Chapter Text
Ever since your argument on Quanera, you and the Mandalorian fall into a comfortable, if not an easy rhythm.
It goes something like this.
In the mornings, you take the baby outside and let him run through the grass, which is almost too tall for him to see over. He often chases insects and climbs on top of small rocks. One afternoon, just before it started to rain, he picks every blue flower he can find, and when you both return to the Razor Crest as the heavens open up, he waddles up to the Mandalorian to present the drooping bouquet.
The bounty hunter kneels on the floor of the hull, using a soldering iron to fix the wiring of one of the ship’s consoles, but he sets it carefully aside to take the wilting flowers from the child. “Thank you,” he whispers, resting his gloved hand on the baby’s head with gentle affection. You see, later that evening before you retire to bed, the pale blue flowers resting in a clay cup of water on the control panel of the cockpit.
After a little exercise, you feed the baby mashed fruit, and he tends to try to feed his stuffed bantha toy some, too. You have already washed it more times than you thought possible, sure it will fall apart any day, now.
Then, in the afternoons as the child sleeps, you find things to keep yourself occupied. One day, you walk up behind the Mandalorian while he cleans one of his many weapons. The noises of scrubbing and tinkering draw you over, but you cannot tell what weapon he’s disassembled. The small table is absolutely littered with different parts, gears, and oiled cloths. It would look the same to you whether you were blind or not. But it’s the bit of light shining through the holes of his cloak that cause you to frown.
“This isn’t the one you lent me,” you say, picking up the hem. You feel with your fingers the holes and tatters. One portion of fabric is nearly worn away entirely.
He turns his helmet towards you, pausing his ministrations of scrubbing off the carbon of the barrel of a gun. “No.”
“Why don’t you wear the other?”
There is a heavy pause where he grows very still, and you have the distinct impression he isn’t actually looking at you.
“Because you’re wearing it.”
A blush blooms in both your cheeks, and you flex your fingers over the fabric that you still hold between your hands. You have taken to wearing the cloak whenever you go outside, since Quanera’s air is still cooler than what you were accustomed to. It does not seem to phase the Mandalorian at all, and he hasn’t asked for his cloak back. You use it as a lap blanket when you join him in the cockpit, either perched in the pilot’s chair to practice your landing and take-off, or nodding off in the co-pilot’s seat. You prefer it to the hull, since there’s more light, and the three of you are together.
“That’s ridiculous,” you finally insist, ignoring how weak your voice sounds. With a frown, you step closer behind him, and you rest both hands on his pauldrons. “Here, take it off.”
Immediately, he grows so tense you can taste it in the air. You tilt your head, trying to gauge what the problem is. “I have a needle and thread,” you say after a moment, fingering the fabric where his shoulder and neck meet. “I may be blind, but I can sew a hole or two.”
You see the moment his shoulders drop by inches, and for a moment, he continues to remain still. You don’t think he is actually going to acquiesce from how long he hesitates, but then he turns back to the gun he is cleaning and mutters, “Suit yourself.”
With a short sigh, you begin removing the pauldrons that secure the cloak beneath, your fingers working beneath the beskar to locate the leather straps that keep them secure. The armor itself draws your attention as you lift one shoulder guard between your hands, and you form an idea. He appears distracted enough, so you remove the other before taking the cloak and both pieces of beskar with you.
The Mandalorian finds you that evening sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, one leg crossed over the other as you feel with your fingers every stitch you made, careful not to prick yourself and bleed all over it. In the pilot’s chair, his pauldrons shone like beacons, freshly polished and his thicker cloak you’d been borrowing folded nicely underneath.
“I gave this one to you,” he had said, sounding tired and petulant. His voice was thick with another emotion you can’t put your finger on, and you lift your chin up and set your sewing in your lap, the well-worn cloak resembling a black banner against your legs.
“And now I’m giving it back. It’s terribly heavy,” you insist with a wave of your hand, looking back down at the seams you’ve created on the thinner one you were mending.
