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Chapter Text

To the Ewoks of Endor’s forest moon, twilight is known as azar toot dee or ‘magic time’. It’s a beautiful misunderstanding, of course, born from a perfectly natural phenomenon. Sometimes, when the dizzyingly high canopy scatters the fading light of the binary suns, shimmering mirages will appear amongst the giant redwoods that loom and crowd the landscape – bright and ethereal. Magical.

Although you don’t believe in magic, it’s still no surprise that this very thought occurs to you this evening, given what’s up ahead. Honestly, it’s the only thought that can occur when you spot something shining in the distance.

Having spent all day carrying out mind-numbing repairs to the secondary shield generator array, you’re weary as you ride your speeder bike back to the compound. However, your mind fights to regain its focus the instant you notice the hazard on the narrow trail.

Someone clad in gleaming armour is traipsing through the trees.

It takes you a frankly ludicrous amount of time to realise that what you’re seeing is a solid person and not just a trick of the light.

Of course, it could be your fatigue. It’s coming up on six years since you first arrived on Endor, yet your body clock still hasn’t adjusted to its absurdly short eighteen-hour days. By this point, you doubt it ever will.

You suppose it’s easier for the moon’s natives, but for over two decades, your sleep/wake cycle ran by your homeworld’s twenty-eight-hour rotation. So you just can’t shake the feeling that living here is robbing you of both daylight hours and precious sleep.

As a freelance salvager, you’d mostly worked to your own schedule. But it took you and the other salvagers only three years to strip all the viable tech from the Death Star debris that made it to the moon’s surface. After that, you had limited choices out here near the galaxy’s edge. So you took a contract as a shield generator technician at the former New Republic base, despite their maddening insistence on keeping local hours.

Now you’re unable to sleep when you’re supposed to, and you’re dead on your feet when you’re working. An endless carousel of your body clock chasing the offbeat tick of the wrong orbit.

If you’re honest, existing in such an extreme state of desynchrony has you a little concerned that you’re slipping into delirium. So when the figure up ahead comes into view, this, combined with the prospect of mirages in the forest, has you utterly convinced you’re dreaming.

At first, they’re just a glint of light obscured by the colossal trees on the gently winding trail, but they grow in both size and menace as you slow on your approach.

Seeing head-to-toe armour causes a rising dread to constrict your throat as your speeder draws ever closer, dream slowly morphing into nightmare. Spite and old resentments surface in your belly to memories of white-armoured soldiers dictating lives and livelihoods as you grew up – memories shared by countless others throughout the galaxy.

Kriff… it can’t be. Can it?

No, it isn’t. Thank the stars!

Closing the distance, you can now clearly see it’s not a stormtrooper. This one’s armour is far too polished, and they’re not furtively attempting to conceal themselves in the thick and shadowy undergrowth. Plus, to your knowledge, the Imperial infantry didn’t wear faded black cloaks.

It’s been several years since you last saw a stormtrooper on Endor, anyway. The Alliance rounded up most of the stragglers after the Empire crumbled and pieces of its deadly space station began falling from the sky. If it had been a trooper up ahead, you’d have known you were asleep. Sleeping on your speeder and about to crash.

But no, you’re seemingly awake. Nonetheless, the sudden skip in your heartbeat sets you on edge.

This person is a different type of unwelcome sight. They’re striding hurriedly along the dead centre of the well-worn path, as confident as a sabacc player with an Idiot’s Array. But they’re also blocking your progress, forcing you to slow to a similar pace as you approach from behind. Whoever they are, they’re just as arrogant as the Imperial troopers were.

This is all you karking need. It’s late, the suns are sinking fast, and the forest has been unusually humid today, leaving you slightly sweaty. Plus, your intense fatigue is making you grouchy, compounded further by the stress of mistaking this roadblock for an Imp.

All told, the derision in your voice as you call out to them is inevitable.

“Hey, lurdo! You wanna get out of the way or get run over?”

The armoured stranger stops dead, and your body reacts on instinct, slamming hard on the brakes. With lightning-fast reflexes, they whip around and thump their large gloved hands onto the durasteel steering vanes as if they could arrest the vehicle’s progress with physical strength and willpower alone. Luckily, the pointed nose of your speeder halts a mere loth-cat’s whisker away from ramming into their armour-clad thighs.

“Son of a murglak!” you yell at them, muscles tense, heart in your throat. “What the hell?! Have you got a death wish?”

You just came shockingly close to causing serious injury. Your reaction was only that fast because of practice; plenty of others would’ve rammed straight into this hunk of metal.

