Chapter Text
Omera watches with bated breath as the walker slips and goes down into the krill pond. Before she has a chance to wonder ‘what now?’, a flash of shining silver catches her eye. The Mandalorian hurdles over the barricade and sprints to where the walker is sparking, a gleaming red device in hand. It strikes her, the amount of grace and speed he maintains in such bulking armour, while also setting her heart pounding in her chest. Throughout the battle her eyes had sought him out, as they often do, to see how he was fairing. It was a silly compulsion, as she knew she should be more concerned for herself than the skilled hunter. Regardless, she had found herself itching throughout the battle to move to his side and assist, especially when Cara had leaped out into the fray with his pulse rifle slung over her shoulder.
A stray blaster shot skims her head and singes her hair, bringing her attention back to her own line of defense briefly before she fires off a round of shots as cover for the Mandalorian. As soon as he’s thrown the device into the walker’s blown-out eye, he dives for cover in the pond with Cara just as the explosion sends a ball of fire into the air. The Klatooinians engaging in battle are quickly overpowered in their distraction, a few fleeing back into the woods. Omera lets out of sigh of relief, turning into a breathless laugh as arms are thrown around her shoulders in cheer. She laughs, tears streaming down her cheeks and clutches those around her tighter; the nightmare was finally over.
Amongst the uproar of celebration by the villagers, Omera sees the Mandalorian pull himself out of the pond, water gushing out of the pockets in his armour, and run down the path between the krill ponds towards them. For a split second she thinks he is running to her, and her heart quickens even further than the spluttering mess it currently is, but then he is passing her and heading into the heart of the village. She rolls her eyes at herself, scolds her silly emotions, and places her own rifle on the nearest crate before taking off after him to check on the kids.
She comes to a halt beside him as Winta emerges from the village hall with the child in her arms, a nervous look on her face as she glances around. Once she spots the Mandalorian and her mother, however, a smile threatens to split her face in two and she is rushing over to them as the other children hesitantly file out after her.
“I took good care of him,” her small voice says, looking up into his visor as he bends to her height. She passes the bundle of blankets over to the Mandalorian’s waiting arms and Omera finds herself smiling at her daughter’s shyness around the man.
“I know,” his modulated voice replies, standing to his full height once again and she notices the slight hesitance in his right leg, he must be more injured than he’s letting on. “You always do.”
The child coos in his father’s arms and Winta rushes to her mother’s side, throwing her arms around her middle and smiling up at her. Omera smiles down at her and brushes a thumb under Winta’s eye to catch a tear. When she looks up, the Mandalorian is watching her. She mouths a ‘thank you’ and he tilts his head in recognition.
Around them the villagers have recovered from the immediate shock of their victory, throwing buckets of water to dampen the small fires and collecting everyone around a central bonfire to celebrate. She widens her smile at the bounty hunter, Cara now in tow, and inclines her head for them all to join the festivities.
As they all head over, cups of spotchka forced into their hands, Omera contemplates the bounty hunter not for the first time. He is cold and calculating, never speaking without purpose, and almost to the point where you wonder if he will respond at all. But then he does, and all the waiting had been worth it just to get a glimpse of the man under the armour. He walks with confidence, deadly and deliberate, hand either slung in his belt or resting on his blaster. For now, it is the former, his other arm cradling the child close to his chest, flames reflected in the shining metal. He strikes an opposing image.
He has placed himself on the uncrowded side of the fire, nearest to the forest where their battle took place not an hour before, and she doesn’t miss the subtle slant of his helmet every so often, keeping a watchful eye for any Klatooinian stragglers.
“Do you think he’ll let us play with him for a bit?” Winta says, breaking her out of her musings, and she can see the other village children keenly watching from the side-lines.
Omera glances down at her daughter and smiles, “We can ask. Do you want me to come with you?”
Winta nods her head wildly and pulls Omera along. She is secretly glad, as it is beginning to get difficult to come up with excuses to be in his presence all the time. On their way, they pass Cara, who squeezes Omera’s shoulder quickly on the way through. Omera gives her a relieved smile and when she turns back, she is standing in front of the Mandalorian.
She suddenly feels tongue-tied under his visored gaze but then glances down and gives Winta an encouraging smile.
“Can we play with him for a bit? We will all just be sitting over there,” she says pointing to the group of other kids a little ways off. They had all been staring intently but averted their gazes as soon as her finger was pointed, and the man followed her gaze.
He merely nods and passes the child over, unwrapping the blanket in the process so the child can move freely in just his robes. The child looks up at him and garbles, stretching his little hand up to his father.