“Then-then I’ll get you another one,” the Mandalorian huffs, sounding endearingly irritated. He begins to put the armor back on, thorough and precise with every movement. “That thing isn’t worth the thread you’re using on it.”
“You were wearing it.” It’s an accusation, and you mean it that way. His armor is beautiful, but what should keep him warm is so thin even you can see through it. “Besides, I don’t intend to wear it.”
And you don’t. What you do is reline the child’s cradle, using the older, thinner blankets as padding and attaching the newly mended cloak on top. You notice the little one burrow under the blankets more than once, and one evening when you pick him up, his ears feel near to freezing off. This project takes you several days to complete, your penchant for a well-done job motivating you to perfect the cushion of the cradle and securing the lining in neat, hemmed rows.
When the baby finally crawls in, he practically bounces from the soft stuffing, cooing in wonder. You cannot keep from beaming with pride at your work, your fingers a bit more stiff and sore than before, but it is worth it to see the child fall asleep so quickly. You wonder if he is comforted by the scent of his father.
The Mandalorian says nothing of it. He finds some work collecting a renegade mechanic who had stolen a ship from Cantonica, and when he returns-wearing the cloak you’d forced back onto him-he seems too tired to even hold a conversation. You manage to take off without needing his supervision, and you assure him you would let him know if you needed help.
Returning to your own bunk that night, you find bolts of fabric that have your mouth falling open. The different textures feel as silky as water against your fingers, softer than anything you’ve ever worn before, in shades of the sea. Blues, greens, greys, darker but rich in a quality you could never afford. Your eyes sting at the kind gesture, unsure what to make of such a gift.
You stay up that night until the sun appears on the horizon, sewing and hemming until your fingers are too raw to even pick the child up, but you know the Mandalorian sees the midnight blue dress that replaces the old threadbare clothing you wore before. He even helps secure the cloak you’ve sewn for yourself, his leather gloves whispering over the pewter material when he fastens it at your shoulders before going out with the child.
That was this morning, before you took off. Now, you’ve set course to a planet called Nevarro, where the Mandalorian says he needs to speak with a business associate from the Bounty Hunter’s Guild. You have plenty of curiosity for the venture, but now you are distracted.
There are few sounds in the world that make you as happy as listening to the child laugh. The burbling squeal, thick with joy, makes your face crease with a helpless grin as you lounge in the pilot’s seat in the Razor Crest’s cockpit. The ship is currently cruising on autopilot, and you are facing the co-pilot seats where the child is propped up in his cradle in one, flailing his arms and hiccupping with laughter as the Mandalorian sits across from him, attempting to speak sternly in Mando’a.
“Ori’skraan,” the Mandalorian is saying, holding out a small bite of a herb encrusted bread to the child. When the child simply giggles so hard his ears fluttered up, you can’t keep from laughing either, covering your mouth. The Mandalorian chokes on his own chuckle, dropping his helmet forward and shaking his head side to side. “Epar, verd’ika!” he insists, wagging the bit of food at the small green creature.
The baby falls back into his cradle, giggling and kicking his little feet in joy at the Mandalorian’s fruitless language lesson, and you throw your own head back with laughter.
“He’ll starve at this rate,” the bounty hunter snorts, dropping the small slice of bread onto the plate he’d brought for the child.
“Oh, I doubt that,” you snicker, missing the way the gleaming helmet with it’s sharpened visor tilts towards you. “And I have a feeling that he’s taking in every single thing you’re saying. One day he’ll just simply start speaking full sentences.”
The Mandalorian glances from you to the child, then back again, radiating skepticism. The baby still wobbles from his laughter, toddling back upwards to grin with all his teeth. When the bounty hunter looks down at him, the child tilts his head as if daring the armored warrior to continue.
“Duraani, burc’ya?”
