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Should you even be bothering to dress up right now?
You’ve been employed by the Mandalorian bounty hunter you’ve come to know as Mando for less than a year, but it feels like it’s been so much longer. Your personal ventures outside the confines of the Razor Crest (under peaceful circumstances, anyway) have been few and far between in that time, and the prospect of today’s supply run—just you, Mando, and the Kid—sounds like a vacation on Cantonica right about now.
Of course, that’s not to say that life has been dull in the past several months—it’s been anything but, and you had expected as much when you accepted the Mandalorian’s job offer…
Perhaps that’s even why you accepted it.
Even on your worst days, you don’t find yourself missing your old job as a shop girl on Lok. You were never terribly interested in the inner workings of starships, but maintaining pit droids and cleaning up after the hangar’s slovenly proprietor had put food on the table once upon a time. Your boss was the establishment’s only mechanic in addition to its owner, so the customers that rolled through never had much reason to speak to you. Quietly skulking in the background, picking up stray tools and mopping up oil, you quickly became a non-threat to the pirates and smugglers that prowled the planet—exactly how you’d have it. The meek shall inherit , and all that.
As the years passed by, though, your boss became a bit too comfortable exploiting your unassertive manner.
The worst of it came on the day that you first met Mando.
For some reason still unknown to you, the Mandalorian had refused to let the pit droids lay a single scomp on his antique ship… A preference which ended up delighting your rapacious boss, as he got to then charge the bounty hunter double for manual labor. Unfortunately, though, this resulted in you having to take on the role of assistant mechanic—a position you weren’t well-suited for.
You’ll never forget the hot wave of shame that roiled through you as the Mandalorian paid silent witness to your humiliation, his shoulders tensing as he watched your boss kick over the toolbox at your feet and bark at you to sort them right this time, girl.
What does he care? you had thought, cheeks hot as your eyes made fleeting contact with the inscrutable darkness of the bounty hunter’s T-shaped visor. Your rust-bucket of a ship will get fixed. Move along.
When the Mandalorian had returned to the hangar that night, dragging an unruly target into his ship’s cargo hold, you’re unsure that you had ever been more happy to see a customer leave. Maybe if the hunter left, he would take any reminders of that morning’s misery away with him.
You’d nearly jumped out of your skin barely a few minutes later, though, when you turned around to find the heavily-armed man in question still skulking about your workplace… And oddly enough, it was you he wanted to speak to.
Could use a hand around the Crest for a few months.
Can’t pay well, but I’ll get a nice sum for today’s job.
Why stay here?
It wasn’t anything like the holovids had ever promised you. No offworld prince was declaring his undying love, ready to whisk you away to a life of romantic tranquility…
But perhaps Mando was a knight in shining armor.
In the months that have followed, your life has been anything but mundane, and you’re grateful for it.
You take care of the Mandalorian’s peculiar Kid, thinking on your feet as you adapt to the little one’s unfamiliar quirks. You gather parts and supplies to keep Mando’s operation running while he’s away on jobs. You keep the Crest in ship-shape. You deal with antsy hangar managers all over the Outer Rim, promising them their fees all in due time.
Some days, you take the Kid out of the Crest and run like hell after Mando coms to alert you of a possible threat. You apply bacta to the bounty hunter’s inevitable burns and gashes— occupational hazards, he calls them. You contact him in a panic after the Kid eats some weird, unidentified creature by the lakeside and you’re not sure what to do.
Throughout it all, though, you, Mando, and the Kid haven’t really gotten to spend much time all together outside of the companionable quiet of hyperspace… But today, the three of you will be making a long-overdue supply run, and even staying overnight in real beds whilst the Crest undergoes drastic repairs following its latest brush with catastrophe.
Despite the mundane purpose of this outing, you feel almost embarrassingly eager for the change of scenery—and for the opportunity to spend more time with Mando, a stoic man who intrigues you more with each passing day.
Sometimes, while laying in your makeshift bunk on the floor of the cargo hold at night, you mentally review the list of things you know about him.
Mando always wears the helmet.
Doesn’t talk much.
Takes his caf black.
Won’t let droids touch his ship.
Speaks Huttese.
Loves the Kid.
He’s intimidating.
Diligent.
Protective.
Kind.
You never meant to get attached, but lately, when you think of the future—he’s there, a solid presence at your side.
But therein lies the problem.
A few months.
Those words, deep and modulated, have been rattling around your head for weeks now.
When the Mandalorian had hired you, he made it clear that this arrangement was temporary—and though you’ve made yourself useful in the past several months, you feel far from indispensable.
Maybe Mando really did only need a short–term crewmate whilst faced with a particularly busy period of work…
Or maybe he had merely seen a woman beaten down by life, and taken pity on her.
Either way, your new employer has given you no indication that he intends to dismiss you anytime soon, but after your lucky escape from the constant stress of your previous job, the mere possibility of being set adrift keeps you up at night.
In your time aboard the Crest , you’ve found that you don’t want to be temporary. You don’t want to go back to a life of leaving your pride at the door before work, forced to contend with hours of taxing yet tedious tasks; of going days on end without encountering another kind soul…
To life before knowing Mando.
You’re not sure you ever could go back.
Gazing into the tiny mirror hanging within the Razor Crest’s refresher, you see worry lining your undereyes, even as you finish arranging your hair. Dressed in a comfortably flowing skirt and your favorite sweater, you look much more relaxed than you feel.
You can’t go on like this. At some point soon, you need to ask Mando if there’s a future for you here… With him and the Kid, roaming the stars.
