Work Text:
(1)
“Mando!” You said happily, noticing the return of your bounty hunter. “How was the hunt?”
“Burnt,” Mando grumbled, gesturing to his armor. “Stomach acid. Can you?”
“Yeah,” you took the child, tucking him securely to your side and raising an eyebrow in Mando’s direction. “Go bathe. The Crest’s heater is working again, and you’re filthy. Go.”
Mando probably opened his mouth to argue, but shook his head slightly and wandered off to the Crest’s only bathroom.
You occupied the child for the half hour it took Mando to shower, and you only stopped because you heard a loud bang coming from the bathroom.
“Mando?” You called, knocking on the bathroom door. “Are you okay in there?”
“Yeah,” the strained voice answered back. “I tripped.”
“Oh shit,” you put the child down in his cot and turned back to the door. “Do you need help?”
Mando paused. “No?”
“I’m coming in,” you warned, popping the door open and coming face to face with a load of steam.
“Wait!” Mando stood, and presumably tripped again, because you saw a brown blur hit the sharp edge of the sink, crumpling to the ground. In that instant it occurred to you. His helmet.
“Fuck!” You clapped a hand over your eyes. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see, if it helps.”
Mando shuffled around, grunting occasionally. “It’s fine,” he said. “You can open your eyes.”
You did, slowly peeling your hand off your face. Sitting on the floor, nursing a rather interesting cut on his ribs, was Mando. He had a towel around his waist and his helmet on, which made for a very interesting look.
“Oh fuck,” you breathed softly, kneeling down and touching the wound, which was bleeding sluggishly. “It looks shallow.”
“Feels it too.” Mando shifted his knees, curving in on himself. “Can you, y’know,”
“Yeah.” You stood, suddenly sheepish. This was the most skin your ever seen on Mando. Usually it was a flash of his wrist or his bare shoulder when he needed patching up. But now he was practically naked in front of you. “Do you need anything for your chest?”
Mando looked down, examining the wound. “I think I’ll be fine with the bandages we have in here. I hit my head that second time.”
You nodded. “The kid and I will be waiting for you,” you whispered, ducking quickly out of the room and taking the child’s cot to the cockpit.
Some time later, Mando came out, wearing his helmet, a soft long sleeve black shirt, black pants, and mismatched socks. He was carrying the remainder of his armor, along with a rag.
“So,” you said, tossing the small ball back to the child. “How’d the hunt go?”
“Decent,” Mando said, settling in his seat and putting his chest plate in his lap. “Armor is filthy.”
“Yeah, you said something about stomach acid?” You turned in your chair and faced the Mandalorian. “What did you do?”
He regaled you with the tale of hunting and killing the Krayt dragon, the child growing bored and falling asleep. You tucked the blankets up to his chin and smiled. “Sounds like you two had a very busy few days,” you murmured. “You must be exhausted.”
“I’ve had worse,” Mando decides firmly. “Why don’t you take the child and get some rest? I’ll sleep.”
You, seeing no way to argue out of this, took the child’s cot and headed down to your ‘room’ on the Crest. Really, it was less of a room and more of a horizontal pod. Mando’s was, supposedly, on the other side of the ship, but you were fairly certain he just slept in the cockpit.
Crawling into your pod room, you put the child’s cot in its spot, flicking the lights off and falling asleep easily.
(2)
Two weeks after the Krayt dragon incident, you and Mando were arguing about nonsensical things. Again. You were stuck in space, with no fuel to make a hyperdrive jump. That meant days of aimless flying, hoping you found a planet that could fill the Razor Crest up again.
Unfortunately, yours and Mando’s patience ran out before that.
“For the love of Maker, if you care that much, make your own damn food!”
“Fine!” You yelled back, fists balled up. “I will!”
Just like that, you stormed off to the tiny kitchen, anger still making you shake.
It wasn’t that you didn’t like the dinner Mando made, it was just that you were tired of powdery ration blocks every time you got hungry. You probably shouldn’t have exploded at Mando, but technically, he had started it.
You surveyed the available ingredients, tying your hair up in a bandana. “Sweet Maker,” you mumbled, unearthing some ingredients you didn’t even know existed anymore. “He really has to clean his cabinets more often.”
Eventually, you settled into a familiar pattern, imagining you were back home, cooking for your family. Mando had a bunch of very nice ingredients stored away, and you twisted them as best you could until you got a gooey pasta kind of dish going.
