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He is not sure how to feel about the other so-called Mandalorians.
They wear beskar armor that is chipping paint in the corners, and fight with sheer tenacity, their wrists just as quick as his. The looks they gave him as the man murmured, “He’s one of them” hasn’t left his mind though. Something like skepticism, maybe even pity in their gazes. It left a bad taste in his mouth.
But they saved his life, and the child’s, and the information is too good to pass up. One mission is an easy price.
The inside of the Crest reeks of ocean salt.
The Mandalorian rummages through his weapons crate, searching for anything that isn’t waterlogged. He hears the child behind him, playing with clumps of seaweed and laughing at the wet slap everytime it hits the floor. It makes the corner of his mouth twitch ever so slightly as he weighs an explosive in his palm. He sets the weapon aside. He picks up a stun grenade, letting it sit in his hand for a moment. He clips it to his belt.
There is movement out of the corner of his eye, the sliver of a green ear, and the Mandalorian turns his helmet to see the child lifting himself up the side of the crate. The child’s eyes are bright and curious, glancing at his guardian before staring down at the weapons. He starts to reach in—
“No,” the Mandalorian scolds, intercepting a finger in the child’s way. The child blinks, tilts his head up towards his guardian, then looks back. The child lifts his hand and curls it around the Mandalorian’s finger instead. The act elicits a sigh, though he can’t help but soften, his shoulders losing tension.
“Looks like you got me, kid,” he says lowly. The child coos happily.
The child’s gaze shifts down slightly and he outstretches his other hand, but the Mandalorian is quick to scoop the child into his arms. The child makes a discontented noise in his throat, a tiny crease between his wrinkled brow. The Mandalorian stands to full height and shuts the lid.
“No weapons for you till you’re older.” He pauses, then amends, “Till you’re bigger.”
The child doesn’t seem concerned with the weapons though. Instead, he lightly presses a small hand to the Mandalorian’s arm, making a sad coo before looking up into his visor. The Mandalorian blinks, only now noticing the laceration peeking through a hole sliced into his shirt. The cut is dark, clean, and flaking around the edges with dried blood.
From one of the Quarren’s weapons, he realizes.
It had happened so fast.
All he saw was the blur of the child’s pram being launched into the water, the yellow teeth of the mamacore closing in, and he was diving helmet-first. It wasn’t even a thought.
But he didn’t take in enough breath, and his body was hot with anger and adrenaline, but there was deep-seated terror too, as he clung to the rusted bars that served as his lifeline—the child’s lifeline—
Then Bo-Katan saved their lives. And he could breathe again with the child, unharmed, and held close to his chest.
The child coos, drawing the Mandalorian out of his thoughts and plunging those memories into the past. He would prefer to forget them anyway. He meets the child’s inquisitive gaze and trails a finger along his ear.
“We’re okay,” he says, the words rough as they leave his mouth. The child leans into his touch, causing a bloom of warmth behind his sternum. The Mandalorian lifts the child closer and leans till their foreheads meet. He inhales. The corner of his mouth lifts. The child smiles back.
“We’re okay.”