At your reduced speed, you doubt it would’ve been fatal, but it could’ve done some severe damage to the unarmoured backs of their thighs if they hadn’t turned in time. And if the pointed steering vanes had pierced an artery… karking hell. If that had happened, you would’ve had a heavily bleeding stranger on your hands and a probable mortal injury on your conscience.

An even lousier way to end your day.

Up close, you notice just how tall and broad the figure is, even leaning over the front of your bike. An imposing and impassable wall of silvery metal blocking your route home.

As they relax their arms and straighten up to their full height, you instantly spot the array of weapons and ammo strapped to their body.

A bandolier carrying the highest calibre shells you’ve ever seen crosses an impressive metal cuirass, leading to a belt packed with mines and charges. Hanging from that against an armoured thigh is a holstered blaster, and on the opposite side is an oddly shaped baton by their hip. The stranger’s well-muscled forearms feature vambraces that no doubt hide an array of deadly tools, and there’s a massive knife in their boot.

And those are just the ones you can see. Who knows what’s contained in the loose bag they wear across them or what that thing on their back beneath the cloak is.

A polished metal helmet fully covers their head, with only a black transparisteel T-visor suggesting the location of their eyes.

You notice the silver cuirass is male-designed, and coupled with the person’s height and build, you decide the odds are that they’re male.

The rapidly sinking suns cast a burning orange halo around him, and the expressionless helmet stares at you, not saying a word. Sinister yet dazzling.

Surely he can’t be a droid, right? Though not a scrap of skin is visible, what little you can see between the armour suggests flesh beneath the fabric, not pistons. Why would anyone design a droid with such a lifelike shape? It would be a waste of materials. With those muscles, he must be alive.

You shift in your seat, waiting for something – anything – in response from the stranger. Yet still, he merely observes you from beneath the inscrutable metal helmet, a static sentinel at odds with the bustling surroundings.

You start to feel uneasy. Is he dangerous? That seems likely. Nobody carries that many weapons unless they have a reason to. Suddenly, the humid climate is not the only thing dampening your neck.

Something murky from the depths of your memory vies for your attention, a warning to be careful here. He may not be a stormtrooper, but the galaxy contains numerous other threats. The abundance of armour and weaponry standing before you is a glaring signal to be cautious and not test this one’s patience.

But the weird cocktail of exhaustion and alertness that clouds your every waking moment wins out over any caution the logical side of your brain tries to advise. Time is of the essence. Thanks to your hasty braking manoeuvre, you’ll have to recalibrate the bike’s repulsorlift when you get back now. Then, you still need to eat, shower, and attempt to channel your exhaustion into actual sleep. You can’t face another six hours of staring at the ceiling above your bed until your shift tomorrow, worn out but unable to switch off.

So you really need this guy to move – now. And no matter how heavily armed and menacing he is, he hasn’t made any aggressive moves even though you came close to maiming him with your vehicle. This only adds to your conclusion that you’re in no imminent danger.

You take a deep breath and push your goggles to your forehead, discarding caution into the ever-darkening forest. Time to try a less insulting approach. He hasn’t spoken yet, but perhaps if you can communicate, you can resolve the issue.

You enunciate your words slowly. “Do… you… speak… Basic?”

“Yes.” The voice is clearly male, though it’s filtered by a modulator, woefully devoid of emotion. The stygian black visor of his helmet remains fixed on you, a slice of infinite darkness amidst the flames of the sunset reflected in the surrounding metal.

“Right,” you remark impatiently. “And why in the fires of Mustafar are you walking alone in the forest at dusk blocking the trail like a lurdo?” A sickening thought leaps randomly from your exhausted brain, and you narrow your eyes at him. “You’re not hunting Ewoks, are you?”

“No.”

Well, that’s something, at least. But his curt responses and refusal to acknowledge your primary question further inflame your annoyance. Suddenly this moon doesn’t seem remotely big enough with this frustrating asshole blocking your path. The binary suns are sinking fast, and there’s a myriad of dangers in the forest at night… you really need to get moving.

Standing astride your bike, you puff yourself up to your most confident height yet fail to even remotely match his brooding demeanour. “Can you say anything other than yes or no??”

His stoicism persists despite your rapidly waning self-control. “Yes.”

Karking hell! You roll your eyes in despair and give it one final shot. As annoyance and defiance invade your tone, your plea comes out so piercingly that nearby small wildlife flap and scurry away in fear.