Maybe it is a good thing that you’ve dressed up a little.
When you exit the ’fresher, Mando is standing in the cargo hold waiting for you, with the Kid already snugly secured in the brown satchel at his father’s hip. The bounty hunter’s armor gleams impressively, even in the Crest’s dull lighting.
“Alright,” you sigh. Upon hearing the weary sound of your own voice, you make an effort to smile pleasantly. “We good to go?”
For several awkward seconds, the Mandalorian is inexplicably silent, and you notice a slight dip of his helmet as he stares you down.
“Yeah,” he grunts at last. “Make sure you bring a scarf. Chilly.”
With that, he turns away, pressing the controls of his vambrace to begin lowering the ship’s exit ramp.
“And stay close.”
- - - - -
This hemisphere of the forest planet Dogoda seems to be entering its autumnal season. Upon exiting the docking bay, you’re dazzled by scarlet vines crawling up the stone walls of the outpost’s thoroughfares, and a pleasantly botanical scent warms your lungs as brisk winds stir up the fallen foliage littering the streets. You wonder if Mando is able to appreciate the fresh atmosphere from beneath the beskar.
“What a lovely town,” you smile, taking in the meandering crowds and colorful shops.
Mando’s only response to this observation is a slight nod. “We should look around for some place to stock up.”
You’ve never felt safer than you do whilst walking beside the Mandalorian, in all his armored glory; despite the diverse backgrounds of the outpost’s many visitors, they all seem to specifically avoid the bounty hunter like a river streaming past an immovable obstacle. Although you had once shared their sentiments, you’re now merely amused by their wary expressions.
Sure, you have seen Mando break noses without breaking a sweat as he forces bounties into the carbonite chamber.
You’ve also heard him chuckle at his foundling’s incomprehensible babbles. Watched his helmet shake indulgently at your terrible attempts at jokes. Felt his gloved, gentle hand at the small of your back as you carry the sleeping Kid up the ramp of the Crest .
Your cheeks warm at the memory.
No, you could never be afraid of him, now… But you pity whoever has a reason to be.
The eager giggles of the Kid pull you from your thoughts, and you and Mando both look down to see what’s inspired such delight. Following the little one’s gaze, you spot a street vendor selling skewers of some sort of fried meat.
“Ah, I see. ” A fond smile spreads across your face. “Little guy’s probably hungry, it’s been a few hours I guess.”
“When isn’t he hungry?” Mando grumbles, but you can hear the affection coloring his words. He fishes a few credits from a pouch on his belt and hands them over to you.
“One of these days, Kid, you’re gonna have to learn a bit of patience,” you find yourself saying a few minutes later, raising a chiding eyebrow at his little green grabby-hands. You go back to blowing on the still-steaming morsel that you’ve torn off the skewer for him, keeping a leisurely pace beside Mando while you let him scope out the storefronts. “Did the mechanic give an estimated time for repairs?”
“Gonna be overnight, like I was afraid of,” Mando mumbles. “We’ll figure something out.”
You offer an unbothered shrug. Uncertainty, as you’ve lately learned, is not where you best thrive… But in this, you trust the Mandalorian to keep you all safe.
Leaning down, you finally place a chunk of the fried meat into the Kid’s eager little claws, and he doesn’t hesitate to inhale it in a single gulp. A surprised laugh trills out of you as the wide-eyed child claps his hands in glee.
“Wow, compliments to the chef!” You grin, glancing up at the Mandalorian. His visor is turned toward you now, but whether he’s watching you or the Kid, it’s hard to tell.
“I don’t think he’s met a food he doesn’t like,” Mando scoffs. “But it does smell good, at least.”
Your expression softens; you and Mando have always taken your meals separately, for obvious reasons, but sometimes you wish he didn’t have to isolate himself for the basic pleasure of food.
“Someday,” you wonder wistfully aloud. “I’ll cook for you both. Something hearty, and in a real kitchen… I don’t know where, but I’d like to make it happen.”
Mando’s chin tilts; he’s definitely looking at you now.
You’re blushing again, and a now-familiar anxiety lurches through your gut.
Someday.
If you’re still around.
If Mando has any objections to your presumptuous offer, though, he keeps them to himself as he returns to observing the market stalls. At the intersection ahead, a stone-and-steel building advertises its wares in the window: medical supplies, rations, basic survival goods. Mando nods in the shop’s direction.
“Let’s head in here.”
Usually, the task of stocking up on the small necessities of space travel is left to you alone, but you’re grateful to have the Mandalorian at your side for this larger trip. With one arm slung around a plastic crate to fill up, his other hand cradles the Kid tight to his hip, ready to intercept any misadventures.
Bacta and MREs find their way into the box as you stroll down the aisles, your eyes scanning the shelves for the usual supplies. When you turn a corner, you grab a few bars of soap and a tub of conditioner and toss them into the crate.
“Why do we need two different kinds of soap?” Mando deadpans. You raise an eyebrow.
“ You might be bald under there, for all I know,” you prod playfully. “But some of us like to wash our hair and our hands with different things.”
“I’m not bald, ” Mando grumbles, hand placed defiantly on his hip. “I’ve just never seen the point of getting separate soap .”
You shrug, ignoring his protests as you continue browsing.
“I know it’s not really your thing, Mando,” you allow. “But every once in a while, it’s okay to do something for yourself just because it feels nice … Even if it’s just lathering your hair, or putting milk in your caf.”
