Chapter Text
When you wake up, the ship has left behind the pretty meadow, the bubbling stream, and the little campfire with your secrets. The dawnless morning aboard the ship is spent in peace with the Mandalorian quietly at the helm while you give the baby a warm bath in the refresher’s sink. You giggle when he tries to eat the soap bubbles, massaging his ears and making sure you clean between his tiny fingers. When he’s dried and changed, you climb up the ladder, still not feeling very graceful doing it, and make your way into the cockpit.
After putting him in his cradle, you move around the small space, coming to the Mandalorian’s right side. You reach over, your hands moving over the controls, the blurry array of colors lighting up your vision.
You can practically feel his alarm.
“What are you doing? Don’t-”
You cluck your tongue at him, not unlike how you used to hush the young women in the brothel near the cantina when they would worry about you bringing leftover food from the kitchens. His hand encloses around your forearm just as your other finds what you are looking for. The shiny knob the child loved so much comes right off with just a simple twist of your wrist, and when he realizes what you are about, you feel his fingers loosen. But he doesn’t let go.
When you turn to face him, you’re shocked to hear a quiet, strangled chuckle come through the modulator of his helmet. His hand draws you back so he can survey you, and...was...was he laughing ?
“What?” you ask, mystified when he leans back in the chair.
“You look like you lost a fight with the fresher,” he says, his chuckles still exuding mirth.
You draw your hand over your front, and true to his observation, you are nearly soaked through. “Oh,” you laugh, shaking your head as you turn away. You give the child his favorite toy, which he eagerly reaches up for. “Well, I can’t help it if the little one insists on splashing like he’s fighting off a gundark.”
The Mandalorian chuckles more at that, and you can’t help but smile. The sound is rich and deep, and it brings the hair on the back of your neck up in a delightful way. Too restless to sit, you drift back toward the pilot’s chair, leaning gently against the back.
“Where to now?” you ask, watching the outline of his shape. You can’t make out much, even with all the starlight, but you can tell he’s sitting close, straight and perfect.
You hear him flip a switch, and you think he must put the autopilot function on because he gently turns the chair to face you. “Ever been to Cantonica?” At the shake of your head, he lays his gloves flat against the curaisse on his thighs. “There is a city on the coast of this planet, surrounded by desert and known for its wealth. I think I can find work there fairly easy.”
“We do need supplies,” you allow, looking down at the flight panel and drawing your fingers over the lit up controls. He had not turned the lights off ever since showing them to you. “What makes you think work will be easier to find?” you ask, curious. His mind was different from other men you’d known-not that such a list was extensive. Another thought occurred to you, angling your head toward him. “Won’t it be too dangerous for you to accept guild work?”
“I’m not looking for guild work.” He sounded pleased for some reason you couldn’t fathom.
“So what then? As a mercenary?” you ask, sarcasm coloring your tone. When his helmet tilts in challenge, your lips part. “Really? Isn’t that...even more dangerous?”
“Think of it more like hired muscle. I don’t intend to die or kill for someone just because they have deep pockets,” he says, leaning back in his chair and resting his gloves over his belt buckle. You lean back on the panel where it’s smooth, your boots tucked against his own as you face each other. “It’s not so bad. Most of these men have gambled away too much or they’re in debt, or another feels slighted enough to want a message sent. It pays well, so it offers a high reward for a low risk.”
Your eyebrows raise, crossing your arms as you consider it. The lack of resistance to the idea concerned you more than the thought of him wrangling deviants, truth be told. He was older than you, more experienced as a man and a deadly warrior. Surely, he’d taken into consideration the drawbacks and the gains of such an expenditure, and...well, you knew he wouldn’t put himself in a firefight he had no chance of winning. The small babbles you heard from the corner of the cockpit assured you that he was not a reckless man.
No, the Mandalorian was precise, intelligent, and patient. You would be lying to yourself if you didn’t admit that it was some of the qualities that drew you to him-a thought which spears you with shock.