“Will you say anything other than yes or no to me?!”

You think you hear him exhale beneath the helmet, but it’s too faint to tell if it’s rage or resignation. Not that you care – you just want this asshole to move.

But at last, you seem to have pierced his impassive shell. However, his growled response seethes with barely controlled contempt as he leans toward you over the speeder’s outrigger, towering above you.

“I do not state my business to people who yell at me after almost killing me.”

Oh. Kark. The realisation that you are the one being flagrantly rude here punches you in the gut, and your face starts to burn with shame. The frustrating delirium of desynchrony is turning you into a wretched harpy.

Suddenly faced with the opposite perspective from your own, one frustrating fact makes itself clear above all others: you should’ve stopped your speeder before calling out to him. Of course he was going to stop walking when someone spoke from behind him.

Your angry front topples like a dead tree in a Gorax’s path. Sinking down onto your seat, you’re suddenly mortified by both your liability and your absurdly short fuse.

Being so confrontational is unlike you these days; you rarely find yourself in such a position. You’re the quiet type: few friends (mostly Ewoks who lead charmingly simple lives in your view), focused on carving out a meagre existence here with little need for conflict. You had more than enough of that in the past.

You’re vaguely confused as to why you had such a strong reaction. Must be the desynchrony; always your worst enemy.

And as for him… his imposing demeanour and harsh response don’t scare you. You’ve dealt with your fair share of bullies, and you know how to defend yourself. Not that you’d have any chance against someone this well-armed, but you’re pretty sure you could escape unscathed if it came to it.

No, his reply fails to move you to alarm. Instead, you simply feel like the idiot you assumed he was. And suddenly small, too. Soft and foolish compared to the armoured hulk who still looms above you.

You rub your palms across your burning cheeks before burying your knuckles into your eyes. Attempting to clear your head, you gear yourself up for what you realise is your only possible action: admitting fault.

But just as your apology leaves your lips, he quietly rasps the same word.

“I’m sorry—”

“Sorry.” He eases himself backward as the syllables reach you, as if he’s trying to distance himself from them.

Surprised by the sudden withdrawal of his menacing demeanour, you exhale a dry half-laugh. Why did he feel the need to apologise when you were the fool who set the hostile tone? Do you really look that pathetic without the anger charging you up? Was that an apology for his threatening response just now or for blocking the trail in the first place?

This has gone from maddening to absurd faster than your bike’s top speed.

He doesn’t appear to have anything more to say, so you attempt to mitigate your conduct as planned. You hope your voice doesn’t betray you, though you know your expression and body language are broadcasting your shame regardless.

“Look, I should’ve stopped the bike before calling out, and I shouldn’t have shouted at you. I’m… I haven’t had much sleep. So, I’m sorry I almost ran you over and then yelled about it. And you’re right; it’s none of my business what you’re doing out here. But you should stay to the side of the path so you don’t get run over or block any more traffic, okay? The forest is full of things that can kill you after the suns are down, but on the trails, speeder bikes are your main foe.”

You settle back on your vehicle and reach for the accelerator, but your hand freezes as he takes a step closer. This time, however, his approach is entirely without menace. Almost contrite.

And at last, the stranger speaks. “I’m… looking for someone. But I had to land my ship far from the base. I’ve been walking since the suns came up.”

As explanations go, it’s succinct and doesn’t really justify him blocking traffic. Still, at least your attempt to atone bought you an answer to your question about why he’s out here. Small victories. And perhaps it was an obscure attempt on his part to share some of the blame.

Now that you’re hearing multiple words free of the anger you both clearly stoked in each other upon meeting, you notice more about his modulated voice. You’re surprised to realise it’s a smooth and strangely alluring baritone. He says it all as if he were giving a situation report during a debrief, making you wonder if he’s ex-military.

Then another thought bursts forth from your weary brain: that murky memory that signalled for caution earlier. A fusion of half-remembered stories and chance observations when visiting cantinas on the wrong side of town as a young adult. Armoured. Covered in weapons. Concise, no-nonsense speech. Landed outside the shield’s range. Looking for someone….

“Are you Bounty Guild?”

He stiffens, his fingers subtly grazing the blaster on his right thigh. His helmet tilts sideways, carefully scrutinising you, perhaps debating whether your query should concern him.

Well, that’s given him away. Only hunters would react so defensively to that question, wondering if they’ve crossed paths with a bounty they don’t have a commission for.