A quiet huff of breath escapes his modulator, and you roll your eyes, even as you crack an affectionate smile.
On the way to the counter to pay for your purchases, Mando makes a little show of tossing a can of condensed bantha milk into the crate with a sarcastic flourish of his hand. It makes you laugh like a buffoon.
- - - - -
Din can’t remember when he’d last thought of another being as truly “beautiful,” before there was her.
The more time he spends in her presence, the more he begins to doubt the simplicity of his intent behind initially taking the woman on as a crewmember. Sure, it hadn’t been the first time he’d considered finding another set of hands for the Crest— he’d even told his allies as much, not too long prior to meeting her.
Months ago, at that run-down little hangar on Lok, he’d seen an adaptable worker that could probably use a new job.
He’d also seen a woman stooping to unpleasant things in order to survive… A woman with suppressed determination setting her eyes alight.
Maybe, in her, Din had even seen a bit of himself.
Perhaps he is getting soft…
But between her and the Kid, that might not be an entirely bad thing.
Din is grateful for the safety and relative tranquility of this town. In the pleasantly brisk air of Dogoda, he finds that he’s able to stop and appreciate his surroundings for the first time in a while.
…And, of course—though he may never admit this—he had charted a course to this specific planet precisely because it was rumored to be beautiful around this time in its rotation.
Now, as he continues to steal glances at the wistful smile warming his companion’s face, Din is immensely grateful for his forethought.
She’s wrapped snugly in rough-hewn layers, keeping a languorous pace alongside him as they stroll down the outpost’s roads. In the late-afternoon light, her eyes glisten like stars as they drink in the crimson foliage and natural stone walls of their surroundings.
The resilient, kind woman at his side deserves to see beautiful places like this.
Her scarf slips a little further from her neck, and Din has to bite back the sudden impulse to reach out and adjust it for her.
“Mando?” She raises a quizzical eyebrow at him, and he blinks stupidly behind his visor.
“Hm?”
“I said, ‘where else do we need to stop?’ ” Her smirk is playfully chiding, but Din can sense the degree of confusion behind it. He all but clears his throat as he returns his attention to the road ahead.
“Need ammo, parts for my rifle,” he grumbles out. Thankfully, a small armory is not too far ahead, and Din nods in its direction. “There.”
As they near the storefront, Din takes a preliminary scan of its wares through the window: basic blaster pistols and ammunition… A standard supplier for travellers looking to brave the Outer Rim. Serviceable enough for a bounty hunter.
The melodic sound of children’s awe draws his attention away from the business at hand.
“Is that real? ”
From the gathering of scrappy younglings that had been playing nearby in the street, a wild-haired little girl steps forward to shyly point at the Kid with inquisitive eyes. In the satchel slung across Din’s chest, the Kid’s more than delighted by the sudden attention, green ears perking up eagerly as he looks between his father and the new admirer.
Before Din can formulate any sort of response, his associate gently places her hand on the satchel’s strap where it sits atop Din’s chestplate. He stills at her touch.
“Why don’t you let me watch the Kid out here, while you go in and get what you need?” Her smile is warm and gentle; she knows that Din doesn’t like leaving the Kid when he doesn’t have to…
But ever since she came into their lives, Din finds that he doesn’t need to worry so much.
He nods, pulling the bag over his head awkwardly before stepping in close to drape it across her. However commonplace, the act of handing over the precious cargo feels strangely intimate, and something catches in Din’s throat at the sight of the Kid’s glossy little eyes beaming up at her with adoration. At last, the Mandalorian turns to head into the armory, but not before stealing one last glance at the woman kneeling down to introduce his Kid to some curious new friends.
Din hadn’t realized how heavy his responsibilities had been weighing on him until he was finally able to share the load with somebody. For his entire adult life, he’s been tasked with keeping his Tribe safe from all that threatens to eradicate them, laying his life on the line for his community’s well being.
When one chooses to walk the way of the Mandalore, you are both hunter and prey.
Yet even still, there are some that question Din’s integrity when he’s forced to rub elbows with the Empire, or when he accepts increasingly dubious pucks in order to make ends meet.
But that woman…
Din had barely known her before he knew that she understood something of the weariness that weighs him down.
Can there be any true shame in doing what you must in order to survive?
How can one be a coward if one chooses this way of life?
As the Mandalorian drops the parts he needs onto the wary shopkeeper’s counter, he has to quickly glance over his items to ensure that he didn’t grab something completely useless while lost in thought. After forking over the credits and storing everything in his bag, he reemerges into the afternoon sun.
“The spitting image! ”
Not far from the storefront where Din had left them, the Kid and his caretaker are knelt beside the dirt path, giggling along with the younglings from earlier. Din’s associate is beaming up at him, and his legs mindlessly gravitate toward her.
“Excuse me?” Din deadpans.
She points down at the Kid, who stands proudly on the dry ground with a small branch in his hand. Two perpendicular lines are crudely scraped into the dirt, forming a T-shape. It kind of looks like…
Brows raised, the woman taps at her own eyes while looking up at Din. He squats down beside her.
“Hey, Kid,” he gives the little one’s fuzzy green head a gentle ruffle with one gloved hand. “Is that me? ”
The Kid erupts into delighted coos, and the other children are quick to join in his amusement.
After some disappointed little farewells, Din and his crewmate bundle the Kid back into his bag before heading toward the next stop on their list.
“I saw a haberdasher earlier, I’d like to grab some thread and fabric,” the woman muses.
“The Crest has really been needing some new drapes.” Din fixes his gaze ahead, but smirks when he feels her halfheartedly slap his arm.
