Chapter Text
Another yank at the magnetized binders that kept you confined to the back wall of the cockpit yielded nothing but more throbbing pain. You let out a grunt, but continued to pull, attempting to at least make the damn thing budge.
“Stop that.” The Mandalorian spoke without turning his helmet. You were pretty sure the modulated voice was designed to be scary, but the part of your brain that was supposed to warn you about danger had always been notoriously absent from your life.
So you stuck your tongue out at the back of his head.
In hindsight, stowing away on the first random ship you found with its cargo hatch open might not have been your best idea, but after years of working for basically no credits and a sleazy boss whose hands had groped you one too many times, you were fed up. A small satchel with an extra set of clothes and the few credits you managed to swipe from the till was the extent of your belonging in the world, and you figured you could hide long enough to at least get off the planet, bartering if you were found out once in space.
Unfortunately, you managed to choose the one ship that literally had a bounty hunter on it.
And you were found out before you ever left the atmosphere.
“Come on, Mando,” you whined, wincing at your wrists but continuing to pull. “What are you gonna do? Keep me locked up on the floor forever?” A brief spike of panic. “Are you taking me back to the town?”
The Mandalorian was silent. You’re good at talking, at getting what you want, so you decide to bargain.
“Literally, you can have every credit in my bag, I just need to get off this planet.”
The bounty hunter ignored you.
“I promise, I won’t be a burden. I can fix tech and be useful.”
More silence. You changed tactics.
“Mando, Mando, Mando, Mando, Mando, Mand-“
An armored fist slammed down on a large red button on the console, throwing the ship into a sharp stop. You yelped as your wrists wrenched against the binders, your body thrown forward at the motion.
The chair turned, the Mandalorian towering over your seated position on the ground.
You shut up.
He stared down at you for another minute, then sighed before crouching down and leveling his t-visor infront of your face. “Do you have a bounty on you?”
You hesitated for a brief second, thinking about the credits you'd stolen from your boss. “I don’t think so?”
“You don’t think so?”
“No,” you said, fake confidence in your voice. “I don’t.”
The beskar helmet tilted minutely. “You’re a shit liar.”
Your jaw dropped, then you started yanking at the binders, kicking a leg out at his stupid shiny armor. “Well you’re a shit person! I’m already on the ship, and I don’t think anyone is coming after me, and it doesn’t hurt you at all to just let me tag along for like a few days and then I’ll get off at the next planet!” Your chest was heaving, all your energy spent trying to reach his conveniently just-out-of-reach body. That damn helmet was still focused on your face, and you got the feeling that you weren’t going to like whatever he said next.
“My next bounty is on Hoth.” Damn.
You grit your teeth. “Then I guess I’m going to learn how to farm ice.”
A gentle huff made its way through the vocoder, a noise you might be tempted to categorize as a laugh.
Another tense silence. You’re staring at what you hope are his eyes, not willing to back down.
“Kriff. Fine. You can hitch a ride to the next planet.” The Mandalorian braces a hand on the wall next to your head, fiddling with the binders. “But you have to stay out of my way. And you have to stay quiet.”
With a hiss, your wrists release from their prison.
“Of course!” You beam up at him, and you can almost see his eyes roll.
Shuffling your way over to the co-pilot’s seat, your legs cramped from your previous position on the ground, you quietly take a look at your wrists. The skin is rubbed raw from where you were pulling against the durasteel cuffs, and bruises are already starting to bloom. You bite back a wince as you roll your hand, trying to judge how badly you injured yourself.
The Mandalorian had already returned to the pilots seat, but his helmet was still inclined partly towards you, tilted down to your wrists. You paste a bright smile on your face and chirp “I’m all good! Let’s get going!”, idiotically clapping your hands together and promptly choking back a whimper.
He turns back to the viewport, but digs in one of his various pockets before tossing you a small pack of bacta. “For the bruises,” he says, simple and to the point.
For the first time in a long time, a true smile crosses your face.