“Mando!” You knocked against the entrance of the cockpit. “Made dinner. Here you go.” You put a slightly cracked dish in front of him, and he looked down at it.
“What is it?”
“Oh, I’ve got no clue,” you said, falling into the co-pilot’s chair and taking a bite of whatever you had made. “But it’s fucking delicious!”
Mando watched you pointedly as you finished your dish quickly, and finally, he cleared his throat. “Can you leave?”
“Wow,” you grumbled, putting your plate aside and pulling the bandana from your hair. “Harsh much?” You tied the bandana around your eyes, leaning back in your chair and smiling. “Go on, eat. You must be hungry.”
There was a hesitation, and then the sounds of Mando pulling his helmet off. The scrape of the fork was your only indicator that he was eating, and after a few tense minutes of waiting, your blindfold was pushed up. Mando’s helmet was a foot from your face, dark visor staring into your eyes. “That was good.”
“If you liked that,” you said, ignoring the blush creeping up your back. “Imagine what I could do with fresh ingredients.”
“Okay.”
“What?” You turned from where you had been gathering the plates. “Are you serious?”
Mando shrugged. “It beats ration blocks.”
You smiled. “Thank you!” You said happily, heading back towards the kitchen. “Thank you so much Mando!”
“Yeah,” Mando mumbled to the empty air where you had been standing. “Don’t mention it.”
(3)
Three weeks, two days, and seven hours. That was how long you two floated in space until a friendly ship came and picked you up, promising to refuel your engines and repair any damage. You carried the child across your chest, following the captain of the ship, Fur’long, as they showed you where you could relax until the Crest was refueled.
“It could take a while,” Fur’long warned. “If you want something to do, we have a stowaway that needs to be found.”
Mando shouldered his pulse rifle and immediately walked off. You, being sensible and cautious under situations of stress, followed him without hesitation.
“Why are you following me?”
“I am not sitting here on a spaceship full of strangers alone,” you pointed out. “Not with the child.”
Mando sighed, but didn’t say anything else.
In the end, he found the creature. It was a pest from one of the crew’s home planet, and Mando captured it easily. But not before it sprayed you with what you assumed was saliva, which hardened upon contact.
“Oh fuck!” You yelled. You’d been trying to scrub the tiny crystals from your body for the past hour. The Crest’s poor water heater had given out ten minutes ago, but you weren’t done. Your skin may have been rubbed red in the mildly successful process of removing the pest spit, but your hair was another story entirely. “Mando!”
“What?”
You sighed, examining yourself in the mirror. “Where are the shears?”
Mando came around the corner, stripped out of most of his armor, save the helmet, of course. He was barefoot, and wearing the same soft black shirt you’d seen him wear once before. “Why?”
You groaned, mostly out of defeat. “Can’t get the fucking.” You gestured loosely you your hair. “It won’t come out.”
“Hm,” Mando stepped forward, examining the chunk of hair you now had. “Yeah, I can’t help much.”
“No,” you mumbled. “I should’ve, Maker, I should’ve done this weeks ago. The hair has to go.”
“Are you sure?” Mando asked, putting his hands on your shoulders.
You nodded. “Yeah. Go find the shears please.”
Mando left, allowing you to get dressed again, defeat and exhaustion making your shoulder sag as you sat on the small bathroom stool.
“Stay still,” Mando mumbled from behind you, one hand sliding back onto your shoulder.
You twisted. “Why?”
Standing above you, Mando was holding a pair of thin scissors, looking down. “I’m helping.”
Deciding it was too big of a fight to even try, you shrugged and turned back around.
You still winced when Mando slid the scissors against your scalp and made the first cut.
And the second.
And the third.
Before he kept going, Mando knelt down in front of you, holding one hand out. “Here,” he said softly. “Hold my hand.”
You did, blindly trusting the Mandalorian with very sharp blades so close to your skull. But he was treating you with the utmost care, and quickly lifted the crystalline chunk of hair off your head as soon as he could.
“That’s it,” he squeezed your hand and picked up a razor. “This’ll be fast, I promise.”
True to his word, Mando was fast, and before you knew it, he was helping you up and into the cockpit.
“Shouldn’t we clean?” You asked, looking back at the mess in the bathroom.
“I’ll do it later,” Mando promised, settling you in your chair. “For now, you relax.”
“Thanks Mando,” you mumbled, accepting the soft blanket he tossed over your lap.
Mando ran a hand over your head, making you shiver at the foreign feeling. “Din.”
“Hm?”
