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Omera hears the ship before she sees it. It has been awhile since a traveller has crossed through these parts. More often than not, Sorgan brings rather nefarious individuals who are trying to hide while another, more nefarious party hunts the galaxy for them. By the looks of the ship flying overhead, she has a sinking suspicion that this traveller may be the latter. Their ship looks menacing and, as it circles to land closer to her village than most, she rises from the krill pond calmly and makes her way to her home. The Mandalorian, before he left, had given her a rifle. It is sturdy and more often than not collects dust in her bedroom, but today it may actually earn its keep.
She collects it from beneath her bed and rises, blowing dust from it. The rifle, black and silver durasteel, rests steady and sure in her hands. Smiling to herself, she thinks of him, of how his hands had felt in hers in those fleeting moments stolen. She slings it over her shoulder and heads out. Her village will not be harassed today, not on her watch.
No one makes any comments upon seeing the rifle. They, too, had seen the menacing ship fly overhead and stop not too far from here. If anything, their guards are also being raised. She sees more of her people watching the forest line, waiting for raiders or bounty hunters or--
Her mind screeches to a halt at the figure that emerges from the brush. A lone Mandalorian. Clad head to toe in silver armor. She darts through the remainder of the krill ponds and into the open. Upon seeing her, he begins striding through the field of wild flowers to her as well.
They meet in the middle.
A thousand words rush to the tip of her tongue but all she manages to say is, “Hello.”
“Hi,” he replies. He sounds unsteady.
She looks around for his son and her heart lurches when she realizes he isn’t in tow. “Would you like something to eat?” She offers. Answers can come later. His shoulders are slumped with exhaustion and his head is tilted like he is barely holding himself together.
Maybe he is.
“That would be nice… thank you,” he tacks on at the end, voice quivering in those two small syllables.
She gently takes his elbow. “Come. I’ll grab you a plate.”
~
The sight of the empty crib in her barn nearly cripples him. He sinks to his knees. He can still hear the kid’s soft snores in the night; it had always lulled him to sleep. It’s stupid now, he thinks, that listening to a child’s snoring could make him sleep so soundly; but if the kid was near him and sleeping that meant he was safe.
A sob escapes his lips and echoes around the stagnant air in his helmet.
“Knock, knock,” he hears from outside.
“Come in,” he rasps.
She sets the tray of food on the crates stacked beneath the window and she slowly lowers herself next to him. She places a gentle hand on top of his.
He hadn’t realized he was still clutching the cradle.
“What happened?” She whispers.
He tells her everything. With stunted breathing and broken sobs, he tells her the entire story from beginning to end and she listens.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, rubbing a hand up and down upper arm. “I’m so sorry, Mando.”
“Din,” he whispers.
Her breath hitches. He turns his head so that she knows he’s looking at her. “My name is Din.”
“Din,” she whispers to him with a slight smile and in that second, his heart hiccups. Out of all the people that have seen his face these past few weeks, there has only been one person he wished could see him.
He reaches up to his helmet and pulls it free.
Her eyes are closed, squeezed shut.
“Omera?” He whispers.
“Yes?” She keeps her eyes closed.
“Look at me,” he murmurs and his heart thunders in his chest. It’s so much easier being behind a helmet but he wants to be seen by her. He has never felt safer than in her barn. He feels at home, here with her.
She does. Her eyes widen when they fall upon his face and she gasps a little. “Oh,” she breathes.
His jaw clenches as he grits his teeth. He has always done this, since he was little, but normally no one is able to see him display his stress so openly.
She reaches up to touch him, but stops. His heart swells. He doesn’t deserve as much respect as she offers, but here she is again, minding his boundaries.
Gently, he claims her hand and brings it up to his face.
She gasps audibly and gently rubs a thumb over his cheekbone. His heart races at her touch and he is reminded of his son saying goodbye. He feels like he is breaking again. “You’re so beautiful,” she murmurs. “And you look so tired.”
“I am,” he mumbles, pressing into her hand. “Tired, I mean.”
She smiles - it’s the same soft smile he has seen a hundred times before, but it feels different without the tint of his visor - and she moves to sit beside him, leaning against the crates. “Sleep,” she whispers, pulling him down carefully.
He can’t imagine sleeping without listening to the kid’s soft snoring, or to the quiet thrum of the Crest’s hyperdrive, but when he curls up on her lap both of those aches hurt a little less. “I don’t know what to do,” he croaks, feeling tears sting his eyes once more. He should be done crying. He’s a warrior.
She pushes him down into her lap and pulls a blanket over him. “Sleep now. We’ll think of the next step in the morning. But now, you need your rest.”
His protests die upon his lips when her fingers start carding through her hair. He moans.
“I hope this is okay. I used to do this for Winta.”
He nods. “It’s nice,” he mumbles.
“Sleep,” she says again.
He does.