A further tense moment passes as he becomes motionless once again. It’s as if someone keeps pausing a holovid before you, except the trees and undergrowth continue to sway around his frozen form, helmet cocked and gun about to be. Yet still, you’re not concerned – it’s just an innate response, not an actual threat. Plus, being a Guild member means he’s lawfully employed and not a full-time criminal, which was the other option. That makes you feel safer.

Finally, his stance relaxes again, and he confirms your suspicion with a curt nod. He must have decided you don’t look much like a wanted person. In your mind, you’re the very definition of unwanted.

You kick the speeder into standby as you consider his reason for coming to Endor. Without the subtle hum of the engine, the chirps and rustles of the forest and its occupants do their best to deafen you as you muse on his words.

His destination is the compound. Somewhere you’ve lived and worked for several years. Somewhere you know quite a few people (at least by face, if not name). And he’s hunting one of them.

You might know his target.

But then again, there are plenty of shady people there, and you expect many are past due to answer for their various crimes. Though officially still under New Republic control, the compound is full of characters with dubious morals since there are no stationed patrols and the security team is frankly a joke. It was the New Republic’s first headquarters, but once they moved to Coruscant, the base adapted. The complex primarily houses research and engineering labs now, but it’s a varied community – the quiet location has attracted many with an entrepreneurial spirit and the credits to rent a workshop. You’ve no doubt unlawful enterprise occurs, but you’ve rarely noticed any trouble.

However, based on what you’ve seen of him so far, this commissioned hunter seems less of a threat than having a criminal living down the hall from you. Even more so if their crimes are heinous enough to have such a fearless warrior type pick up their warrant.

And it’s been a while since you did a good deed….

High above you in the canopy, a geejaw calls to its neighbour in a shrill cry that sounds remarkably close to ‘dooo-it’. It’s enough to spur the part of your brain that isn’t half-asleep into making a decision.

“The compound is over an hour away on foot – you won’t make it before nightfall. Hop on, I’ll bring you there.” If he’s tempted by your proposal, he doesn’t show it, so you reason, “It’s the least I can do after almost running you over and then yelling at you.”

Once again, the metal-clad stranger simply stares at you, and his scrutiny reignites that prickling heat at the nape of your neck.

Kark, is this a mistake? Is it simply the shame you feel over your conduct that’s making you offer this well-armed hunter your assistance? You’re rarely this charitable to strangers, and you recognise you should be extra cautious around someone who kills for a living.

But part of you remains fired up from your standoff, and the charge that prickles through your body combines with your fatigue and curiosity. Before you realise it, you find yourself giving a sincere nod to punctuate your possibly insane offer.

It’s not as if you didn’t know killers growing up, so who are you to judge him for his livelihood?

Several more moments of tense silence elapse. Then the armoured man glances at your speeder and steps to the side, seemingly appraising whether it’s a worthy enough vehicle to ferry him.

“It’s a 74-Z. It’ll carry us both. I salvaged and repaired it myself,” you assure him.

You scoot forward on the long seat, making room, and he warily approaches. He pauses again, and you wonder if he’s about to decline your proposal, so you offer a compelling smile. It seems to convince him, and he throws his leg over the seat, carefully easing himself down behind you to let the repulsorlift adjust for the extra weight.

His action is smooth, and you’re almost alarmed by his wordless acceptance. Almost.

There’s not much room, but you fit just as you promised, albeit in a more… intimate position than you’d imagined. The seat is long, but it’s designed for a single passenger. His large armour-clad thighs now bracket your own, and your earlier unease unfolds in the pit of your stomach once more. Maybe it’s from having a weapon-adorned hunter pin you between his legs, or perhaps it’s because you’re pressed up so damn close to this broad-chested enigma of a man. Either way, something flutters in your gut.

Your inner turmoil only grows as he rumbles a simple thank you into your ear, sending prickles along your spine. It takes you a moment to realise why. His voice. Stars, there’s an edge and depth to it that’s stirring something almost primal within you. And there’s so little space between you that you both feel and hear those two syllables. Kriff.

Trying to conceal your medley of confusing thoughts, you clear your throat and anxiously suggest, “You, uh… you’d better hold on.”

The bike has no rear handle, so he has no choice but to hang onto you. You expect the weight of gloved hands on your shoulders and startle when you feel them settle at your hips instead.

Well, he’s bold in actions, if not words; you’ll give him that.

There’s a second of annoyance at someone touching you without your permission until your brain catches up and you remember he’s simply following your instruction to hold on. That was, of course, your full consent for him to touch you, albeit in a location you hadn’t expected.

