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Some days, it feels like the universe wants to punish you for taking up too much space.
Today, apparently, is one of those days.
As soon as you thread an arm through one sleeve of the coat, you know it’s not going to fit, and panic dries in your throat.
It’s your last day on Coruscant, and you’re running out of options. Your employer, an endlessly-taciturn Mandalorian bounty hunter in need of a long-term babysitter, told you a week ago that he’d just accepted some new pucks… And that your humble crew of three would be journeying through a particularly icy starsystem for the better part of a month.
Sand-rat born and raised as you are, you don’t exactly own the proper clothing for withstanding a tundra… But this is the fourth shop you’ve visited in search of suitable cold-weather equipment, to no avail.
You’re no fool; you know you’re on the thicker side, as humans go. Sometimes, total strangers behave like you’re unaware of your size—and like it’s their job to educate you, to ask you to take a different shape. Other times, with friends or… Potential suitors, they’ll pretend like they’ve never noticed the breadth of your arms or the generous weight of your thighs.
As if the world could ever let you forget that you’re a physical outlier.
“Something I can help you with, miss?” The elegantly slender woman behind the shop’s counter eyes you with a noticeable degree of pity as you stand clutching the garment like a fool.
You frown.
“Do you carry anything larger than this?” You ask with a shaky sigh, gesturing weakly at the coat as you shuck it off your forearm.
“No, sorry,” she replies without hesitation, offering a sympathetic smile that does nothing to soothe your disappointment. “Maybe check the holonet?”
You try not to roll your eyes.
“Okay, yeah. Thanks.”
Logically, you know it’s not your fault. That other people’s expectations for your body are not something you can control. That you can just do what you’ve always done: make do, repurposing old garments and sewing what you can’t buy.
But logic can’t always win out, and as you step out of the store into the busy street beyond, you can feel the all-too-familiar sting of frustrated tears burning behind your eyes.
“Still nothing?”
Upon hearing the modulated voice, you turn around to find Mando leaning beside the door, the kid bouncing happily in his satchel.
The familiar sight of your towering companion is enough to ground you somewhat, but as you try to formulate your answer, you struggle to meet his gaze.
You shake your head, eliciting a long-suffering sigh from the Mandalorian as he begins moving to transfer the child’s carrier back to your shoulders.
“We ship out tomorrow,” he reminds you, albeit hesitantly. Your jaw tightens as you gaze at the unyielding planes of his helmet. “If you can’t find something that suits you, maybe—”
“It’s not a matter of taste, Mando,” you cut him off. You were hoping to sound casual, reassuring—instead, your voice is laced with hurt. “I… None of these places have gear big enough for me, okay? I’m not particularly selective, I’m just too big .”
The Mandalorian has stilled completely in front of you, tilting his head in an open show of confusion.
“...Oh.”
A mirthless chuckle escapes you as your cheeks heat, turning to begin the walk back to the hangar.
“Unless we can find somebody on Coruscant that knits sweaters for banthas, I’ll just be making do with what’s in the ship,” you sigh, trying unsuccessfully to soften the bite of your words with a sad smile. “It’s fine.”
The walk back to the Razor Crest is filled only with tense silence, and your failed attempt at dismissing the issue quickly congeals into embarrassment.
You’re not sure why you didn’t just explain the problem to Mando after the first failed search, why it’s taken this long to admit the overarching issue…
You’re far from oblivious to the shape of your own body, and you’re not ashamed of your size—at least, you try not to be. But, at the same time, it’s not something that defines you.
Gazing down into the sparkling eyes of the child, your heart constricts.
You want to be known for more than the space you take up, to the kid— and to Mando. Aboard the Razor Crest, things feel so… Right . Mando may be quiet, yes, but he’s also gentle and kind in his own way. It’s there in the way he cares for his son, and in the way he protects your ragtag trio from harm. In turn, you like to think you’ve made a difference in their lives: you give the kid something close to a childhood, and you always make sure his father is patched up to fight another day.
It’s a beautiful sort of harmony, one that makes you feel like you might even… Belong at the Mandalorian’s side. As close as somebody like you can get, anyway.
But on days like these, the galaxy finds a thousand tiny ways to remind you that others will always find you inadequate, purely on sight.
And suddenly, that sense of belonging falls out from under you.
When the three of you reach the Razor Crest, you weakly offer a nod of recognition before Mando raises the gangplank and climbs the ladder up to the cockpit.
- - - - -
Initiating the rush of hyperspace does nothing to calm the twisting feeling in his gut.
Din can be such a fool.
He’s been so preoccupied with preparations for the next few jobs that he’s failed to see his crewmate’s composure crumbling before his eyes… And now, he has no idea how to fix it. It’s not like Din has a history of being particularly eloquent around her, after all.
What started out months ago as a mutually beneficial arrangement has become a constant distraction that he never wants to end. Sure, she’s great with the kid, she’s clever, and she’s funny, even when she’s using those deft hands to cauterize a blaster wound…
But she’s also downright gorgeous in a way that leaves Din fidgety and nervous like a goddamn teenager.