“It’s alright,” he speaks to his boy quietly, “I’ll be right here.”
Satisfied, the child turns back to Winta and squeals happily as he is carried over to the kids. Omera lets out a laugh and moves to the Mandalorian’s side to watch them play. She notices his cup of spotchka sitting on a crate to the side, untouched, and wonders if she should offer to have some brought to the barn for him to enjoy later.
Before she can think more on it, he turns to her and gestures to the pallet behind them and sits. A bone-deep sigh escapes him once he is off his feet and she shoots him a grateful smile.
“Thank you, you saved us.”
“You saved yourselves,” he replies immediately, settling back against the pallet and watching her.
She goes to respond, but Caben comes stumbling over to them, cheeks a cheery red and obnoxious, a sloshing flagon of spotchka dangling precariously in his hand.
“More for you, Omera?” He dips down into a clumsy bow, “My fair maiden? Or you, kind sir?”
“We’re still going, thank you Caben,” she chuckles, holding her arms out ready to steady him if need be.
Caben gives a broad smile and straightens out of his bow, instantly sobering when he glances at the Mandalorian properly, “We cannot thank you enough.”
She glances back at the Mandalorian and watches as he straightens himself out of his slouched position and nods his head in acknowledgement. Satisfied, Caben nods back and scurries off to fill the waiting cups of other villagers.
Omera thinks perhaps he is smiling behind the helmet but cannot be sure. She smiles back at him regardless, eyes taking in the visor for any hints at what lay beneath. “It’s very disconcerting, you know? Not seeing your face to judge expressions. I’ve gotten used to your body language in the past couple of days, but still…” she trails off, thoughtful, before breathing out a laugh and shaking her head slightly. “Like now. I don’t know if you’re looking at me like I’m an idiot or… something else.”
She continues to stare at him as he remains silent, and almost appears to hesitate, before uttering an apology.
“No, I’m sorry, I get chatty when I’ve had a drink,” she blurts, face reddening as she places her empty cup on the ground and brings her hands up to hold her cheeks. “Time for bed, I think.”
He watches her for a few moments, not at all helping with the ever-reddening flush on her face, before turning back to watch the kids and releasing Omera from his penetrating gaze.
“Hmm,” he agrees. “The kid looks exhausted too.”
Omera calls to Winta, telling her they have five more minutes then it would be time for bed. None of the children complain too much, all exhausted from the harrowing day, and eventually they both stand to collect their children for bed. Along the way he is stopped countless times by various people giving their thanks, each getting more confident than the last until eventually an elderly man grasps his hand in both of his. She can see the stern lines of the Mandalorian’s body, obviously unfamiliar with the close contact and gratitude. Despite that, he places his free hand on the older man’s frail shoulder with a light squeeze and signature tilt of his helmet.
Omera is watching him, her cheeks aching from the smile constantly plastered there, when she catches Cara’s knowing gaze from across the fire. She has her own entourage of people thanking her, but Omera knows Cara had caught her ogling her friend. Omera quickly averts her gaze, clearing her throat.
Soon, they are all out of grateful villagers and they finally make it to the sleepy circle of children, the child unsurprisingly tucked into Winta’s arms as she hums a quiet song. With the child’s father’s approach, Winta instantly stands and passes the boy over with a shy smile. Omera finds it hard to not be star struck in the Mandalorian’s presence so quickly nods a goodnight and hurries off to her hut with Winta in tow, before she can embarrass herself further in front of the man.
Although he seems for the most part to be distant in all regards, she has also noticed the small details. The way he sometimes lingers closer than strictly necessary, or the look of approval clear through his visor when she had shot true during training. She hadn’t been lying before when she’d told him she had gotten used to his body language, he was surprisingly easy to read at times. And she can only hope that her infatuation is not one-sided.
She ushers a tired Winta inside, turning to dim the lantern by the entrance when she catches sight of the Mandalorian as he enters the barn, rocking the child gently and leaning down as if speaking quietly to him. She smiles at the sight, of the imposing, deadly hunter, enamoured by the small cooing child, before heading into the hut and closing the drape behind her.
By the time he trudges into the barn, bones weary and joints aching from the constant onslaught of adrenaline and abuse, the child is already asleep in his arms, snoring softly and huddling deeper into the blanket. He gently sets him down in the crib, tucking the blanket tightly around his small body, and steps back for a moment, watching for any signs of stirring.