“It’s my name,” Mando said, staring out at the vast nothingness of space. “Din Djarin.”
You smiled. “Thank you Din.”
You fell asleep in your chair, vaguely aware, as you drifted off, of Mando pulling his helmet off. “Sleep well.”
(4)
You woke the next morning in your sleep pod, half convinced yesterday was a dream. Mando was never tender. At least, not in the way he was yesterday. But then you rolled over, missing the slump of hair across your shoulders, and you sat up sharply.
Yesterday was real.
You knew Mando’s name.
“Din,” you said to the darkness of the sleep pod. “Din Djarin.” The two simple words filled your stomach with a giddy feeling.
You crawled out of the pod, finding Mando, no, Din sitting in the cockpit, the child in his lap. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” Din turned to you, handing you the child. “He wants you.”
“Oh,” you sat in your chair, cradling the child. “Did someone miss me? Was Din not good enough for you?”
Din sighed, but didn’t comment on the use of his name.
You two had an exceptionally boring twenty four hours. The child dozed or played, but never got overactive. Instead of doing repairs or looking for a bounty in hopes of making a few credits, Din stayed in the cockpit while you snoozed, flickering in and out of consciousness every few hours.
Eventually, by the sixteenth hour mark, you grew overwhelmingly bored. “Wanna play cards?” You asked Din, grabbing the worn out deck from its usual spot.
Din turned to you, shrugging. “Might as well.”
You two played a few rounds, the game not escalating past anything near exciting. The game was a simple one. The first person with no cards in their hand won. The cards were colored and marked in symbols, and you could only lay down a card if it matched the color or symbol of the last one. It was a children’s game, but considering Din wasn’t a gambler, you couldn’t play anything else.
Half an hour went by, during which, you won two games and Din won three. It was quiet, almost peaceful.
It didn’t stay that way for long.
Din dealt the cards for a new round, and you looked at your hand. It was almost entirely power cards, including three draw four cards, two color changer cards, one green card, and one yellow card.
The game started with you simply laying your green card down.
Din retaliated with a draw two.
You pulled another color changer card, and another yellow card
Smiling slightly, you put down a color changer card. “I don’t like green,” you remarked sweetly, mentally preparing for the hell you were about to unleash. “It’s yellow now.”
Din shrugged and played a yellow card. You played one of yours, and he placed down a red card with the same symbol as your yellow one.
“I don’t think you heard me,” you said, placing down a second color changer card. “Yellow.”
It took Din a second, but he placed down his own color changer card. “Blue,” he said, voice strained.
You smiled, putting down a draw four card. “Yellow.”
Din’s shoulders shook, head bowing for a second before he composed himself and drew four cards. “It’s your turn.”
You innocently placed down a yellow card.
Din put down a yellow draw two card.
You drew two cards, both yellow.
Din played again, putting down another draw two, green this time.
You sighed, picking up another color changer card and another yellow card. “I swear to Maker. Did we shuffle these?”
“It seems not well enough,” Din said, and you blinked twice. You had never heard his voice sound like that. Was he smiling?
“Fine.” You put down another color changer card. “But I said yellow!”
That was it. Din bent in half over the table, his helmet meeting the surface as his shoulders shook and his modulator attempted to process his laughter.
You smiled, putting your hands on his helmet, closing your eyes, and gently pulling. “You need to breathe Din. For Maker’s sake you sound like you’re choking.”
He kept laughing, the unfiltered rawness of it making your heart swell. “Well damn. I didn’t think it was that funny.”
Din took a deep breath and sighed it out. “I haven’t laughed like that in years,” he said softly, voice still tilted with joy. “Thank you.”
You handed him back his helmet, and he slid it back on. When you opened your eyes again, Din was still laughing a tiny bit, his shoulders shaking as he looked down at the scattered cards. “Should we stop?”
“Nah,” you gathered your cards and neatened the pile. “It’s your turn.”
Din played a card, and you played a card. It was entirely mundane until he changed the color.
“Dammit Din! I said yellow!”
And so the laughter began anew.
(5)
There were many words you could use to describe the Mandalorian. Stoic. Level-headed. Emotionless. None of them had a particularly good connotation.
However, describing Din Djarin was different. He was sweet and full of feelings, always ready to help wherever he could.
Like right now.
Din was watching as you baked, sitting on top of the counter. “What are you making?”
“Pastries.” You grabbed a towel and wiped down a baking tray. “Pass me the oven mitt?”