“What?” he asks suddenly, drawing your head up with a jolt. “What is it?”
You blink, feeling skittish. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You…” he sounds like he’s frowning, too. “...you have a look. You’re flushed.”
The heat in your face deepens, and you straighten up quickly, twisting the damp fabric of your dress in front of you. “It’s nothing,” you mutter, turning away quickly and heading to the door. “I...I’m going to change.”
The turn of the chair follows you, and you think he might try to stop you. He doesn’t, thankfully, and you climb down into the hull, swallowing thickly as you find your few belongings that you store in a lower compartment near the bunk. You lean against the cold metal wall, taking a deep breath. Your heartbeat is quick, and the heat in your face and belly won’t cool.
Something...something deeper feels tight, and you press your brow firmly against the wall, trying to force it all away. When that pull doesn’t dissipate, you search for a bathing sheet and step into the refresher, turning the water as cold as you can, hoping to rid yourself of the feverish feeling. You almost think you’re sick, but...no, you feel fine. As you wash, the milky bar you use to cleanse your skin moving over your chest and lower, your toes curl.
Oh. Oh .
With one hand pressed to the cold metal wall of the stall, you take a deep breath. You have not felt much in years of servitude and slavery. You were not allowed to form attachments outside your lady in guardianship, and, even then, it had been something that was so frowned upon by the Moff that it left you too anxious to truly languish in it. But now, you set the bar of soap aside with a shaking hand, fumbling for the rack where the few toiletries you own are stored, pressing your sudsy palms in front of you on the wall.
The water is freezing, chilled by the pipes of the ship, and you stay under the spray until your teeth begin to chatter, your knuckles aching and red. It does the trick, and when you wrap yourself up in the bathing sheet and begin to dress, you feel clean and refreshed. You dress with perfunctory movements, choosing an extra layer of fitted pants beneath your thick woolen dress. The berry stained fabric was the simplest of bolts you’d been gifted by the Mandalorian, but it was your favorite. They all had different textures, making it easy for you to tell which piece was which. You sat on the edge of the bunk and began to comb and brush your hair, working out the knots and tangles with careful fingers.
You were no longer warm like before, and goosebumps covered your bare arms where your sleeves split open up to your shoulders. Considering those feelings, you made yourself wait in the hull until your hair was dry, hoping you’d feel back to normal by the time you climbed the ladder into the cockpit once again. It felt...not wrong, but sacrilege to have those feelings so close to him.
He gave you his name. He trusted you. These small reminders tamed the heat building in your cheeks.
The baby coos when you step through the threshold and sit in your usual chair, his ears fluttering happily at seeing you again. You don’t notice the Mandalorian sitting up straighter, and you don’t see him inclining his head in your direction when you take your seat on his left.
The baby reaches a hand out towards you, grabbing the air with his tiny fingers and huffing sweetly in an effort to get closer. You don’t hesitate to pick him up, wrapping him securely in your arms and smiling as he snuggles closer to your chest. The small, contented sigh he lets out fills your heart with peace, and you hardly realize that you’ve closed your eyes until you feel something heavy and warm drape around your shoulders.
“Are you alright?” The Mandalorian is standing beside your chair now, arranging his cloak so it covers your arms. You look up towards his helmet, opening and closing your mouth several times in an attempt to speak, but he’s now pulling the slack of the cloak over your lap, around the child you hold. You suck in a breath when he leans close enough you smell cold forest and clean skin, and swallow. “You’re shivering.”
The tone of his voice is firm and gentle, requiring an honest answer but overwhelmed with concern. You feel guilty that he would worry over you for something so banal, leaning back into the swath of black material and the warmth it still holds from his own body.
“Yes, I-I’m sorry,” you say quickly, lowering your voice when the child’s breathing begins to even out. You look down at the sleeping infant, tracing his cheek with a fingertip. You speak to him and yourself. “I’m fine.”
