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“Take a deep breath.”
Your heart continues to thunder away in your chest, so loud that even Din must hear it. It’s all you can hear, Din’s voice muffled by comparison, the low frequency of his modulated words barely registering. Your hands clench at your sides before relaxing, over and over again, skin turning white to pink to white. You’re not even conscious of it, unable to stop yourself. Din takes your face between his hands, warm leather soft on your cheeks.
“Ca’tra. Take a deep breath. Please.”
Somehow it’s the “please” that reaches you. Din never says please. Not to you, not to the kid, certainly not to a bounty. It sounds almost strange in his mouth, more uncommon than the nearly dead language he speaks when he tries to get your attention. Or when he thinks you can’t hear him. His thumb moves slowly over your cheekbone and you do as he says.
In through your nose. Out through your mouth.
“Good.” His hands don’t move from your cheeks and you don’t speak, your eyes trained on the darkness of his visor. “Again.”
In through your nose. Out through your mouth.
There’s the slightest shift of Din’s helmet, light reflected against the hull of the Crest; a nod. The Child shifts in his pram and you realize you can hear it, that even as your blood sings through your veins, your heart has started to quiet. Din’s hands are still cradling your face, almost like he’s forgotten they’re there. That holding you is something his hands were meant to do. His one finger still moves slowly back and forth over the highest part of your cheek, like a type of hypnosis, as you stare into the darkness of his helm.
“What happened?”
Even as he speaks Din’s hands move, sliding down from your face and to your shoulders, where he guides you to a seated position on one of the crates that fill the hull. The metal is cold beneath your thin trousers, and you suck in a breath, clearing your head. Din drops until he’s crouched in front of you, ever surprisingly nimble in such heavy armor. You called him a lothcat once, when he snuck up behind you in the cockpit. Threatened to tie a bell to his bandolier so you’d always hear him coming.
Your lips quirk up at the thought, catching yourself before you let forth an actual laugh. Maybe you’re going mad. Maybe it’s the blood loss. Din lifts a hand back to your face, the smell of well cared for leather so close under your nose, as he touches your split lip gently. It hardly even hurts anymore. It’s the afterthought of pain—the memory—as it blooms afresh in your side. Din’s helmet dips and then he’s pulling the soaked linen of your shirt from your ribs, a hiss escaping through your teeth.
“Ca’tra.”
There’s anger simmering beneath the word this time, when usually it flows easily with affection. You’ve never even asked him what it means. Why haven’t you done that? Too scared to know the answer? Too scared to find that maybe you mean as much to this metal man, his hunk of junk, and his green baby as they mean to you? That wasn’t part of the plan. This was credits. Only credits.
And a chance to see the stars.
“Troopers. They were harassing a girl outside the cantina.” Your breath releases in a whoosh as Din slowly lifts your shirt, a bouquet of blossoming bruises surrounding the red gash of a knife. “Didn’t like it when I told them only dickless dungcreepers pick on little girls.”
There’s a hum, that sounds almost amused, from Din’s general direction, but it’s gone so quickly you think you might have imagined it. Din holds your shirt aloft, as his other hand reaches out slowly to settle over your skin. There’s the distant thought that you should be embarrassed, that the Mandalorian has never seen you so exposed, but the blinding flash of pain wipes it from your mind. You let out another hiss and this time you can hear Din’s voice, so quiet it’s almost swallowed up by the modulator, but his helmet close enough that you can just hear his real voice beneath it all.
“Ca’tra.”
This time it’s sad, and you get the feeling it’s not even really for you. Glove tipped fingers assess your wound carefully, mapping its edges and finding the same as you did: it won’t kill you, but it’s gonna hurt like a bitch. Din takes your hand in his, bringing it up to the fabric of your shirt until you get the message. You hold onto it tightly, your other hand clutching the edge of the crate until it digs into your palm. A momentary reprieve. Din rises to his feet, crossing to his bunk in what looks like five steps across the cramped hull.
The kid shifts in his pram again, letting out a little noise, and you glance over at him. His ears droop pathetically, his little hands grabbing at the edge of his floating egg, and a pang goes through your chest. You ache to reach for him, to smooth your hands over his ears softly until his dark eyes light up again. He’s too young for all this, too young to see people he cares about hurt. You know what that does to a lifeform, how it twists them up inside. You force your lips into a smile.