He did, and you put the warm tray of uncooked pastries in the oven. “Alright,” you said happily. “Twenty minutes!”
Din nodded, and you could imagine him smiling underneath his helmet. “Where’s the child?”
“His cot.” You wiped your hands, nodding towards the cockpit. “Go check if you want.”
Nodding, Din got down off the counter and headed to the cockpit.
You were in the process of tossing dirtied dishes in the sink when Din came thundering back into the kitchen. “He’s gone!”
“What!” You quickly checked the hatch data. “Okay. The Crest opened half an hour ago, and nothing entered. He left on his own. He can’t have gotten far, have you seen those legs?”
Din still fretted until you wiped your hands on your overalls and followed him out. “Go.”
“Your pastries.”
You rolled your eyes. “I pulled them out and put them in the fridge. Let’s go!”
Twenty minutes later, you and Din were eagerly scooping the child up and looking him over, both of you worrying rather loudly.
Din pulled the child against his chest. “ Ner ad’ika, you worried me!”
You sighed, surveying the area. It was swampy, all wet and humid. “Din,” you said, patting his arm. “What’s that?”
“What?” Din said, looking up. In the same instant, you gave him a shove, pushing him out of the blaster’s line of fire.
You two began to run, ducking and dodging blaster fire until you found a small village, hiding behind a clay house.
“What are you doing here?” One of the locals addressed the bounty hunter who had been shooting at you and Din. “We told you, our village is peaceful.”
“We saw the Mandalorian,” the bounty hunter growled, and you shook your head, trying to clear some of the adrenaline fueled fogginess that hung around your ears.
“Leave our village,” the local said, and the bounty hunter grumbled, but turned and left.
Immediately, the local turned to you and Din. “Come on,” he said. “I want to help.”
Ten minutes later, and you were sitting on a cot in a healer’s tent, arguing rather loudly with the resident healer.
The blaster fire had clipped your shoulder, leaving you with a deep graze that was still bleeding. The healer wanted to give you an injectable disinfectant and a few stitches. You wanted a bandage.
“Absolutely not!” You yelled. “And that’s final!”
“Hey,” Din ducked into the tent. “Are they still arguing with you?”
The healer sighed. “Please, I must insist!”
Din sat on the cot beside you. “Weren’t you just saying to me last week that I should trust healers?” He murmured, tipping his head towards yours.
“Fuck off,” you grumbled. “I’ll be fine with some gauze.”
“Mhm,” Din hummed, looking at the healer. “Can I have the syringe?”
The healer passed the syringe over, and immediately, you squirmed out of Din’s reach. “No.”
“Come here.”
“No!” You shook your head so hard you made yourself dizzy. “No way in hell!”
Din scooted closer. “Please, come here.”
You simply pushed yourself closer towards the wall, shielding your injured arm.
Not one for arguing, Din put the syringe down and wrapped you in a hug. “Come here,” he said once more.
Suddenly pliant, you moved with Din, head pressed to his beskar chest plate. He sighed, keeping you in a firm one-armed hug. “That’s it,” he praised softly. “Stay still cyar’ika , please.”
You gripped at his shirt, whimpering as Din injected the disinfect into your arm. Immediately, the pain began to fade, leaving you exhausted.
The healer moved in, needle and thread in hand. You winced, but Din just held you tighter, stroking comfortingly down your back. “ Ori'jate ,” he said softly. “That’s it, almost done.”
Finally, the healer put the needle down and grabbed a bandage, wrapping your stitched arm up neatly.
“Thank you,” Din said, nodding to the healer. They left, leaving you and Din alone.
“Here,” Din pressed a hand over your eyes. “You need more oxygen. You’ll pass out if you keep breathing like that.”
Suddenly, your head was engulfed in darkness. But it was comforting, as if you were being hugged by an old friend. “Is this?”
“Yeah,” Din’s unmodulated voice spoke directly in front of you. “Loopholes.”
You nodded, suddenly feeling exhaustion pull at your bones. “Gonna nap.”
“Okay,” Din pulled you, presumably, against his chest. “You do that, my
cyar’ika.”
(+1)
“Din?” You called through the Crest. You’d been looking for Din for the past hour, with no luck. The child was asleep in his cot, and the ship was in deep space. There were only so many places Din could’ve gone.
“Din!” You knocked on his sleeping pod, wondering if he was asleep. “Where the hell are you?”
“In here.” Din’s bare hand stuck out of the bathroom, and you laughed.
“What are you doing?”