Immediately, the child squeals laughing, and you have the rare pleasure of listening to a true belly laugh modulate from the Mandalorian’s helmet, his armor nearly shaking with laughter. He leans forward in the co-pilot’s seat and lifts the baby out of the makeshift cradle, setting him in his lap. Your eyes slip closed as you savor the sweet sounds of receding laughter echoing off the metal walls of the ship, a small smile on your face.
When the Mandalorian speaks again, his voice is soft, almost too quiet for even the modulator to pick up. “Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad,” he murmurs to the child, and you open your eyes in time to see him do something you find incredibly strange. He bows his head and taps the smooth beskar crown of his helmet to the child’s little wrinkled forehead. The tiny three fingered hands reach up to pat just beneath the visor, and the baby coos in response.
It is one of the most tender sights you’ve ever witnessed, and you’re compelled to turn your eyes away.
“Mesh’la,” whispers the Mandalorian, and when you turn back, you find that both the bounty hunter and the child are gazing at you. The child coos in his arms, looking up at the armored guardian before blinking back at you. If you didn’t know better, he seemed to understand.
“What are you telling him?” you ask with a soft smile, raising your eyebrows when the beskar helmet looks away from you. Amused suspicion lingers in your voice, not trusting the conspiratorial tone of the hunter or the curious ear perk of the little one he holds.
“I am telling him who you are.”
The quiet, reverent way he says the simple words stirs something in your heart, and your mouth goes dry as bones. You certainly do not speak Mando’a, which he’s certainly exploiting in the moment, but you suddenly desire fluency from the gentle, beautiful language from the way he speaks it alone.
And then, everything falls apart.
A thundering explosion throws everyone and everything in the cockpit forward, the Razor Crest lurching from the hit of enemy fire. You’re thrown to the side right out of the chair and land half sprawled across the control panel. A sudden impact to your side from a gear shift radiates pain all the way from your hip to your shoulder, and you can’t muffle the painful cry that bursts from your mouth.
The Mandalorian hits the wall of the cockpit, turning his body just in time so he absorbs the fall and the child in his arms doesn’t smash into the metal siding. You shove yourself up, scrabbling for the controls, and you pull the ship up, every instruction and piece of advice the Mandalorian had instilled in you falling into place. The whole right side of your body is burning with discomfort, and when the bounty hunter grabs your shoulders and pulls you out of the seat, you can’t help the dry sob that tumbles from your throat.
“Move!”
You change places, stumbling quickly to the co-pilot’s chair and struggle with the buckles. They click in place not a moment too soon, because all of the sudden the ship is crashing into a high speed, and you shut your eyes from dizziness.
A voice breaks the silence over the communications link. “Gotcha, Mando!”
The vocoder is all static when the Mandalorian growls with annoyance, gloved hands conducting a symphony over the controls to push the Razor Crest into flying maneuvers that leave your stomach somewhere down in the hull of the ship. With the thrusters fully engaged, the ship is flying faster than you’ve ever experienced, and it seems the child feels the same terrifying tension you do.
You reach over as best you can, lifting him from his cradle and wrapping your arms around him, focusing on how he nuzzles beneath your neck and coos at the attention rather than the pain radiating in your side.
“Hand over the child, Mando,” a voice hums over the communications link, and you realize belatedly what’s actually happening. He had told you the Empire was after the little one, that there was danger hanging over his head wherever he went. Your heart begins to pound in your breast, and you know the child can feel it, because he whimpers and clutches at your clothing.
Instinctively, you hold the baby closer to your body, feeling the Razor Crest dip before tilting back and up to gain speed. Another hit on the back of the ship causes it to lurch forward, and you and the child would’ve gone careening into the floor had you not been buckled in.
“I might let you live,” comes the voice again, half a threat and half a taunt.
More impact from enemy fire sends the ship shuddering, and alarms begin to go off, blaring in the cockpit. Something off to the left side of the ship implodes, and the crackling of fire on metal resounds in the walls. The baby whimpers and begins to fuss against you, and you’re only dimly aware that the Mandalorian responds to the threat by flipping several switches all the while ignoring the blaring alarms.