“Do you know just how much time I’ve spent patching up perfectly fine cloaks that you were content to just throw away?”
“I don’t think bounties care if I’m presentable.”
At this, she rolls her eyes, but continues. “Anyway, I was also thinking that I might make the Kid… I don’t know, a little doll or something.” Her voice wavers, and concern sobers Din’s thoughts. “So he can have something from me, I guess.”
Din’s stomach plummets at her wistful tone… Some day, maybe even soon, they’ll both have to say goodbye to the Kid.
He tries not to think about it.
“I think he’d like that.” Din’s voice quietly hisses out of the modulator.
She releases a shaky sigh, and looks at him with uncertain eyes.
He mutters her name, and she seems to almost flinch at the sound. “Is everything…?” For a moment, he thinks to reach out to her—
“Yeah…” She clears away the hoarseness of her throat. “Yeah. Take this little guy while I head in there?” She gently pulls the satchel away from herself and passes the Kid off to him. Confused, Din can only offer a stiff nod before she disappears into the shop. With a staticky sigh, he peers down at the Kid’s quizzical eyes.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got any clue, bud?”
Unintelligible gurgles offer no consolation.
“Hello there, sir!”
Instinct bids Din to turn his attention to the calling voice, and he’s mildly annoyed to find that the entreaty is being directed at him .
“I have just the thing for a genuine Mandalorian warrior, such as yourself…” The Rodian merchant beckons him over with one cobalt-colored hand, but Din’s posture stiffens at the unwanted attention being drawn by the man’s loud sales pitch. As the Rodian’s other arm disappears beneath the table of his stall, Din tightens his grip on the blaster at his hip, ready to bite a warning at the boisterous tradesman…
But the Mandalorian is stunned into silence when the merchant pulls out a glistening piece of metal, delicately hung from a leather cord.
“Where did you get this?” Din has now found himself reeled toward the seller’s stall—a ramshackle display of scavenged trinkets and artwork.
“You know how it is,” the Rodian chuckles nervously. “Relics of this quality change hands so many times, and so on… Anyway, it is real beskar, just see for yourself.”
With wary hands, Din grasps the ornament and taps it against the gleaming surface of his vambrace… And sure enough, the metal rings true.
The pendant is fashioned into an Iron Heart, smaller than the one that adorns Din’s own cuirass, but elegantly crafted nonetheless. Distinctly Mandalorian, from its symbol to its material—this must have been the heirloom of some clan, once upon a time.
Unbidden, Din thinks of the woman who has accompanied him this far.
The woman he’s began to think of as part of his clan.
He drops the beautiful piece to dangle freely from his grip, allowing it to catch the light as he looks down at the beady eyes peering up from his hip.
“What do you think, Kid?”
- - - - -
You hope that you’ve sufficiently composed yourself by the time you exit the shop, bundles of soft fabric tucked neatly into the tote hanging from your shoulder. In the warm light of the setting suns, you find the Mandalorian leaning against a stone wall outside, looking more at ease than you’ve seen him in a long while. The Kid seems perfectly content to gaze in wide-eyed awe at the bustle of his surroundings, and you smile at the little twitch of his ears. At the sight of you, Mando straightens.
“Find what you’re looking for?” The gleaming surface of his helmet glows in the hazy pink light. From the warmth in his voice, you wonder if he’s smiling.
Your heart flutters.
“Sure did,” you respond breathlessly.
Mando nods. “That place across the road looks like an inn,” he says with a glance over his shoulder. “Let’s warm up and see if they’ve got any vacancies.”
When you and Mando enter the small cantina that comprises the establishment’s parlor, an employee is just starting to turn on the room’s oil lamps to stave off the dark of the night. Your party of three finds a secluded booth at the far end of the room. After setting down your bags on the bench beside you, Mando willingly hands over the Kid, and you perch him atop the soft cushion of your day’s purchases.
In a dreamy echo of the vibrant foliage outside, the interior of the cantina is draped in brilliant shades of orange and red, imbuing you with the feeling of being seated snugly beside a roaring fire. For the first time in weeks, the anxious churn of your thoughts calms somewhat; being here in this beautiful place, with Mando and the Kid content at your side, it’s hard to imagine why you should ever have to worry.
“I’m glad we get to visit places like this,” you say softly as you drink in the room’s humble charm.
We .
When did you start thinking of yourself and Mando as a cohesive unit? It seems that you were deeply entwined before you knew that you’d begun.
Years of loneliness, of quiet toil with no end in sight, can wear away at a person… And over time, you’ve come to realize that the Mandalorian might sympathize with this, the erosion at the core of you. What started months ago as a business arrangement has blossomed into a fragile sort of domesticity in the confines of the Crest; a bond of trust between two souls trying to survive the Outer Rim.
You’ve never put much stock into platitudes about fate, but there’s a kind of cosmic weight in the belonging you feel when you’re with Mando and the Kid.
We.
You blink away these wistful contemplations as you turn to glance across the table at Mando. His arms are folded atop his broad chest as he reclines back against the bench, but the visor of his helmet is firmly locked on to you. Your breath hitches in your throat as you mentally stumble over your next words, attempting to think of a less sentimental, more professional way to express your gratitude—
“Then let’s look for more.” There’s something hoarse in the already heavily-modulated timbre of Mando’s voice, and your heart skips a beat at the sincerity in his words. Is this…?
You smile shyly, but confusion nips at you as you watch him reach toward one of the leather pouches hanging from his utility belt—
“Evening, folks. Can I get ya somethin’?”