The Mandalorian hesitates, his gloved fingers tapping restlessly against his leg. He floats between you and the pilot’s chair before turning away with a sigh, nodding once. “We’ll be landing soon,” he murmurs, and you watch him disappear once more into the pilot’s chair.
Canto Bight is unlike anything you had ever experienced. No city on the few planets you have visited shines as brightly as this one, and as you follow alongside the Mandalorian, you feel an intense, overwhelming surge of helplessness. The sounds and smells are clean, thanks to the sea breeze blowing from off the coast, and you can taste the salt and sand in the air as you both leave the hangar behind you. The child floats near your side in his pram, his big ears fluttering curiously as he looks out at everything.
Coming to a set of stairs that ascend up into the piazza, full of sparkling fountains and tourists laughing drunkenly, you bite your lip and lift the hem of your dress. With no railing, you reach out unsteadily and grasp the Mandalorian’s arm, and he stands still immediately until you are beside him.
“Alright?” he asks, voice gentle. You nod, unconvincing as you lean into him closer, and you are thankful when he holds his arm steady and sure for you the rest of the walk. The pram floats diligently between you both, just in front so he can see it at all times, and you smile when you can hear the baby cooing with delight at all the sights. Crossing the piazza, your eyes are drawn to a large, glowing structure near the top center of the city.
“What is that?” you ask softly, patting his arm just above his vambrace. Neither of you break your stride, which you notice he keeps measured with yours.
The Mandalorian glances in the direction your head tilts. “The Coruscant Casino.”
You frown, listening to all the people around you laughing and talking with such joy and relish. There is something unsettling to you, the idea of taking money and just throwing it away. Perhaps it is because you have never had money of your own, property of your own until now, but the thought makes you sick to your stomach.
You’re grateful the Mandalorian doesn’t seem intent on going inside, leading you through the city to a more reserved part of town that overlooks the water. You can hear the waves crashing somewhere below, and the thunderous noises of tourists having fun seem farther away. A spacious building, glowing with beautiful electric lanterns that light up the environment for you, is his destination. The windows and doors are open, and you can hear the sounds of people chatting, dining, and drinking. Inside, there is music, a man’s sweet voice accompanied by some string instrument. It seems almost out of place in the ostentatious city, more humble and rustic, but you feel yourself relax as you follow the Mandalorian to a counter. When he begins asking for a room, you realize you’re in a hotel.
The child tugs on your dress, leaning up from the mouth of his pram, and you’re distracted from the Mandalorian speaking quietly with the male at the counter. You turn, smiling down at him and cupping his cheek.
“Oh! What an adorable baby!”
A young female, who you think must be a Togruta from the blurring of colors and shapes around her face, bounces over to stand beside you, leaning forward with both hands on her knees. A shiny, silver servant droid stands just beside her, inclining its head down and reflecting the light. The child looks up with large round eyes, blinking before grinning with all of his teeth, much to the Togruta’s delight.
“Oh, look! He likes me!” she giggles, clapping her hands.
You can’t help your own smile, a warmth of pride filling your breast when you tell her, “He’s just had another tooth come in. I think he wants to show off for you.”
“Oh, oh! May I hold him?” she asks, and you think you can almost see her beaming with hope. You’re just about to nod when the pram’s mouth shuts with a snap, and you both jump in surprise.
“No.”
You look questioningly at the Mandalorian, who’s finger hovers over his vambrace controls and is now facing you and the young female. He gives a subtle swipe of his arm, and the pram floats behind you, drawing your gaze curiously. The girl seems to shrink in his presence and bobs her head.
“O-oh. Okay-”
“Let’s go.”
His hand at the small of your back directs you away from the Togruta and her droid, and you frown as you let him lead you, the sudden change in his demeanor making your skin itch. Your arm slips through his when you begin ascending polished wooden stairs, though you feel particularly dispirited in doing so.