When it becomes clear that the child is lost to this world for the night, the Mandalorian quickly retrieves the basin from the corner of the barn and makes his way to the well around the back of the village hall. It has become routine in the past few days in the village. Once everyone has retired for the night, he collects water from the well to wash, both himself and his armour. He now looks forward to making a stop at the Razor Crest for a proper shower as the immediate threat to the village is resolved.
As he cranks the lever on the well and watches the water flow, his thoughts wander to the village’s young widow. Her strength and determination as fierce as her beauty. She is kind, compassionate, thoughtful, all things good in this dark world. He sighs to himself as soon as the thoughts surface, as nothing good will ever come of them, his lifestyle just didn’t allow for that. Besides, he had next to nothing to offer her.
Once back in the barn, he sets the basin on the table and with one quick glance to check the child is still asleep, he quickly removes his armour. Shedding off the bodysuit is much more difficult, it having half-dried into a crisp mess in the time he had spent in front of the fire, bits of pondweed clinging to the rough fibres. Pulling off the base clothes underneath, he quickly gets to work trying to wash the scent of krill off his skin with the soap the village uses. It is made from a local cactus plant that set his skin tingling, but cleans, nonetheless.
During the process he takes stock of his injuries, both new and recovering, his body a patchwork of scars, cuts and bruises where the beskar doesn't cover. None looked particularly concerning, some wounds scabbed over for now but may be requiring further attention come morning.
Once clean he dresses again in a fresh set of base layers and bodysuit that he’d previously stacked neatly at the foot of his cot, donning the helmet again. He scrubs his armour and clothes as quickly and thoroughly as his tired body will allow for tonight, with the intention of seeking Omera out in the morning to inquire further about where he might wash his clothes properly. Once done, he lays the clothes over the backs of the dining chairs with a wet slap and quickly refastens the beskar with practiced ease. He empties the basin and goes to his cot to settle in for the night.
Not once had the child stirred throughout the process. The Mandalorian turns out the lantern, rests his hand on his sidearm, and at last allows himself to rest his eyes, sleep overcoming him surprisingly quickly with dreams of endless days in the sun, a rejoicing village, and the silhouette of a beautiful widow waiting for him.
...
He awakens with a start in the morning, the barn impossibly light as sun streams in through the slits in the woven blinds. He sits up in the cot, body protesting and stiff, and sees the kid had slept through, still bundled up and snoring.
He lets out a huff and rolls up onto his feet, working out the kinks in his shoulders in the process. It is as if his body has been just holding itself together these past couple of weeks, and now with things settled for the most part, his injuries are catching up with him. He hadn’t seen anything to cause concern in the dim light last night, but his right leg was definitely giving him some grief.
“Let’s get you some breakfast, kid,” he murmurs softly, gently easing the blankets down from the child’s face and waiting for him to stir.
Big, brown eyes flicker open and he makes a high-pitched moan as he stretches his little claws and yawns. Soon, the haze of waking leaves his face and he giggles, reaching his arms up to be picked up.
Walking into the village hall, the Mandalorian notes that there may have been one too many flagons of spotchka going around last night. The hall is decidedly empty save for a few clusters of patrons looking worse for wear.
He spots Winta at a table near the back with some of the other children, or more, she jumps to her feet and waves frantically to ensure he spots her. He makes his way over and places the kid down on the space they had vacated for him, boosted up by a small basket on the bench so he can reach the tabletop.
“I’ll get you some grub,” he says as he rolls the too long sleeves of the kid’s robe up, then turns to Winta. “Where’s your mother?”
Winta shrugs, scooping up a large spoonful of porridge from her own bowl and offering it to the kid, “She’s around.”
The Mandalorian nods at the logic of children and is about to set off to get some food for the kid instead of mooching off Winta, when two bowls suddenly materialise in front of him. The woman holding them offers a kind smile and nudges the bowls forward again, “For you and your boy.”
“Thank you,” he returns and accepts them gratefully. “The kid can have mine too.”
As he places the bowls on the table in front of the child, he just glimpses Omera outside, bent down at one of the outermost krill ponds.
“Can you watch him?” he asks Winta, who practically swells with pride and nods energetically.
“Be good,” he tells the kid with a stern finger then scoots the bowls within his reach, tucking the rolled sleeves back from where they have slipped down again.
Satisfied that Winta can handle it from there, he makes his way over to Omera. As he approaches, he realises she is crouched at a small stream, rubbing clothes along a washboard. His clothes. He has a moment to be thankful that he had given them a quick pre-wash last night before she is glancing up at him, eyes squinted in the morning light.