The tense moment snaps like a bowstring when a woman wearing a well-worn apron strolls up to your table, freckles accentuating her friendly grin. Despite the myriad of emotions clouding your head, you manage a smile in return.
“Could we get some soup for the little one, here?” You rub the Kid’s fuzzy green forehead with one hand, and are rewarded with a pleased babble. “And I’ll have a mulled wine, thank you.”
You and the server both look expectantly at Mando, but you know he has a different kind of request. He shakes his head at the mention of food before speaking.
“We’re in need of beds for the night. Do you have rooms available?”
The woman folds her arms and scrunches her nose in thought, and your own brows knit together as you wait for her response.
“Not much left, I’m afraid, we’re a pretty small operation and the weather’s starting to turn.” As the woman speaks, you nod in understanding, offering a commiserating smile from behind the layers of your scarf. “...But I think we’ve got a double bed that just opened up this morning. Would that do?”
Your cheeks feel hot as an engine as your eyes snap to the inscrutable plane of Mando’s visor. Will that do? If he has an opinion on the matter, he’s not forthcoming; his helmet tilts to one side, evidently deferring to you in this.
It’s not a big deal, right? On the Crest , Mando has his alcove, you have your bunk roll in the corner. The two of you sleep barely several feet away; you spread out on the ground, him and the Kid crammed into the cubby. Why should this be much different?
“Yeah,” you smile up at the woman, a nervous huff of laughter fighting its way out of you. “Sounds great.”
- - - - -
The lodgings you’ve secured aren’t much, but they offer some of the same cozy atmosphere as the parlor below. An old double bed takes up much of the space, but there’s a wide window above the bureau on the far wall to keep the room from feeling too claustrophobic. Beside the small gas fireplace across from the foot of the bed, a sliding door leads to what must be a refresher.
You and Mando place your bags down atop the set of drawers, and as the warmth of the fire eases away the chill, you remove your thick sweater and stow it away. The Mandalorian lifts the Kid out of his carrier, broad hands sliding their way beneath the child’s little green arms. With endearing tenderness, he places the Kid down in the middle of the mattress, and the little one quickly flops over onto its plush surface with a delighted giggle. With folded arms, you and the bounty hunter both quietly observe the Kid’s reverie for an awkward moment.
“You can—”
“I’ll just—” You frown as the two of you both attempt to pierce the quiet simultaneously, talking over each other before falling silent once more.
“I can take the floor,” Mando mutters at last. You’d expected as much from him, but chivalry isn’t particularly logical here, shining armor or no. Suppressing an exasperated sigh, you shake your head.
“I’m okay with sharing if you are… But it’s up to you, I guess.” You attempt a nonchalant shrug. “You need the rest at least as much as I do, Mando. I’ve seen the way you nod off in the pilot’s seat, armor and all; I’ll sleep on the floor if it means that you’ll let yourself relax for once.”
A bone-deep sigh hisses its way out of his helmet, but he offers no further response. As you kick off your boots, you watch curiously as Mando walks the room’s perimeter, examining the window’s fastenings and checking the reliability of the door’s lock. Evidently dissatisfied, he unslings the length of his pulse rifle from his back and wedges it firmly into the door’s handle, effectively barring it shut. You try to hide an indulgent smile as you lower yourself onto the bed next to the Kid, your legs hanging off the mattress to face the door.
When Mando turns around, he immediately shakes his head, pointing a reprimanding finger at you.
“No. You get the other side.”
Your eyebrows shoot up, but you scoot away to obey regardless. “Sorry, didn’t know you were picky .”
The bounty hunter scoffs in annoyance as he walks over toward the ’fresher door, but all thoughts of a snarky comeback are wiped from your mind as he begins unequipping plates of beskar from his body. You’re sure that you’ve seen him unarmored at various points aboard the Crest , but it’s somehow never felt this… Purposeful . You know the Mandalorian well enough by now to feel the weight of him allowing himself to be this vulnerable in your presence, and just like that, you’re blushing again.
What an evening this is turning out to be.
In an effort to distract yourself from the sight of Mando’s unobscured, form-fitting flight suit, you pull the Kid into your lap, giving his bat-like ears gentle taps of your fingers in the way that always makes him giggle.
“I’m going to shower,” Mando says, the rasp of his voice starting to betray his true exhaustion.
You look up to find his visor fixed on you as he stands beside the refresher door. The dark gray of his flight suit accentuates a body forged by years of unforgiving work, and now more than ever, he seems so… Human.
“Of course,” you smile reassuringly. “We’ll just be here.” With the Kid’s little green claws wrapped firmly around both of your index fingers, you wiggle them around in facsimile of a wave. A low chuckle escapes Mando’s modulator as he disappears into the adjacent chamber.
- - - - -
Din presses his forehead against the slick shower wall, allowing blessedly warm water to pour down the sore muscles of his back.
His companion was all too right; it’s been a long time since he’s allowed himself to relax like this. Bounty hunting has never been an easy profession, but things have gotten so much more complicated since the Kid came into Din’s life. When constantly running from threats, the idea of staying still—even for a single afternoon—can be terrifying.
As Din begins lathering soap through his dark hair (which, he notes, is beginning to get a bit too long for his liking), he finds himself thinking of her, and of her earlier words…
Every once in a while, it’s okay to do something for yourself just because it feels nice .
If he’s being honest with himself, though, doing things for her has been at the forefront of his mind as of late. She may have boarded the Crest as hired help, but she’s so much more than that now.
