, so bone-deep and weary that your heart aches at the sound. “When I follow the way of the things he taught me, though, they are the only moments in my life I am proud of.”
You swallow audibly, too timid by the gravity of this moment to do more than whisper. “When you found the child.”
He nods, looking down at the infant in your arms. He reaches over, holding out his index finger. The baby doesn’t hesitate to grasp it with both hands, giggling and kicking his feet. “And when I took him with me. Gar taldin ni jaonyc; gar sa buir, ori'wadaas'la .”
Your curiosity burns brighter than a star, but you force yourself not to rush, not to clamor. It takes all the strength you possess. “And what came to mind, when we met?”
You held your breath when his visor tilted towards your face, and you could see it from the firelight dancing across the shape it made. “Nothing.”
Staring at each other, you could only hear your heartbeat thundering blood in your ears. “N-Nothing?”
“I realized…” The Mandalorian looks at the fire now, his voice so quiet it’s almost crackling through the modulator. “Watching you kneel in glass and risk what little you had to protect someone else, I had no words for that in any language.” He looks back at you now, and his leather glove leaves the child’s to rest over your own. “I had never seen that before.”
The weight of his humbling words forces your head down, eyes closing in the stillness. You desperately try to find something to say, something of equal worth to give him for this precious confession that you’ll take with you the rest of your life. Instead, a curled leather clad finger tilts your chin up, and you open your eyes again to find him even closer than before. “I would like…” his voice is so low now, you can hardly make out the words, even as he leans his helmet closer towards you, even as his trembling fingers draw your face nearer. His other hand cups the child’s small face, and you can feel the smooth, cold beskar brush your cheek. “I would like my children to know what that is like.”
Your breath arrests itself in your lungs, and you think, idly, caught between feeling everything and only the beating of your heart, that this is a cruel way for your life to turn. You had never wanted, never wished to be able to see so badly before, to be able to look into another’s eyes. The aching, deepened kindness he offers like a sworn sword to a mistress is there for the taking, and you are close to trembling from how badly you want it to be yours.
The child in your lap senses this undefinable string weaving into something stronger, a pattern with layers and threads you hope to never unwind, because he holds the pendant between both of his hands and lifts it up, offering it to you with a sweetened sigh.
You take it between two fingers, looking down and simultaneously savoring the closeness of both the Mandalorian and the little one. Your cheek still brushes the cleft of his helmet, which is nearly resting on your shoulder now, both of you leaning into the other. You can’t remember a time when intimacy, when closeness was something you could have. You wonder if everyone had this.
“You will need more of these, then,” you whisper, your voice hoarse with tenderness as you turn the pendant between your fingers. There’s a smile curving your mouth, lifting your head to look at him. He stares back at you, but the gentle sway in his shoulders makes you feel as if he is drowsy in the warmth of the fire and the fullness in your stomachs.
“Maybe.” The softened tone, small in uncertainty and shy with hope makes a tear pearl in your eye.
Whatever has just been exchanged, something you will guard within yourself, is too sweet to touch. It hurts, and you are afraid you might cry if you linger on it.
“So this...is it an animal?” you ask, sniffing gently and looking away at the pendant to hide your misty gaze. Your curiosity for the Mando’a is stronger with everything he shares, a culture rich in its creed and holy in its statutes. You had never been held to a religion, discouraged from such higher thoughts by owners and masters, but your Mandalorian’s devotion and loyalty inspires something in you. The heat in your belly returns, and you clear your throat. “What is it?”
“A mythosaur,” he says, and you think he must like this topic better, too, because his voice is lighter now. He turns from you, though without sacrificing your proximity, and leans forward toward the fire. He uses the skewer he cleaned and continues to draw in the dirt near your feet, suddenly gaining the child’s interest. “It was a great beast, long ago. The Mando’a tamed and rode them. Many signets bear the face.”
You scoot closer, trying to peer down at what he draws, but it’s simply too dark for you to make anything out. The baby coos with wonder and delight, and you can’t help but smile wide. “What are you doing?”
He chuckles from behind his helmet, and you elbow him gently in play. “My guardian told me the stories, warriors with sabers and horns on their helms riding beasts. It’s easier not to be afraid of the dark when you know the monsters won’t hurt you,” he says, carefully looking down at the child in your lap.
“Very wise,” you say softly, and you listen to the drag of the skewer through the soft dirt. Soothed by the crackling fire, the warmth in your belly, and the scent of trees and clean skin, you slowly lay your cheek against his pauldron.
The Mandalorian stills.
You feel him shift beneath you, and you’re once more thinking of how someone might handle a scared or wounded bird. His arm draws behind your shoulders, and your head slips more comfortably against his shoulder. You sigh, eyes fluttering closed.
“Come, you both should rest,” he murmurs, and you can feel the bottom of his helmet resting carefully on the crown of your hair. “I’ll put the fire out.”
“Will we still be here when we wake up?” you ask, moving the child so he lays against your chest in comfort.
“No, Cyare, we have to keep moving,” he murmurs, drawing his hand beneath your arm and standing up with you carefully. You murmur noises of displeasure against the fabric of his shoulder, beneath his pauldron. You don’t remember how he gets you on the ship, or even into bed. At some point in the night, you’re aware of warmth beside you, a hand laying flat against the middle of your back. When you dream, it’s of a familiar helmet with shining horns, your arms around his middle, and resting over his gloved hands upon the reins of an ancient beast from a story you’ve never been told.