“That wasn’t very polite,” you finally say, not paying much attention to the hallways of hotel rooms you pass. “She was so sweet. What was the harm-?”
He stops abruptly, and you almost run into him before he opens a door at the far end of the hall with a key card. He steps back, waving his arm so the pram floats in, and when you frown deeper, he nods his head. “Go on.”
You can’t help the slight huff, passing him and putting your hand on the wall. He closes the door behind you, fiddling with the security pad while you step inside. You bump into a dresser, flushing scarlet as you put your hands out, patting and feeling around. There is a small glass fireplace against the wall, and one glowing mineral salt lamp in the far corner, and neither light source does anything to help you see. You stumble into a chair and a low table, thoroughly frustrated by the time your hands feel the smooth shell of the pram and open it.
The baby’s ears are laying flat in the most doleful expression, blinking up at you in the dark, and you lift him quietly up into your arms, murmuring softly to him. “There now, is that better?”
He nuzzles your shoulder, and you realize that the Mandalorian has not said anything since you entered the room. Turning, you find him grasping the back of the chair you hit with your hip, and you take a deep breath. It’s as if his entire demeanor was swallowed up by the darkest cloud.
“Did...Did I do something wrong?” you ask, despising the absolute timidity that clutches your chest. You hadn’t felt this anxious uncertainty since you were property. The thought of him being angry with you, upset with you, makes your stomach curdle.
There was a short pause before you could hear him sigh through the modulator. “No.” There is a longer pause before you hear the strain of leather where his gloves tighten over the back of the chair. “Yes.”
You sink into the opposite chair, afraid that if you don’t, your knees might buckle under the weight of his glare. For he is glaring, but you don’t know if it’s at you. You can feel it, and you wonder if his bounties feel this before he throws them into the carbonite freezer.
He releases the chair and steps up beside it, tapping his fingers against the curaisse on his thigh. “You know that the Empire is looking for him,” he says quietly, moving to crouch in front of you. You frown gently, holding the baby’s hand and noticing his ears have sunk again, his little feet kicking slowly where he sits on your lap. “We can’t trust anyone we don’t know.”
“She was a child,” you mutter, annoyance flaring.
“She was not the reason to be cautious!”
His voice raises so much you recoil, the effect like a whip against your face. He hesitates, then, seeing you flinch, and he drops his head forward with a bone-deep sigh. “You told me once to never stop worrying for him,” he finally mutters. “And I haven’t. I think about it all the time, and so should you.”
Something clicks, the way his tone mirrors something else he said to you by the fire, when his helmet caressed your cheek like a kiss. “The droid,” you murmur, sitting forward. “You were-it was the droid, wasn’t it?” When you are met with cold silence, your thoughts begin to pick up steam, and you shake your head, looking down. “Y-You stopped the droids at the medical center from helping me, too, didn’t you? And you didn’t want Peli’s droids working on the ship.”
He stands up, then, crossing the room to the case he’d set down. You can hear the latches he opens with deft fingers, the whisper of steel against steel familiar to you as he puts his weapons together. You stand up, setting the baby back in his pram, despite his small whimpers to be picked back up. You bump into the table again, ignoring the shooting pain in your leg as you follow the sounds he makes. He ignores you, screwing something onto the tip of his blaster, and you scowl, moving around the table so you face him. You nearly collide with it so hard you fall, but you continue holding your head up.
“We can’t live our lives trusting no one, Mandalorian.”
“I trust you to be smart,” he snaps, and you feel a flush of some deep rooted shame. Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “To know that a girl can wield a knife just as easily as a grown man, and that a droid is only beholden to its master.”
Your mouth is dry, and you feel tears prick your eyes. You turn your head away, heart pounding like a drum against your breast. The silence in the room is tense, and you can’t think of a way to alleviate it, so you leave him to his work, trying to move back to your seat near the child. You bump into the side of the bed, baring your teeth in frustration at the unfamiliar surroundings that seem only to wish you to trip. There’s a dull pain in your leg from hitting the table before, and you give yourself a wide berth when you finally sink into the chair, rubbing your face.