Whenever she smiles warmly at the Kid, or allows herself to admire the horizon of a new planet—even when worry darkens her features as Din returns home with a new battle scar… The sincere compassion behind her eyes makes some unfamiliar emotion pull taut within the Mandalorian’s chest.
He wants to give her something more in life than just a roof over her head…
He wants to return the same care that she offers him every day without pretense.
If only he could figure out how.
All day, Din’s been able to sense some growing uncertainty in her every move, but he feels woefully inexperienced in matters that can’t be settled with drawn blasters. Has he done something wrong? Is she… Unhappy on the Crest , looking after the Kid?
Din’s no fool; he doesn’t expect her to ever be wholly satisfied at his side, hopping across the Outer Rim with a faceless man who struggles to carry a conversation. He had knowingly forfeited all thoughts of lasting romance or family life when he chose this path… But perhaps, if he can find a way to let her know that there’s a place for her with him, she’ll want to stay—if only for a short while.
Stepping out of the shower, Din ruffles the curly mop of his hair with a towel and suppresses a groan of frustration.
Earlier, in the cantina, he’d nearly found the right moment to give her the Iron Heart—to let her know that she’s more than just a crewmate.
…But what will he do if she rejects it?
Rejects him?
Gazing at his own reflection in the mirror, he sees the almost-boyish anxiety weighing down his features. Darkness encircles the depths of his eyes; he swallows thickly at the sight of the weary man staring back at him.
As Din pulls his sleeveless white undershirt back over his head, he attempts to pull himself together. Stepping into the legs of his flightsuit, he slides the garment up only to his waist before tying its long sleeves together above his hips. With one last look in the mirror, he winces at the sight of the dark bruises and scars that trail down his bare arms… But, he supposes, she’s patched up far worse wounds than these—in this, at least, he knows she won’t judge him.
After donning the comforting obfuscation of his helmet once more, he steps back into the bedroom.
As promised, she’s still seated on the bed, but she too has changed her attire: trading out her thick woolen skirt for fitted thermal leggings and a loose tunic. In her hands, she holds a thick swath of plush gray fabric—from which the tips of two little green ears stick out.
“That something you got for the Kid?” Din fails to suppress a smirk as the child’s muffled giggles bubble up from the pile of cloth.
The woman looks up, lips parted to speak—but for a moment, she falls silent as she takes in his state of half-dress. Din tries not to squirm under her scrutiny; in the warmth of the hotel room, he’d figured his undershirt and trousers would suffice, but he now worries that he’s made her uncomfortable somehow.
Whatever her thoughts, though, she recovers, albeit with reddened cheeks.
“Sure is.” Glancing back down at the Kid, she smiles fondly. “Thought he could use a new blanket in the pram… He seems inclined to agree.”
She rises to her feet, gathering up the babbling child and kissing him gently between his dark eyes. After stowing away the cut of fabric, she leans down to where she’s slung the Kid’s cloth carrier around the handle of the bureau’s drawers, creating a makeshift sort of hammock for him. Din’s heart squeezes as the little one yawns tellingly.
“Me too, Kid,” the woman coos as she tucks him into his sling. When the little one is snugly secured, she turns and flops onto the further side of the bed with her own weary sigh. She glances at Mando, nodding for him to turn down the lamp. He obeys.
Through the aid of his visor, Din can see well in low light, but the room is still warmed by the glow of the small fire. As his companion wiggles her way beneath the woolen covers, the Mandalorian props a pillow up against the headboard before lowering himself to rest, seated half-upright with the weight of his helmet leaning backward. Folding his bare arms over his chest, he tries to let his muscles loosen, despite feeling the anxious charge of his proximity to the woman beside him.
“I’ve always had trouble sleeping in unfamiliar places.” Her whisper is soft with drowsiness, but Din can tell that her gaze is fixed on him. “But it’s easier when you aren’t alone.”
Her words hang in the air for a moment, their weight settling itself into a comfortable spot in Din’s chest.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice barely finding its way out of the modulator. “It is.”
At his agreement, she gives a satisfied hum, adjusting her position beside him. With her head laid level with his waist, she faces him now, and the awkwardness of the evening melts away as comfortable silence takes over.
“Was it ever cold like this, where you’re from?”
The question escapes Din’s lips before he can even ponder why he asks it, but she seems completely unfazed by his interest.
“No,” she whispers, and Din can hear a smile in her voice. “Never. It was hot, and dry. But I like the cold.”
“I guess I do, too,” the Mandalorian nods thoughtfully. “The beskar gets hot.”
The dimly lit bundle of covers beside him shakes with her hushed amusement.
Din’s not sure which part she’s found funny, but he instantly knows that he’ll do anything to hear her laughter again. After it dies down, though, it’s her turn to break the silence.
“What’s your favorite planet you’ve ever been to?” Though exhaustion sits heavy on her tongue, Din can tell that her curiosity is genuine, and something about the sincerity of her attention catches in his throat.
This one, he thinks.
But he doesn’t say that.
Well into the night, the two of them volley questions back and forth, seeing more and more of each other in each answer, like moons being revealed through their phases of illumination. Voices soften, eyelids grow heavier—when Din at last falls asleep mere moments after her, he feels more at peace than he’s felt in a long, long time.
- - - - -
You shiver awake to the feeling of familiar little claws prodding at your cheek. As you struggle to open your eyes, you fight the vertigo of waking up in an unfamiliar bed.