“Hold on.”
You slip your arms tighter around the baby, pressing your face between his ears, and you feel the ship turn quickly in a move that dodges excess fire. The red glow of the alarms distorts the cockpit, and all you can see is the gleam of the beskar helmet as he leans forward over the controls. It occurs to you in that moment that there is a certain thrill in something like this, a horrifying adrenaline rush that dangles you between safety and risk.
“Come on,” the Mandalorian mutters, angling the ship back and forth to avoid the shots.
“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold,” the pilot says over the radio, and those words sink into your stomach like a stone.
You don’t have time to consider the ramifications of the threat because the Mandalorian suddenly grabs the controls and rips them back, causing the ship to thrust backward in space. The starfighter flies past, directly overhead, and you suck in a breath when the ship clips one of the Razor Crest’s engines.
“That’s my line.”
The starfighter is in view one moment, and the next it’s a brilliant shower of sparkling vermillion clouds. The communications link dies, and the engines are shut off, allowing the Razor Crest to list in space silently.
For a long, horrible moment, the alarms going off feel like they’ll never stop, and you’re afraid you’ve forgotten how to breathe in the midst of the chaos. The Mandalorian tests a few gauges, flicking a switch or two before saying, “Losing fuel.”
With a few more quiet clicks and punches, the alarms are swallowed by the quiet and darkness of the engines powering down. The child giggles in the dark, his ears perking up and down curiously, and you’re glad he’s having fun, at least. When the Mandalorian turns in the pilot’s chair, he seems to remember the both of you and leans forward, putting his gloved hand on the baby’s head. “Are you alright?”
Your eyes are closed, head bowed to try and breathe. The panic from such jeopardy would have been one thing to deal with, but the hot pain spreading up your side from landing on the control panel is becoming harder to ignore. You bite your lip and jerk your head side to side, and there’s a shift of fabric in the darkness, followed by a quiet clink of metal on metal when the Mandalorian kneels in front of you. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I think I hurt myself when...earlier,” you frowned, trying to remember how it even happened. Everything was a blur, both mentally and physically, and it seemed like years ago now when the two of you were laughing at the child’s giggle fit. You shifted and swallowed a painful groan building in your throat. It came out as a muffled noise. “It’s hard to breathe.”
Without missing a beat, the bounty hunter takes the child from your arms and places him in the cradle in the opposite co-pilot’s chair. Turning back to you, he places a hand on your shoulder, and you suppose he must see how you’re favoring one side, holding your right arm across your abdomen.
His hand gently squeezes your shoulder, and he rumbles from behind the helmet before nodding.
He’s got a stubborn urgency about him now, leaning over you and pressing several controls. A switch clicks, and the engines power back up. He retakes his seat in the pilot’s chair, and you let out a shaky breath, the pain growing from your side like a hug-around your back and up to your chest. You listen to the beeps of the console and the radio static that hums back to life.
“This is Mos Eisley Tower. We are tracking you. Head for bay three-five, over.”
“Copy that. Locked in for three-five.”
You lean your head back against the headrest and try to ignore your heart palpitations when the engines sputter and pop, closing your eyes. When the Razor Crest lands, you are surprised at how gentle of a landing it is considering all the damage it’s taken. When you open your eyes again, it’s just as the Mandalorian is turning in his seat to look at you, and you wonder what he must see. You certainly don’t feel your best, and you think you must look it because he murmurs, “Stay here.”
The child fell asleep once the ship entered the landing program, and the bounty hunter gathers him in a blanket before disappearing down the ladder and into the hull. When he returns, you feel your throat begin to tighten at the worry of being able to breathe. It’s hurting worse now, and the pain is sharper. He says your name, but when you don’t respond, his hands are unbuckling you from the seat. Gloved fingers ghost over your temple, and your eyes lift open.