And it’s not as if he’s made any leering advances toward you. In fact, he’s given you no cause to think he might take advantage at all, despite the raw strength clearly contained behind the armour. He could’ve easily overpowered you at any point, but he hasn’t.

Abruptly, your unease transmutes into a surprising regret that this probably isn’t a come-on. Honestly, it’s been a while since anyone’s touched you anywhere at all. So the feeling of this hunter’s large hands firmly grasping your sides only serves to stoke the rising heat in your belly, despite the extra layer of his leather gloves.

Stop it. You mentally shake off your reaction and start up the speeder. Resetting your goggles over your eyes, you push forward slowly to ensure you’re both balanced. Focus.

It takes a few moments to achieve the most stable position for the high-speed ride. All the while, your passenger’s thighs clench tighter around yours, and he leans forward with you as you press on the handles to gather speed.

His body is now wrapped around yours, and you feel both trapped and protected. But though the hard metal of his cuirass presses into your back, the warmth of his inner thighs against yours more than makes up for any discomfort lingering in the depths of your sleep-deprived brain.

His fingers press firmly into your hips through the fabric of your trousers, the feeling dancing along the confusing line between pleasure and pain. Combined with the resonance of the speeder bike humming beneath you, your mind begins to simmer with wholly improper ideas. The tension increases as unwitting thoughts fill your head – images of this mysterious stranger pulling your hips toward his own for other more lustful reasons.

Damn, you must be severely hard up to be fantasising about a guy whose face you’ve never seen. Plus, he’s only said a handful of words to you. How kriffing desperate are you?

You hurriedly dispel the thoughts and focus on reaching cruising speed, mindful of the swiftly approaching darkness.

As you settle into the ride, the tension in your body from having him so close soon transforms into muscle memory reactions to the trail you’ve ridden for so many years. Your torso flexes with the high-speed weaving manoeuvres, and you sway and lean as needed. With his gloved hands grasping your hips, your passenger seems to detect and predict your movements, and he leans with you into turns he can barely see to keep you both perfectly balanced.

You now understand the reason behind his hand placement – he must have ridden pillion before. You’re more than grateful for his skill and effort. It would be challenging to balance the weight of both him and his amour if he wasn’t helping in this manner, even more so in the rapidly descending shadows of the oncoming night.

Of course his decision to hold you by your hips doesn’t indicate anything untoward. What were you thinking?

Speed biking through the forest has always brought a glimmer of joy to your otherwise dull existence. The thrill of moving at high speeds, the blur of your surroundings as you weave through the trees, the coolness of the breeze hitting your face. It’s freeing in a way you never got the chance to feel during your youth. Even more so here on Endor, where the gravity is lighter than on your homeworld.

Yet now, with a hunter’s hands at your hips, snaking through the semi-darkness as the last of the second sun’s protection recedes, navigating by headlamp and memory alone, something feels almost… ominous. Not in a sinister way, though, more… fateful. An unease from the disruption of your peaceful yet tedious life, but a flicker of intrigue at something different – something exciting – finally happening.

Soon enough, you’re pulling up outside the compound’s main gate, and your passenger disembarks the moment you come to a halt. In the pool of light by the entrance, you see him roll his neck and shoulders, so you check in on him once you’ve hopped off the bike and removed your goggles.

“You okay? I hear the passenger can get more of a workout than the pilot on tandem rides.”

He converts his head roll into a nod and grunts an affirmative. You think it’s probably yes to both things: he’s okay, and he agrees with your statement.

“Good. Let me check in my speeder, then I can help you figure out where your target is.”

You surprise yourself with your directness. All you offered the hunter was a ride, and he certainly hasn’t asked for your help finding his bounty. However, you get the feeling the direct approach works best with this guy, and the night is still young. One insane offer may as well lead to another, right? Helping him out is more exciting than recalibrating the bike’s repulsorlift, and you genuinely think you can assist in tracking down his quarry.

You wait in anticipation as he does his usual few moments of silent staring before responding. “I have a tracking fob. I can locate them myself.”

Your heart sinks a little. He intrigues you, and after riding home with him holding you in such an intimate position, you’re confident your instincts are correct. Despite the armour, weapons, scare tactics and violent profession, this man will neither hurt you nor force himself on you. More than that, meeting him is the most exciting thing that’s happened to you in kriffing ages.

You want to delay your imminent goodbye for as long as possible.

Time for plan B, then.