Morning light streams in through the slatted blinds of the steel windowpane, illuminating the confines of your hotel room. In your immediate vision, the Kid stands beside your shoulder, dark eyes peering up at you expectantly. The air in the room has cooled considerably, and you notice that the gas fire has gone out—it must have been on a timer during the night, you suppose. You find that you aren’t too cold, though…
For the final thing you notice is that you and the Mandalorian have gravitated toward one another in the night.
As your late-night conversation with Mando had carried on, you watched him gradually relax, slumping out of his awkwardly seated position to actually lay down beside you. Now, you find yourself tucked neatly into the warmth of his arm, his bicep cradling your neck as your ruffled hair rests atop his chest.
As the realization hits, you blush from head to toe, even as you’re reluctant to remove yourself from the comfort of his embrace.
The slow rise and fall of his broad chest tells you that he is—thankfully—still asleep, and you’re careful to keep it that way as you move to sit up. Embarrassment aside, you’re at least grateful to see the Mandalorian in a rare moment of uninterrupted rest. Eyeing the Kid, you give the little one your best shush face as you head over to the bureau to rifle through your purchases from the day before. You gently pull out a wax-paper packet of dried berries and tear the top off before handing it to the child.
“Let him sleep, Kid,” you whisper as softly as you can manage. His big black eyes twinkle with curiosity, but you know by now that the mischievous little womprat understands much more than he lets on. “He needs it.”
The shower in the refresher brings welcome relief, dousing you with soothing heat. As you allow the steam to billow around you, you become lost in thought.
Yesterday morning, aboard the Crest , you were still overwhelmed by a sense of vertigo—of teetering on the edge with no safety net in sight.
The afternoon that followed had helped you find your footing once more, but still… Nothing has been decided. You may feel closer than ever to Mando—literally and figuratively, you muse—but you still haven’t worked up the courage to ask him…
Ask him what , exactly?
Butterflies flood your belly as you recall Mando’s earnest words in the cantina last night.
Let’s look for more.
More planets to see, more streets to stroll—
More time together.
You swallow thickly.
That’s all you want, right?
Reluctantly, you turn off the faucet and exit the small shower chamber. With an unsteady hand, you wipe the fog away from the refresher’s mirror and find yourself gazing at the worried woman you see there.
Having some semblance of job security would certainly be nice… You’re happy with your life now, with Mando and the Kid. You don’t want to lose that.
But has this ever been solely about keeping a hull over your head?
Your fingers rise to your collarbone, brushing the still-damp skin there. You recall a moment from yesterday—Mando passing the Kid’s sling to you, his broad, gloved hands brushing your shoulders to ensure that you and the child felt safe and secure. Your heart swells in your chest with the recollection.
…Maybe you’re in much deeper than you thought.
After pulling on the homespun frock you had tucked away in anticipation of the morning, you awkwardly knock on the refresher door.
“Come on out.” The modulated tone of the Mandalorian’s voice sounds gruff with sleep, and you suppress an affectionate smile as you step outside.
The Kid is bouncing up and down on the mattress where you’d left him, the wrapper of his snack left empty and discarded to the side. Seated on the edge of the bed, Mando is in the late stages of affixing his armor, and you try not to stare at the sight. You find that you already miss the blush-inducing sight of his muscular arms, bare beneath his flightsuit—so perhaps it’s better this way. In search of something to occupy your fidgety hands, you step over to the bureau, pulling your scarf and sweater out of its drawers to begin donning your own set of layers.
“Do we have any stops to make on our way back to the Crest? ” You immediately wince at the hopeful tone in your voice, but thankfully, Mando doesn’t question it.
“No,” he mutters as he finishes pulling on his boots. Moving forward to lean his elbows on his knees, he stares down at the lively little Kid, apparently lost in thought. At length, his helmet tilts up towards you, the movement so subtle as to be almost imperceptible. “But it’s a bit of a walk… And we’re not in a rush.”
At this hour of the morning, the outpost’s streets have yet to reach the same bustle of activity that had driven you and Mando to the inn last night. There’s something surreal and soothing about the quiet roads, their stone pavement greeting the soft light of day, diffused by the barest amount of mist. The crimson vines and umber foliage you had been admiring yesterday now stand out brilliantly in the cool tones of sunlight, their leaves glistening like rubies with morning dew. With a wistful sigh, you realize that you can see your own breath emerging from your lips.
You and Mando walk side by side, keeping a slow pace as the Kid begins to doze off in the satchel hung from his father’s shoulders.
“We’ll be heading to Nevarro. Gotta pick up more pucks,” Mando murmurs to you at last, keeping his voice soft amidst the peaceful quiet.
You nod with easy acceptance. “Whatever you have to do.”
Almost absent-mindedly, the bounty hunter’s hand moves to gently pull the slumbering little one closer to his hip.
“And there’s still…”
His words trail off, but he needn’t elaborate, because there it is: the final piece of the puzzle that brings your anxieties into brutal clarity.
The Kid was never meant to stay with the Mandalorian forever.
Mando had explained as much to you, not long after you first boarded his ship; the imminent dissolution of your makeshift family is far from a surprise, but the reminder feels like a blaster bolt to the chest regardless.
Your heart breaks at the thought of saying goodbye to the little green womprat that has brought so much love and purpose into your life…
And, far more selfishly, the idea of your position aboard the Crest becoming redundant throws your whole being off-kilter.
As you and Mando approach a small, arched bridge that will carry you over the river that flows through town, you find that your legs feel weak.