Din grumbled, something sharp hitting the porcelain of the skin. “Trying to see the back of my head.”
You laughed, putting a hand over your eyes and opening the bathroom door. “What’s going on in here?”
Din huffed. “My hair keeps getting caught in my helmet, so I figured it was time for a trim. Turns out, that’s very hard when you can see the back of your head.”
“I’ll bet,” you said, blindly reaching around until Din grabbed your hand to steady you. “You Mandalorians don’t have rules about this? What happens when you need a surgery on your head?”
“We have doctors,” Din said, guiding you to the edge of the toilet. “And we’re taught from a young age to cut our own hair.”
You nodded, hand still over your eyes. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Unless you can cut my hair blind, then not really.”
“And you’re sure there isn’t a loophole?” You asked, just to be sure.
Din hesitated. “There is one,” he said cautiously. “But it’s so rarely used.”
“Tell me.”
“Marriage,” Din said softly. “My spouse can see my face. It’s the ultimate form of trust for my people.”
You were silent. You’d expected some kind of memory altering ritual, but marriage? “How often do Mandalorians even get married?”
“Almost never,” Din said. “Marriage signals the beginning of retirement.”
“Which you aren’t ready to do,” you finished.
“No,” Din put his hand over yours. “But.”
“But,” you agreed.
He carefully tugged your hand from your eyes. He was wearing his helmet and his leisure clothes, a combination you never seemed to expect. “Do you love me?”
You hesitated. It had been almost two years since Din had picked you up and hired you as a mechanic and then a babysitter. In those two years, you’d grown to admire him, to cherish him, to love him.
“Oh Maker,” you breathed, putting a hand over your mouth. “I do.”
“Good.” Din stood, taking your hands and pulling you to your feet as well. “Do your people have any marriage vows or traditions?”
You shook your head, still stunned. “Aren’t we going a bit fast?”
Din shook his head. “The odds of us dying tomorrow are high. Don’t you want to live today to the fullest?”
“You sap,” you mumbled, pulling two old rings from a necklace you wore. “My family has one tradition. These rings belonged to my parents. And now,” you handed Din the thicker one you remembered your father wearing. “They’re ours.”
Din accepted the ring, undoing his own necklace and placing the ring on it, next to a small dog tag. “My people have vows,” he said slowly, taking your hands and pulling you close. “You don’t have to say them.”
You nodded, squeezing his hands. “I love you, Din.”
Suddenly, Din was hesitant. “I-“ he faltered. “You don’t plan on leaving me?”
“Why?”
“If you do,” Din pressed his beskar covered forehead to yours. “I have to kill you.”
You nodded. “I love you Din,” you promised once more. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I love you too,” Din cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde.”
He guided your hands slowly to his helmet, and placed them on the cold beskar. You wordlessly lifted the helmet off Din’s head.
“Hello stranger,” you murmured, tracing his cheekbones with one hand as you placed his helmet down. “You’re much more handsome than I gave you credit for.”
Din smiled, and your heart melted.
“Oh Maker, please do that again,” you breathed, drawing closer.
“You mean this?” Din smiled again, and you nodded.
“Yeah,” you mumbled right up against his lips. “That.”
Your first kiss was passionate, full of two years of longing and desire.
Your second kiss was naughty.
“Din!” You squealed when his hands wandered down your back and over your butt. “Din Djarin that is inappropriate!”
“Say that again,” Din all but growled into your neck.
“Din Djarin,” you repeated, letting your head fall back and you eyes flutter closed. “You’re a tease.”
He smiled against your skin. “I could listen to you say my name all night.”
You laughed, stroking lightly up his back and tangling your fingers into his hair. “We have all the time in the world,” you promised. “But first, I do remember that our bathroom wedding was fueled by someone’s need for a haircut.”
Din groaned, but pulled away with an innocent smiled. “Can’t that wait?” He pleaded.
“Absolutely not,” you said firmly. “You have to look good for the honeymoon.”
“You’re no fun,” Din said, but he sat down on the bathroom stool all the same.
Twenty minutes later, you and Din were sitting in the cockpit, the child in your lap. “Doesn’t this count?” You asked, flicking one of the child’s ears.
“No,” Din leaned across the divide and kissed your forehead. “You’re my aliit. And my aliit is allowed to see my face.”
You smiled, grabbing Din by the neck and placing his bare forehead on yours. “I love you.”
Din blew a puff of air onto your face, laughing as he backpedaled and squealed. “I love you too.”
“Together forever.”
“Tome darasuum.”