“It’s okay, little guy. I’m okay. Mando’s gonna get me all patched up and I’ll be—“ You shift, you face pinched in a grimace. “Fine.”
Din returns, crouching in front of you again, this time with a package of bacta. You catch his wrist before he can bring it to your skin.
“Din Djarin don’t you dare waste bacta on me. It’s a scratch, I’m not dying.”
His helm lifts until all you can see is the darkness of his visor. Somewhere behind it you know his eyes are staring you down, unflinching and stubborn. He’s a man of few words, your Mandalorian, and you always wondered how he managed to be intimidating without them. But when he looks at you like this, with the same intensity he stares down quarry, even without seeing his eyes, you understand. Already you want to apologize, for even questioning his intentions, but you refuse.
“I mean it.”
Din only continues to stare at you, as he removes your hand from his wrist. He places it back on the crate and just like that the moment is over. Your protests go unanswered, not even worth a response. Instead Din just leans forward slightly, reaching out with gentle fingers to smooth bacta over your skin. You should be mad at him for ignoring you, for taking your words under so little consideration, but the bacta warms against your skin, the tips of Din’s gloves so soft, and you let out a sigh. Damn him.
“You’re too reckless.”
When you look down at him his visor is still focused on your side, where he carefully spreads bacta over your ribs. “Says the bounty hunter.”
“That’s different.”
You try to snort, but it makes your side twinge with pain. “How?”
“There’s—“ He’s silent for a moment, the soft brush of leather over your skin the only sound to be heard, and when he continues his voice is low, barely making it through the modulator. “There’s people who care about you on this ship. Think of the kid.”
You glance over at the floating pram, your cheeks heating in shame when you find two big, black eyes still watching you. Anger and indignation makes your blood run hot, and when you turn back to your reflection in his shiny head you know just where to put it.
“The kid has a father who regularly puts himself in far worse danger. So don’t talk to me about pissing off a few troopers.”
“You—“
“No.”
Already you’re rising from the crate, embarrassment feeling a lot like anger as it hums through your body. Your shirt drops, covering your side again and then you’re rounding on Din. He’s still crouched, his hand lifted like it’s still pressed to your skin. You watch him rise, ever calm and controlled and it makes you even angrier. How dare he. How dare he try to make you feel guilty for something he does every day.
“I watch you leave this ship, knowing you’ll come back bloody, bruised, or even worse. Do I say anything? No. Because I know what you’re doing is important to you. It’s right.” You gesture to the kid, arm outstretched, and try to keep a grimace from your features as a jolt of pain rips through your side.
“We sit here, all day, worrying about you. And then you say I’m too reckless? You’ve got a lot of kriffing nerve, Mando.”
“Ca’tra.”
“No. I—“
You’re not sure what was coming next, because the Crest seems to pitch, and then there’s blackness at the edges of your vision. You blink, trying to clear it, but instead a wave of nausea overtakes you. Your feet seem to slide over the floor of the hull, and you throw out a hand to catch yourself. When it meets cold metal you can’t help but let out a sigh of relief, the familiar smell of worn leather suddenly wrapped around you. The last thought you have is that at least you’re not going mad.
When you wake it’s to a familiar rhythmic set of beeps, the light of hyperspace streaking over your head. You’re settled into the copilot’s chair, your “bed” of sorts over the last few months, after realizing there was no way you were going to fit into Din’s bunk alongside him. It was definitely because you wouldn’t fit, and not because the idea of the two of you jammed together inside there had set your heart off at an uncomfortable pace. You moan quietly, trying to shift in the seat, and a dark shadow falls over you.
Din crouches in front of you again, his visor nearly level with your eyes. “Try not to move so much.”
You give an unhappy huff but do as he says, settling back into the chair. It’s surprisingly comfortable, considering how threadbare the Crest feels. The first time you’d laid eyes on it you’d been sure it was headed for the scrapyard, incredulous that the thing would even power up, let alone fly. But she’d surprised you the last few months, kept going even when it felt like she shouldn’t have. Still, she wasn’t exactly built for luxury.