The child whimpers, sensing the turbulent emotions running through the room, and he reaches his tiny hands up toward you. Your heart sinks pitifully in your chest, knowing, on some level, that the Mandalorian was right to be cautious. The Empire wanted to hurt this little one, and you knew the bounty hunter had even lost brothers and sisters trying to protect him.
And if something happened to the child because of your poor judgment...
Leaning forward, you lift the baby out of the pram, bringing him to your chest so he can nuzzle your shoulder comfortingly. You stroke his back, taking a deep breath to try and soothe his worries, as well as your own.
“You must know we can’t protect him without the help of others,” you finally say, turning your head towards the dark shadow the Mandalorian makes. “Even you need help.”
He seems to go still, like a predator before sinking its teeth into its prey, and you feel his visor turn towards you. “I will always protect him.”
“I know. You told me,” you murmur, wanting nothing more than to touch him, then. You have the sudden desire to hold his hand, a foreign want you had never experienced before you came to know him. To let him know that he could still trust you, to let him know he was not alone in caring for the precious soul in your arms. “No matter the cost.”
His helmet dips, and you can hear him whisper, “This is the way.”
Your eyes fall shut, letting your head fall back against the plush seat, and you try to calm your racing heart. There is no real resolution to this, no true closure, because you won’t give him the acceptance of not trusting anyone. After all, he decided to trust you. He clearly trusts Kuiil. You wonder who else he has opened up to, who else he has let in. You want to finish what you have both started, but you don’t want him leaving at odds with you, either.
There’s a pleasant warmth where the child lays against you, emanating from his tiny hand grasping the collar of your dress, and soon you feel tranquil once again, listening to the fire and the soft breathing of the baby.
A smooth, leather gloved finger traces your cheek, and you open your eyes to find the Mandalorian standing beside you, the fire reflecting off of his helmet. You watch him sink to both knees, his arm draping over your lap to stroke the child’s brow.
“I am sorry for...raising my voice,” he whispers, and tears pearl in your eyes, falling over your cheeks with such ease and quickness, it’s embarrassing. His hand shakes and his voice strangles at the sight. “P-Please, don’t cry-”
You come together like two moons orbiting the same planet, your arm slipping over his neck to hug yourself against the beskar that’s been warmed by the fire. The child’s ears perk upward, tickling your cheek, and you sniffle when you feel the Mandalorian’s strong arms slip around you, pulling you to stand up in a firm embrace.
His heart pounds so hard, you can feel it through the beskar, and you shut your eyes against more salt gathering beneath your lashes. Perhaps he wears his armor to keep himself from tumbling, falling apart at your feet. Perhaps you are stronger than him, you think, because you don’t need it.
Neither of you make an effort to pull away, and you sigh softly when you inhale the clean, cool scent of him beneath the fabric of his shoulder. Your fingers rest on the back of his neck, just below the edge of his helmet, and when they press just firmly enough to keep him close, you think he melts against you a little more.
“I’ll be gone tonight,” he finally says, subdued and tamed. You nod, eyes still closed and too comfortable to be bothered to move. “Please...stay here,” he chokes, his hands becoming tighter at the small of your back. “If anything were to happen to-to him, or to-”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur, lifting your face to look up at his visor. He sighs deeply, and you can feel his relief as he presses his helmet gently against your brow. A small tug lifts your lips into a smile, and you add quietly, “Though I think I’m in just as much danger in this room as I would be outside.”
The Mandalorian lifts his head at that, tilting his head to look at you as you set the child down to toddle about freely. You smooth your dress, frowning gently as you try to squint hard to see the furniture lying in wait to tangle your feet up. It had taken you nearly a week just to acquaint yourself with the hull of the Razor Crest, and the following months living aboard the ship are the only reason why you can safely navigate yourself around.