“Can you walk?”
You consider it, and the very idea of anyone lifting you up makes your entire body viscerally react with dread. You nod but add, “I need help standing-and going down the ladder.”
He nods and gives you his hand, his other resting behind your shoulder. You bite your lip on a noise building from your chest, feeling weak and useless. Surely he’s nearly come close to dying, and here you are, hardly unable to stand all because you fell. Hot tears of shame prick your eyes, and you hold onto his offered hand as he helps you down the ladder. When you start to walk the length of the hull, your head drops to the side until it’s propped up against his shoulder. His arm naturally curves around your back, but you hiss when he touches your side.
You adjust his fingers and shift them up beneath your arm, muttering a quiet thanks as he helps you walk down the ramp.
The sun is hot and the air is dry on Tatooine, and you shut your eyes against the bright light when you both step out from the shadow of the Razor Crest. So when three pit droids begin chittering and ambling toward the ship, you nearly jump out of your skin when the Mandalorian unholsters his blaster pistol and shoots with smooth fluency.
“Hey!” a shriek from within the bay makes you wince. “ Hey! ”
“You won’t make friends with warning shots,” you whisper under your breath, leaning into him as he walks with you off the ramp, still tucked under his arm. He ignores you.
“You damage one of my droids, you’ll pay for it!” A woman strides out from the operating booth, and her fiery, direct attitude is a refreshing change from the quiet and stoic atmosphere of the ship. If you had full possession of yourself, you would appreciate it more, you think.
“Just keep them away from my ship,” the Mandalorian warns, adjusting his arm behind you so that you lean more of your weight on him. Though his tone is usually the same reserved, level baritone, you notice his voice takes on a more unflinching edge when he mentions the droids.
“Yeah? You think that’s a good idea, do ya?” the woman asks, her own unflappable and direct voice a match for the bounty hunter’s. She puts one hand on her utility belt before gesturing with the other. “What’s wrong with her?”
You’ve closed your eyes again, sweat beginning to prickle your brow in the heat, or perhaps it’s from the strain of keeping yourself upright. The beskar helmet tilts down towards you before regarding the mechanic again. With no answer, and you are almost thankful for it, the mechanic gives a short sigh. “Needs a doctor? There’s one down the road.”
When both of you hesitate-, it’s easier to hear your pained breathing. The woman shifts uncomfortably, glancing between both of you before huffing. “Well why are you just standing here? Get her to the doctor!”
“But the ship-”
“Oh, it’ll be here when you get back,” she says with another huff. “And don’t think I’m not charging you every minute for it!”
The two of you set off down the sand trekked street, and you feel the Mandalorian take a deep breath. “I could carry you, and we would be there faster.” It might have been a complaint, you think, if his voice wasn’t suddenly so tender and quiet.
“If you even try, I think I’ll pass out,” you whisper, unable to fathom your body bending with the pain in your side. Underneath the armor, you wonder if he’s rolling his eyes. Surely he didn’t prepare for this contingency, and you bite your lip on the feeling of guilt remembering the baby is alone on the ship. “If I can get to the medic, you can go back. The child shouldn’t be alone.”
“I can’t just leave you,” the Mandalorian shoots quickly, his tone full of surprise.
“I’ve survived without you this long,” you murmur with a small smile, and he’s quiet at that until you reach the medical service center. The name itself is a bit too grand for the small dusty building with sand on the floor and aged equipment. You suppose your face must be washed pale from the pain, because there are several on staff who rush forward to help you when the Mandalorian shoulders you through the doors. They all ask questions and begin to escort you to the back, but the bounty hunter speaks up before they get too far.
“Wait.” Everyone freezes, and you squeeze your eyes shut. Standing and breathing are becoming two things you aren’t sure you can handle at the same time, swaying between two physicians who keep you propped up. “Be careful with her. Please.”
You don’t turn your head to look back at him, but you wonder if he remains until you’re out of sight.