“Can we stop here for a moment?” You manage a watery smile as you turn away from the bounty hunter, leaning your elbows on the stone railing at the apex of the arch. Mando’s only response is a slow nod of understanding.
You peer down at the stream below, working to settle your thoughts. Vermillion leaves are swept up in the water’s rippling surface as a breeze disturbs its glasslike tranquility. If you listen closely, you can hear the gentle whistle of the wind.
“Do you… Want to settle in someplace like this?”
Mando’s query, however gently spoken, brings the downward spiral of your musings to a screeching halt. You snap your eyes to the enigmatic darkness obscuring his own, and your thoughts fail to keep up with the words that leave your mouth.
“How could we?”
Silence hangs thick in the air. The Mandalorian’s helmet tilts to the side as he studies you, and with sinking dread, you realize the true meaning behind his question.
You couldn’t feel more shaken if you had been plunged into the icy river below.
“...You mean me . Alone.”
You hate how hurt the statement sounds upon leaving your lips. Your cheeks heat as you fight the familiar sting of tears, gaze tracing the sleek lines of Mando’s helmet as if looking for some organic expression of reassurance.
He murmurs your name, sounding uncharacteristically sheepish, but you cut him off.
“Will you not need me anymore once the Kid is gone?”
In the past few weeks, whenever you had imagined posing this very question, it had been with an air of practiced dignity and confidence—a business associate beginning negotiations.
Now that it’s finally out in the open, though, your voice is a thin whisper, betraying the utter dismay that has your heart fit to burst.
“No, that’s not what I—” The Mandalorian releases a weary groan of frustration, turning away to rub at the back of his neck. Standing across from him on this aged stone bridge, waiting for him to confirm your fate, you feel utterly vulnerable.
Quietly, the wind meanders on.
The bounty hunter seems to square his shoulders, as if readying for battle, before reaching toward one of the compartments of his utility belt. He mutters your name once more, equal parts reverent and nervous. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen the fearsome warrior shy before this moment, and the tense neutrality of your expression begins to go slack with confusion.
“I’m not good with words. I meant to do this last night,” he grumbles as he pulls an object from the pouch, holding it up to catch the morning light.
On a brown leather cord, an elongated hexagon of gleaming metal swings from Mando’s gloved grip. Barely the length of your pinky, its delicate facets speak of well-honed craftsmanship.
“What… Is this?” Your trembling voice hangs precarious in the misty air between you. Your eyes flit from the beautiful pendant to the Mandalorian standing behind it, and you notice with a start that the ornament matches the motif that sits front and center upon Mando’s own cuirass.
He inches forward, closing some of the distance as he cradles the object with his other hand.
“It’s beskar. An Iron Heart,” he explains. “It’s Mandalorian.”
Your head immediately spins from the many implications, struggling to keep up. Feeling dazed, you raise your fingers to touch the pendant where it rests in Mando’s palm.
“I thought it would be a good way to show you that… That you belong with us, I guess,” he sighs, clearly feeling just as unsure as yourself. With each shyly spoken word, though, you feel the clouds obscuring your desire begin to clear.
“You want me to stay with you?” Childlike hope infuses your voice... This feels like a dream; perhaps you’re still in bed, at the inn.
“Of course,” Mando states blankly, as if it were the simplest idea in the world, before faltering once more. “I mean, I meant to ask you if you wanted stay, not tell you, but—”
You’ve heard enough.
Before he can continue his verbal fumbling, you step forward, closing the gap by wrapping your arms behind the Mandalorian’s back. With your forehead resting upon the solid expanse of his chestplate, you release a deep sigh of contentment as you squeeze tears from your eyes. For a brief moment, his every muscle feels tense in your embrace, but he soon moves to cover your lower back with the flat plane of his palm.
“I can’t imagine asking you to leave.”
The murmured admission rings fragile in his throat, and you’re close enough that, for the first time, you’re able to hear his true voice echoed beneath the beskar. He continues.
“You’re better than I deserve right now—or ever , really.” A deep exhale shakes his chest. “I don’t expect anything more from you, but… There’ll always be a place for you, here.”
You pull back, eyes widening as you blink away tears to gaze at his visor.
His words are everything you’ve been waiting for…
But they also feel like so much, much more.
A smile warms your face.
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, Mando.”
The lip of his helmet turns down and away in a gesture that is somehow endearingly bashful.
“Din,” he mutters, and you wait for him to elaborate upon the monosyllable. “That’s my name. When it’s just us, call me Din.”
“Din,” you beam. You turn your own gaze out to the horizon beyond the bridge, the river now twinkling with morning light as the fog begins to clear.
“It’s true that I love this place,” you muse before looking at him once more. “But I love it all the more, because it’s… Just us. ”
You’re close enough to hear his breath hitch.
Your eyes trail down to the gleaming pendant still hanging from his grip, and in this moment, you couldn’t care less which planet you stand on.
“Put it on for me?”
He nods, raising both hands to gently drape the leather cord around your neck. The beskar bauble is a comforting weight that sits just below your collarbone, and as he adjusts it, your fingers trace the matching symbol on his cuirass.
The line of his visor tilts down, mesmerized by your languid touch. When he speaks your name once more, it’s little more than a breath.
All hesitation falls away as you lean forward to place a kiss on the lower plane of his helmet, stunning him into total stillness.
“...I hope that was somewhere in the general vicinity of your lips,” you laugh quietly, pressing your forehead to the beskar curve of his own. He responds with a rumbling chuckle that sends a shiver down your spine.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “We can practice.”