You adopt an air of nonchalance and dangle your full-access staff and resident pass from its lanyard, letting it swing like a pendulum. “Oh sure, register for a short-term visitor pass. Get limited access to communal areas until it expires after one rotation. I bet you’ll find them in no time.” Unlike the sarcasm you threw at him when you met, this taunting comes with a wicked smile and a slightly flirty tone. Logic delivered as a gentle ribbing. It’s worth a try, given the direct approach failed.

You’re getting used to him just staring and not speaking. In fact, it’s sort of fun trying to predict the expressions behind the dark gleam of his visor, the compound’s entrance lights reflecting like dazzling stars in the silvery metal helmet. What does he look like under there?

“I can’t pay you,” he grinds out at last. “I have barely enough credits to refuel.” He reaches forward and catches your dangling pass between his gloved fingers, arresting its swinging motion before releasing it. “There’s no reason for you to compromise your position here by associating with me.”

It’s probably the largest number of words he’s said to you since you met, and you start to wonder just how much his helmet alters his voice. Does he sound similar without it? Or is the modulator transmitting his short sentences in another accent or tone? Is he even speaking Basic under there? Perhaps you’re hearing a vocabulator translating another language.

Don’t get distracted.

You refocus your thoughts on the debate, giving your companion a sceptical frown and fixing a hand on each hip.

“Did I say I wanted credits?” you huff. “Look, I’m guessing you need to keep a low profile, right? That’s why you didn’t just bring your ship in on our landing platform and chose to walk for about twelve kriffing hours instead. So I’m betting you don’t want your chain code scanned for a visitor pass. And the last thing you need is someone squealing to compound security about a weaponised tin can poking around outside visitor areas. That would set the base on high alert and probably make your bounty run and hide.”

Logical and direct. Surely that’ll nail it.

You incline your head at him, argument made. Then you add in a softer tone, “So let me help you.” You’re also curious to see if you know the target, but you don’t want to admit that.

The heavy sigh from beneath his helmet sounds impatient, and he moves his hands to his hips in a mirror of your pose, squaring his stance. Is he about to refuse again? You’re running out of arguments.

But suddenly, a low and menacing growl comes from the forest’s darkness. You turn your heads in unison, squinting to locate the source in the shadows.

You recognise that sound, and it signals your body to tense. A gurreck.

When a louder roar follows, you heedlessly grasp your passenger’s unarmoured elbow in your hand and start walking. You’re only mildly surprised when he offers no resistance and lets you hurry him through the main gate as your guest. Nobody wants to linger outside with that kind of a beast nearby.

The security droid issues a mid-level access one-week guest pass linked to your credentials, and you thrust it into his grip as soon as it’s coded. His leather glove envelops it with a gesture so tentative it’s at odds with his otherwise dauntless demeanour. And he seems… surprised? Grateful?

But you remain in ‘urgency’ mode, grabbing a fistful of flight suit again with one hand and pushing your speeder along with the other. You make a beeline for the vehicle hangar, and your companion allows it without comment, easily keeping up with your brisk pace. Though his deference suggests he’d probably now follow you of his own accord, you don’t want to let go of him for some reason.

Plus, the exhausted part of your brain gets a simplistic kick out of marching a bounty hunter through the compound as if he’s your prisoner.

Finally, you release him as you cross the threshold into the large hangar, the business of checking in your speeder taking precedence.

You greet the Ewok transport manager by name, addressing her in Ewokese and placating her angry gestures at the bike’s slightly low-hanging fork. “Goopa, Suriee. Meechoo akeeata weechu. It’s fine – the repulsorlift just needs recalibrating. I’ll do it before I take her out again.” You now have more exciting plans for this evening.

Suriee grumbles and hands you a datapad to complete the check-in details. Then she hops onto the seat, stretches her short arms to grasp the handlebars, and lightly propels the vehicle over to a bay farther inside the hangar. You enjoy seeing the furry figure operate equipment much larger than herself – it’s both amusing and impressive. Her species’ aptitude for mastering skills and concepts unknown to them just a few years before is one of the reasons you’re so fond of them.

Completing the check-in screen on the pad and scanning your pass with the attached reader, you comment over your shoulder to your guest behind you. “Are you hungry? We can go to the residents’ mess hall. It’s a good place to start the search, and I’m starving.”

At the expected lack of response from your silent companion, you glance over your shoulder… and dismay smacks you in the face, stinging through you with a shockingly fierce heat.

The hunter has gone. And with him, any chance of an evening more inspiring than your standard routine of dinner, holoshow, bed. What began as an exciting interlude in your tedious life has stalled like a repulsorlift engine choking on the last of its fuel.

