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—THE INCEPTION of each night they shared began just like this; her bent backwards against the frame of the narrow bunk, and him hoisted against the ladder, beskar helmet reflecting the crimson and green lights that flickered in various places amid the Razor Crest. Behind the narrow visor, she knew his eyes were observing her, perhaps with wonder, perhaps with mere concernment. But she only grinned at the meagre tilt of his head—his attempt to grasp the features of her face from its upside-down semblance.
He said nothing, though the protracted rise and falls of his chest were enough to convey that he was cognizant enough to brush away temptations into sleep. And she understood him, she understood the way his breaths grow shallower when he dozes off behind that helmet, when his posture caves and the ladder shifts lightly with the distribution of his weight. But that moment wasn't now. Rather, the Mandalorian seemed content with relishing the quietude between them, the only sounds emitting from the ship rattling intermittently, and the occasional signals chiming from the cockpit a little ways above them.
Blood hurried to the height of her head, and a fierce pain pinched at her neck with the bizarre position. Though, she persisted through it, not discomforted enough to attempt sitting up with the Mandalorian's gaze fixed on her. She was certain it still was, for the hairs on her neck raised with the instinctual awareness of an unrelenting stare. Only he watched her so intently, often falling asleep with his helmet angled in her direction. She never inquired about his fascination, and she never grew uncouth under his scrutiny. Perchance that was why his observations were always prolonged. She found it slightly entertaining considering the thought of the abrasive bounty hunter waiting hours for her to fumble in his presence. Or maybe his reasons for watching her were entirely disparate from the ones she assumed.
Still, she never asked.
She feared that if she were to mention his seemingly endless inspection, he'd become apprehensive of it. And she liked when his attention—unwavering and deliberate—narrowed in on her.
This night, he alas spoke into the reticence, disparaging the routine they'd repeatedly fallen into. It was an unnatural act, and his words, too, roused her from the peace she'd grown accustomed to. It was a perfectly comprehensible statement, though the humility he conveyed with it surprised her.
"That can't be comfortable."
A smile threatened to disarray her demeanor, but she kept the amusement locked in her eyes. "Speak for yourself." He didn't respond, but she continued regardless. "You sleep against the ladder. why don't you take the bunk?"
"The bunk is yours."
"The ship is yours," she corrected, rolling over and nearly sighing at the instant relief pervading her muscles. Now upright in her view, the interaction felt too direct, too unnerving in comparison to how she knew them best. He shifted his weight, raising his right arm up to grab onto the top of the ladder. Her eyes followed the accentuation of his bicep, and if he'd noticed, he didn't make it evident.
"You live here as well, you should feel comfortable." His tone suggested a finality, but he was still peering at her, his helmet tilting downward as he drank in her figure, expression, perhaps even the rate of her breaths.
She looked at him curiously, but she couldn't bring herself to inquire about his fixation on her. If she asked, the mystery that seduced her and amplified the wonder he exuded would disappear. She found that she liked his enigmatic characteristics, that the ceaseless thoughts continually swimming through her head were enough to satisfy her. Various ideas of what he looked like excited her when he'd leave her alone in the ship. She thought about the texture of his hair, what color it was. She thought about his eyes and whether they absorbed and matched his demeanor, if they were kind, if they complimented his smile. She wondered what that looked like, too.
She considered that him watching her, unconcealed and made manifest before him, satiated a desire of his own. The idea was possibly blatant ludicrous, though she found no harm in entertaining it once in a while.
"We could share," she finally suggested, already scooting closer to the right of the bunk.
His arm fell to his side, but he didn't step towards her. "We don't have to."
"It would be easier on your bones if you did take the bunk," she informed, smiling frailly. "Think about it; healthier physique, increased plausibility of success upon your missions."
"Yeah?" He seemed amused, tilting his head at her, his shoulders bouncing with an inaudible chuckle. "How is that determined?"
"Trust me," she murmured, beckoning him over once more. The bounty hunter hesitated, yet upon observing her momentarily, he acquiesced and joined her in the bunk. The mattress shifted as he sunk into it, letting out a rasped moan as he fell back unto the sheets. She imagined he couldn't be too comfortable considering the hard beskar clad against him, yet the relief of its weight possibly compensated for that. She laid back with him, and his helmet turned as he peered at her through his visor. "Is that better?"
"It is. Do you have space to move around?"
"I don't need too much space, I'm fine," she reassured. "You could always—" pausing, she pursed her lips, shaking her head and dismissing the idea.
"What is it?"
You could always lean against me.
She shook her head. "Just do what you need to... to be comfortable."
He was silent, considering her statement for a moment before shuffling closer, reducing the space between them exponentially. She turned her head, and her breath fogged against the beskar of his helmet.
"Is that—" she watched him warily, her voice lilting. "—comfortable?"
"My legs," he murmured with the same tone, the same gentleness, as if he could scare her away. "They're not fitting."
Her eyes crinkled as she nodded, amused and understanding at once. She would allow for more space, although her back collided with the wall of the ship the bunk was carved into. He rose, propped on his elbows, prepared to shift away. "Are you okay?"
"How about you just come closer?" She suggested. How about you lean against me?
The Mandalorian peered at her for a moment before shaking his head. "What if we just..." he trailed off, his hand gesticulating, but she couldn't discern what it was he was attempting to convey. She looked at him, confusion evident in her eyes, and his demeanor slumped.
"May I touch you?" He asked, and she couldn't help how swiftly she nodded reassuringly. He reached towards her, both hands hovering near her sides before gliding down to her hips. When his gloved fingers pressed into her skin, she tensed, and his helmet raised. "Is this okay?" Nodding again, she remained inert as he picked her up with ease, as if no weight could ever obstruct his nonchalance. Her hands rested on his shoulders as his left one moved to her thigh, pulling it over his legs and easing her down onto his lap. Then, when she hadn't voiced discomfort, he carefully laid back against the mattress, allowing her to sink against his chest. "All right?"
She glanced down, lips curling as she noticed his legs were comfortable situated on the mattress as well. "This is perfect," she whispered, resting her head near the crook of his neck, where the edge of his helmet barely grazed against her forehead, and his chest-plate didn't press uncomfortably into her jaw.
The rise and falls of his chest had increased, and his pulse drummed against her temple. She found herself asking: “Is everything okay?”
He didn’t nod, careful to not hurt her with the beskar. Instead, his large hand rested on her head, padded fingers weaving into her hair and brushing against her scalp. The action was soothing, yet her heart couldn’t rest with the excitement and emotion wading through her. She looked up at him and wondered if he was peering at her through the visor. Then, she considered her previous assessment that he always observed her. The thought brought heat to her cheeks.
“Is this too much?” She questioned both him and herself. He wouldn’t initiate anything had he not felt ready, although she couldn’t ignore his cryptic presence, how she was laying atop him without knowing even his name.
His head shifted a little, and his hand fell from her hair to her chin, his thumb brushing over the point of it before tracing the outline of her bottom lip. His actions spoke to her, as if conveying the things he couldn’t bring himself to voice. He touched her as if she were fragile, as if the slightest pressure could destroy the closeness he’d commenced between them. But a part of his actions were instigated with a desperation, a want, and he found himself repeating her question in his mind. Is this too much?
No, he thought, and as he looked at her, his eagerness could not be settled.
“It’s never enough.”