“You didn’t have to do that. I was meaning to find you this morning to ask about where I might wash them.”
She merely smiles and glances back at her work, “It’s fine. It’s the least I can do actually, considering all you’ve done for us.”
He purses his lips under the helmet, unsure how to respond. He would do it ten times over if it meant she’d always look at him like that. He realises he’s probably taken too long to respond when she starts speaking again.
“I wanted to apologise for last night,” she says. An absurd gesture, he thinks, what could she possibly have to apologise for? “About not being able to read your expressions. I respect your religion and find it admirable… I did not mean to offend.”
He is still reeling, trying to comprehend when exactly she thought she had offended him, while also feeling a coiling in his stomach that she admires his dedication. Her face reddens as she wrings the clothes out, sudsy water running free, then stands before him, absently brushing a lock of loose hair from her face.
“You’ve probably noticed, but… my eyes tend to follow you.” Yet now they avoided anything in his vicinity.
He wills himself to say something, anything, because at this rate she may think he has become mute. He doesn’t understand when he became the kind of man that gets tongue-tied around beautiful women.
Cara eventually saves the day, or makes it worse, he is unable to decide, and saunters over with a knowing smirk, “Fine morning, isn’t it?”
Omera abruptly swoops down to retrieve the washing and begin hanging it out to dry, the redness in her face now travelling down her neck too.
“Have you eaten?” she asks by way of distraction.
The Mandalorian reports that he hadn’t but would later, his weapons requiring his immediate attention before he would scout the perimeter. With that, Omera and Cara head to the village hall for breakfast, and the Mandalorian retreats to the safety and privacy of the barn.
Once inside, he stands for nearly a full minute staring blindly at the pile of weapons, wondering when his life had gotten so complicated. He had come to Sorgan to lay low, relax, yet being in Omera’s presence was anything but.
He hears deliberate heavy footfalls on the porch and glances up to see Omera approaching with a small tray in hand. Her cheeks again flush a pretty pink as she offers the tray over, and he notices he may have one-upped the kid’s meal. There was a hearty portion of porridge, an assortment of fruits and bread and a tall pitcher.
“Thank you, that’s very kind.”
She waves him off and leaves him to eat, saying she will collect the dishes when he is finished, and walks back towards the hall.
He sighs and takes a seat, working through the weapons meticulously and allowing his mind to drift off to safer topics of weapon maintenance and condition. Once done, he works at repairing, buffing and polishing the beskar of his armour, piece by piece. He nibbles away at the food in between and is surprised by the end that he has mostly devoured all she had given him. He briefly wonders if he will get fat here, as she was constantly ensuring he had enough food, going as far as to always bring him a generous serving in private when he would have normally just gone without.
When he decides he has hidden out long enough and regained his composure, he ventures outside again, catching Omera’s eye as she is surveying the damage to the village. He approaches her and gingerly passes the tray back, thanking her in the process.
She accepts it with a smile, balancing it between her hip and one hand, her other arm thrown across her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun.
“There’s a lot of work to be done,” she sighs, looking out over the ruined krill ponds and huts, the AT-ST still in a smoking heap in the pond. “Although no-one is quite in the right state to do anything about it this morning. Best to let them recover from last night first.”
The way she says it is so unhurried and carefree, though he suspects she has deep rooted concerns judging by the way she is worrying her lip. He nods his head in agreement, shifts his weight onto his left leg and rests his hands on his hips to assess the carnage.
“I’ll help too. Cara and I just need to do a quick scout of the forest first. Make sure the raiders don’t get any ideas.”
She uncharacteristically takes her time to respond, and he glances at her to notice her lips pursed in thought, “I know you’re hurt.”
He wasn’t expecting that. Getting hurt was generally just part of the lifestyle of a bounty hunter, but the unmistakable concern in her voice was a first for him. No one had ever shown concern for him, let alone have it affect them as clearly as it was affecting her.
“I’ve had worse,” he says by way of reassurance, though judging by the humorous huff she lets out, he thinks he may have missed the brief.
He can just make out Cara at the tree line on the other side of the ponds, waving him over, and he knows his time dilly-dallying is over. Despite how on edge Omera makes him, he also feels strangely at peace in her company; a rare and treasured thing in his line of work.
He quickly composes himself, straightens his shoulders and angles himself ready to make a getaway.
“I watch you too,” he blurts, storming off to where Cara is waiting, wondering if Omera understood that he was trying to validate her confession, and that it was not one-sided.