Yeah, you shouldn’t have let go of his sleeve. Should’ve listened to that urge to hold on.

Really, honestly, his subtle yet speedy escape shouldn’t surprise you, given your somewhat strained dealings so far. But against your better judgment, you swallow your dejection and replace it with a twinkle of hope that he’s merely waiting for you outside.

Tossing the datapad onto Suriee’s desk with abandon, a dozen steps take you back out into the compound grounds. You scan the pools of light with a growing lump in your throat and dismay in your eyes.

Nothing.

No shiny yet menacing armour. No silent but tempting mystery. No exciting prospect of a front-row seat to a bounty hunt on home soil.

Well, kark. That’ll teach you to get your hopes up. You knit your brows in a defeated frown, and your shoulders drop with the weight of your displeasure.

But you did a good deed by bringing him here and getting him a guest pass, at least. You suppose that makes up for almost running him over and yelling at him, so your slate now feels unblemished, balanced.

Still, a bleakness niggles in the depths of your mind. The prickling burn of regret and defeat just won’t disappear.

You start to scuff your way across the base, the doleful shuffle of your boots failing to shift any of the firm soil of the winding pathways. As you step off the path on a quest for kickable pine cones, your stomach begins to growl and somersault, reminding you of the last two words you said aloud. You’re starving.

You adjust your meandering route and head toward the mess hall, brooding over the intense and confusing events of the evening with a mood somewhere between morose and melancholy.

Dinner ends up being from the closest vendor to the door. Now that you know you’ll be dining alone as usual, you can’t bring yourself to care what food you eat. And as soon as you’ve sated your hunger, you trudge back to your quarters for the dreary rinse and repeat of an evening you’ve endured to a sickening degree.

Stars, you really hope you run into him again before he finds his quarry and leaves.

As it turns out, for once, hope was not a foolish endeavour.

The next evening begins in the usual way, and since today’s shift was on-site, you have plenty of time after leaving your workshop to stop by the vehicle hangar. Your intention is to help Suriee recalibrate the speeder’s repulsorlift before dinner as promised, yet you arrive to find she’s already tuned it up herself earlier in the day.

Because of course she did. The furry figure is three things: grumpy, talented and generous. She’s always flawlessly fixing things when she’s not even asked to, then promptly complaining about having had to do it.

“Choo doo yekyit, etke chyasee,” she grumbles at you, Ewokese for ‘enough talking, more helping’.

Laughing, you promise to do any future repairs right away. Despite her surly disposition, Suriee is one of your favourite people on Endor.

Unable to hide her affection for you behind her grouchiness, she pats your arm before she dismisses you. Nonetheless, you exit her hangar feeling useless as usual. It churns in your gut, diluting the brief comfort you enjoyed from the striped brown Ewok’s fussing.

You follow your path from yesterday evening, the route so ingrained that you don’t even need to look where you’re going. Instead, you gaze upward through the gaps in the canopy at the inky blue glow of the enormous gas giant in the sky above you. It’s beautiful in its sovereignty, and its radiance eclipses the surrounding stars, their twinkling further washed out by the glare of the compound’s ambient lighting.

So distracted are you that you’re barely a second away from colliding with the person standing in your path when you catch yourself. And it’s only because the planet’s light glints so brightly off something metallic that your eyes snap back to head height.

The elusive bounty hunter stands before you, as silent and statuesque as ever, once again observing you from behind the impassive darkness of the visor.

He neither says nor does anything when you walk into him, and you scramble to reverse your trajectory with mere centimetres to spare. How have you managed to almost collide with him two nights in a row?

At least there was no risk of killing him with three hundred kilos of metal this evening.

“Shit! I’m so sorry,” you curse, flustered enough to swear aloud with more impudence than even your anger yesterday fuelled. Mostly, you find it easy to filter your language in polite company, but you weren’t expecting to encounter this guy again. Although… does he actually count as polite company?

You can’t work out if your hammering pulse is from the second near-collision or simply from seeing this strangely enigmatic man again.

But oh, you’d almost forgotten. That armour, those muscles beneath it. Holy stars, he’s so… powerful, imposing. Somehow majestic.

Focus.

“What are you doing here? I wasn’t sure if I’d see you again. You ran off without saying goodbye…” you chide, managing to sound both eager and aggrieved in less than two dozen words.

Pull yourself together. Of course he wasn’t going to say goodbye. You’re not friends, and you squared your debt for your thoughtless conduct last night by sponsoring his entry as your guest. Case closed. You force down the recurring desires and frustrations from yesterday.