You glance around the cockpit slowly, realizing. “How’d you get me up here?”
“Carried you. The ladder was a nightmare but…” He trails off, exhaling audibly even without the modulator, his helmet still so close to you.
His hand reaches for you, almost like he can’t help himself, and you’re hit with the smell of leather again as he brushes your hair back from your forehead. You hadn’t realized how accustomed you’d grown to that scent, how it calmed your nerves with its familiarity. His thumb lingers on your split lip again, a gift from a white armor-clad elbow. A cheap shot, and you’d been sure to tell him so.
“How’re you feeling?”
The ache in your side is duller now, no longer a flash of white hot heat, but a bone-deep throb that fills you with weariness. “Better.”
Your eyes don’t leave the darkness of his visor. “You shouldn’t have wasted the bacta on me, Din. I would have healed just fine without it.”
“Stop saying that.”
“What?”
“That I ‘wasted’ it on you. It wasn’t a waste.”
His hand drops from your face, resting on your knee. It’s warm and heavy, and you stare at it, trying to figure out why you’re so okay with it sitting there. The two of you don’t touch like this. You barely brush past each other in the crowded hull, like magnets with opposite polarizations. You orbit around each other, never growing too close, always— Always at a distance. But now he’s so close.
“What if you need it? What if you get hurt?”
“Then I’ll buy some more.” His hand grips your knee softly, and you swallow down another retort. “Please Ca’tra. Just stop.”
You do as he says, and silence envelopes the cockpit. Din shifts slightly, until his knee rests against the floor, and his other hand can join his first. The warm of his gloves is almost too much, like a burn against your sensitive skin through the fabric of your trousers. You wish you could feel the soft brush of the leather against your skin, like where he touched your cheeks. You wonder what his own skin feels like. If it’s as smooth as his leather, or cool like his armor.
“What does it mean?”
“What?” His voice is just audible, barely tinged with the modulator.
“Ca’tra.” It feels less elegant on your tongue, without Din’s accent to help it flow.
There’s quiet for a long time, and you wonder if Din might not tell you. Perhaps you asked for too much, after he’s already given so much of himself away. He gave you his name. His creed. And still you ask for more. You feel selfish, shame heating your cheeks again, but you realize it will never be enough. You’ll always want more of the man in front of you, to know things no one else does. Holding each of them close your breast, knowing they’re more valuable than every credit in the galaxy.
“Night sky.”
There’s a tightness in your chest, nowhere near like the feeling in your side, and a sob slips past your lips. Din’s hands reach out again, cradling your face between them, and you can feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Not sister or friend. Not even idiot or pain in the ass. Something beautiful.
“What is it? What hurts?”
You shake your head softly and Din’s thumb swipes beneath your eye, catching the tears gathering there. “Din. I—“
But the words won’t come. They lodge in your throat and refuse to be heard. All the fight from earlier is gone, the anger and the indignation. You can’t stop hearing his voice. There’s people who care about you on this ship. You’d been so blind, holding yourself back, cordoning yourself off, so sure that you were alone in how you felt. That you were a silly girl with a crush. A crush on a man whose face you hadn’t even seen.
His hands lift from your face for a moment, and you watch as Din slowly removes one of his gloves. The skin beneath it is warm, honey brown, fingers long and thick. You can just see a few calluses, and the faint lines of a tattoo between his thumb and index finger—a detail you lock away behind your ribs like a secret. When Din reaches for you again there’s nothing between you, just the warm roughness of his hand against your cheek.
“Promise me you’ll be more careful.”
You nod without thinking, your eyes slipping closed for a moment as you try to memorize the feeling of his skin against yours. If this was it, if this was all you ever got of him, you’d be thankful. You’d never ask for anything else. Din’s thumb moves slowly back and forth over your cheek, echoing his movements earlier. You get the feeling he’s wanted this as much as you have, to feel each other, to have every last barrier stripped away until it’s only you and him. It makes your head feel heavy.
“Din.”
“Shh. Get some rest, ca’tra. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Even as sleep starts to pull you under, Din's hand never leaves you, his thumb still moving softly over your cheek, as it maps the constellation of freckles across your skin.