And you still stumble every now and then.
“What can I do?” asks the bounty hunter, shifting his weight restlessly. You know he is ready to be on his way, securing his job by finding his target. You’d seen him fidget like this a few times just before he would leave the Razor Crest, but he sounds genuinely curious.
And his offer to help is tempting. You don’t want to wallow or be useless, and you know if you’re familiar with your surroundings, it will be more enjoyable for everyone. “Walk me around the room,” you say, more as a question than a statement.
There’s fabric shifting, and you recognize the pull of leather as him removing his gloves. When his hand cups your elbow, his skin is warm and smooth, and you feel a pleasant tightness in your belly. He doesn’t direct, pull, or push you, instead letting you move around yourself and only stopping or speaking when you nearly collide with a piece of furniture.
The child sees you and the Mandalorian swaying this way and that way around the room, and he decides it must be some kind of game he’d like to be a part of. He toddles over and hugs the bounty hunter’s boot, giggling when he sits atop of it and takes a ride like it's his own personal speeder bike.
“Are there more lights?” you ask, wrinkling your nose at the glowing mineral lamp that gives off an aquatic silvery blue hue that does absolutely nothing for your vision.
“No.” The Mandalorian follows you in an awkward shuffle as you feel the outline of the bed.
“I see.”
“Do you?”
Your mouth drops open, slowly turning around to face him before you both burst into laughter. Your hand hits him between his pauldron and vambrace, a weak slap that only makes him laugh louder from the belly.
“How dare you!” you laugh, your cheeks aching from joy. “I thought you were a man of honor.”
His hand catches yours when you go to push at him, squeezing your fingers gently. “How can I make it up to you?” he asks, and you both grow still at the tenderness in his voice. He seems surprised by it himself, and you feel your heart tumble in your breast.
Your fingers curl over his hand, biting your lip on a smile. “Come back safe.”
The Mandalorian watches you, tilting his head before giving your fingers one last squeeze. He lets you go to reach the baby, who still clings to his boot, babbling and drooling happily, and you watch as he lifts the child up in his arms. They share their own little brow touch, and the baby seems to expect it, his little hand patting the side of the helmet.
“Why do you do that?” you ask softly, sitting on the edge of the bed with care.
“Do what?” he asks, turning and setting the child beside you on the bed. The little one immediately starts tumbling and crawling over the plush pillows.
“With your helmet,” you say, tapping your forehead with your fingertips.
The Mandalorian bypasses you to pick up his pulse rifle and the modified blaster from the table. “Don’t know what you mean,” he says. You open your mouth to clarify, but he breezes right past it. “I’ll have something sent up for you and the child to eat.”
“T-Thank you.”
He nods, turning and moving towards the door. His footsteps are so quick that you almost fall in your haste to stand up from the bed to follow.
“Wait!”
He freezes, buying you a few extra moments to shuffle to the table before walking over to him, stiff and cautious not to run into any of the furniture. You only have a vague picture in your mind of everything, and it is shaky at best. That doesn’t stop you from bringing him his gloves from where he abandoned them, and you wear a small smirk as you take his hand and fit the leather over his fingers.
“In such a hurry to leave us?” you tease, using your thumbs against his palms to fit the glove as snugly as you can before moving to the second. His hands remain pliable for you as you secure the leather over his skin, and a strange compulsion takes you to...to put your lips to it. The thought steals your breath, and instead you take both his hands in yours and force yourself to smile. “There.”
When you beam up at the man made of beskar, you realize he isn’t breathing. You blink, sightless eyes drifting just off center of his visor. You part your lips to ask if he’s alright, but your words fall when he lifts his hand to cup your cheek, leather clad thumb brushing over the soft flesh of your lips. For a moment, for one suspended silent second, you think he might drop his rifle and stay with you.
For a solitary secondary moment, you almost ask him to.
But then he’s gone.