His only saving grace is the helmet, which hopefully conceals the way his eyes trace the exposed skin of her neckline, or the moments when she’s climbing up to the cockpit and he can hardly tear his gaze away from her ass. She’s soft and resilient, feminine and strong—singularly captivating in a way Din hasn’t found in any other being he’s known.
It’s as though the stars forged her from something different; something entirely new and brilliant.
But until today, it had never occurred to him that there may come a time or place where she couldn’t have the world melt to putty in her hand.
In fact—judging by the shame and hurt written on her face—she doesn’t seem aware of the power she holds over Din at all .
And what are you going to do about it? He ponders to himself with an internal groan.
From the first moment Din had felt his heart making room for her, he had sworn not to act on the budding feelings… Because the kid needs her; he needs her—though Maker knows he’s done nothing to deserve her.
And yet, as he sits alone in the cockpit, the forlorn look in her eyes as she left that damn shop today is burnt into his mind like a brand.
Suddenly, a thought strikes Din.
Turning his head, he searches the gear hooks above the hatch leading to the cargo hold.
- - - - -
The kid is snoozing softly in the hammock behind the door to his dad’s bunk, and now you finally have some time to begin your newest sewing project.
Your nervous energy has settled somewhat by now, and as you bend down to pull the duffle bag of your belongings out from beneath the bench, you try to push any more self-deprecating thoughts from your mind.
Sorting through your scant wardrobe, your brow furrows in concentration as you lay out swaths of fabric: an old woolen blanket that carries memories of home; a practical cargo jacket the color of desert sands…
When you hear the telltale metallic thump of footsteps behind you, your nerves tense but you resist the urge to turn around.
“...What are you doing?” Mando’s voice emits softly through his vocoder. In need of something to occupy your fidgety hands, you pick up an old flannel and begin to undo the buttons.
“Just making sure I’m ready for our trip,” you explain, humming in thought as you fish out an old scarf.
Through a sigh, he breathes your name.
Shit.
It’s, thankfully, not too often that your feathers manage to get ruffled like they were today, but you’ve already been regretting the curt comments you made earlier, despite Mando seeming relatively unbothered.
… Is he unbothered, though?
You lift an old scarf up to the light in an effort to check it for holes.
“Maybe I can make a new lining for the pram with—”
The Mandalorian speaks your name again, more insistent this time as he puts an end to your clumsy attempts at deflection.
"Could you stop looking for one second and just look at me?"
You fall stock still at his words, eyes widening as you set the scarf down on the bench with shaky hands. Shifting your weight uneasily, you pivot where you stand.
Mando is looking every bit as awkward as you feel, standing at the base of the ladder, a tower of beskar and shadow. In one arm, he has draped a long length of thick fabric that you don’t recognize, and you eye it curiously.
Your boss sighs, and it comes out as a modulated hiss.
“I’m sorry that this has all been… Difficult. I didn’t know, I wasn’t thinking,” he murmurs, head tilting downward to the item he carries. “I remembered I had this old cloak of mine up in the cockpit. Do you want to… Can you see if it works for you?”
Your heart skips a beat at his words, more gentle than you’ve ever heard him. As he begins to unfold the garment, the intention of the gesture dawns on you, and it floods your cheeks with warmth. With a slight nod, you close the distance between you two.
Encircling you with his broad arms, Mando swings the cape around your shoulders in one fluid movement. The piece is the same dark gray as his flight suits, with a collar lined in brown fur… But as he fastens the hook closure round your neck, you find that the unreadable darkness of his visor is what grabs your attention the most.
“...How is that?”
Standing so close to him, Mando’s voice is barely above a whisper—and it’s laced with heat.
You wet your lips as you run the fabric through your thumb and forefinger.
“It’s perfect, Mando,” you answer with a sheepish smile. “Really. Thank you.”
His hands drop awkwardly to his sides as he studies you in the dim light of the cargo hold. For a moment, time seems to still, and you listen to your heart pound in your ears above the quiet hum of hyperspace.
When the Mandalorian reaches up, ever so tenderly, to tilt your chin upward with one gloved finger, your breath hitches in your chest.
He murmurs your name.
“You’re… Perfect. The way you are.”
His modulated words press soothing heat to the wounded thing inside of you, and you absentmindedly wonder if this moment is really happening. In your dreamlike state, you note that the cloak around your shoulders smells a bit of him—of blaster oil and metal and aftershave.
“You think so?” Your eyes sting with unspoken emotion. When you speak, your voice sounds smaller than you’d like—it sounds treacherously like longing .
Mando nods.
“You’re beautiful.”
Something in the severity of his helmet feels so much softer, at this moment. From the presence of your hazy reflection in the glistening steel, you can tell that his gaze is held firmly upon you.
You step forward, giving him the chance to move away—but he remains as steadfast as ever, your light in the dark.
The plane of metal that covers his cheek feels cool upon your lips.
It’s a shy kiss, making you feel every bit like an enamored young kid; but the electricity humming between the two of you is the furthest thing from platonic.
Something like a gasp escapes his vocoder as his hands move to the soft curves of your waist. Your name has never sounded sweeter than it does on his lips.
“Thank you, Mando,” you smile, now breathless. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
In wordless reply, his strong arms slowly encircle your waist, pulling every soft contour of you flush to his steadying form.