The hunter cocks his helmet at you as if he’s debating something. You’re just about to ask what when he speaks. “Why did you want to help me yesterday?”

“I owed you.” It’s a simple and (you thought) obvious truth, so you’re unsure why he’s asking. “I came scarily close to wiping you out and then pretty much screamed at you. So I fixed it by giving you a lift and getting you a guest pass.”

“You offered to help locate the bounty.”

Ah. So that’s it. Mr Shiny’s confusion stems from your other offer of assistance.

Play it cool. “Can’t a person just be generous?”

He scoffs. “Rarely.”

Kriff, he’s so sceptical. But then again, you doubt he meets many good and honest people doing what he does for a living. He must spend most of his time with criminals and other Guild members. And what little you’ve heard of the Bounty Guild suggests many of its members are just as lacking in morals as the fugitives and criminals they chase.

You somehow get the impression that’s not the case with this guy, though.

“What ulterior motive do you think I could possibly have?”

He is silent, the obsidian visor observing your open stance and raised eyebrow, seemingly unable to answer.

So you mirror his silence. It’s his turn to speak, and you have plenty of time to wait. Your pulse is still rapid, but you remain calm and composed on the surface.

“That’s what I can’t figure out,” he finally drawls.

His voice is somewhat softer than yesterday. No, not softer, but it lacks the hardness with which he tossed his few words at you last night. Even with the tone adjustment, soft is not an accurate word to describe anything about him. And yet, the sound of it is… nice.

Relaxed by the smooth baritone, you ask, “You’ve never had anyone offer to help you out before?”

“Plenty. But there’s always a price.” He fidgets a little, shifting his weight from leg to leg but keeping his concealed gaze fixed on you. This is really bothering him.

The ghost of a smile twitches the corner of your mouth. It seems this hunter found you intriguing enough to seek you out again in a compound of several hundred people. You take no pleasure in his confusion, but you’re soaring like a lantern bird at the idea he’s been thinking about you.

“You said you didn’t want credits,” he prompts, clearly trying to extract the reason for your generous offer without repeating his terribly vague question. You infer that he means to ask, ‘What do you want instead of credits?’

Instantly, you have to chastise yourself for the sordid answers that sashay through your mind. Behave, for kriff’s sake.

A sigh escapes you, straining with the weight of what you do want to say to him. A person can be kind without motive. He needn’t be suspicious of you. What manner of horrors must he have endured to leave him unable to recognise genuine altruism?

Mostly, though, you just want to tell him that you’re kind of lonely and he’s kind of interesting. Isn’t that enough?

But it’s hard to verbalise your thoughts. People aren’t that honest with strangers, and he’s still a stranger. But if you can’t explain your rationale, you can at least show him that what you truly desire is his company.

“Right now, all I want is food, so let’s discuss this on the way to the mess hall, shall we?” You step sideways and walk past him, and he rotates his whole body to keep you in sight.

That’s a good sign….

As you saunter away, you glance over your shoulder and throw him an easy smile, and it seems to convince him. He begins to follow you. When you turn back ahead, your smile becomes more assured.

Perhaps all hope is not lost for that exciting evening you wanted after all.

Chapter Text

The armoured stranger catches up to you in a few swift paces, maintaining his silence as he falls into step alongside you.

As you enter the compound’s sprawling common building and wander toward the residents’ mess hall, you notice your companion’s visor is studying his surroundings with apparent interest. He’s had a whole day to explore, though perhaps he’s been too fixated on locating his bounty in the sea of faces to bother learning the location of anything else. Given he’s still here, you assume he hasn’t tracked down his target yet.

Now that he finally appears willing to spend time with you, you find yourself eager to talk to him. Or, quite honestly, to elicit any reaction from him beyond his detached demeanour. It’s not an awkward urge to fill the silence but rather a desire to connect. It’s unlike you, but your intrigue is too powerful to ignore.

So you decide to adopt the mantle of tour guide, chatting away as affably as possible, hoping it’ll somehow penetrate his shiny shell.

“If you haven’t figured out the layout yet, the compound has five main buildings. You’ve been to the vehicle hangar with me and seen what that has to offer. Visitors have to pay to hire speeders, but your guest pass lets you use them for free on my credentials. Just don’t crash any, or I’ll have to pay the damages.”

You spent months paying off the cost of wrecking a bike a few years ago, and you don’t plan on repeating the sorry ordeal. The damage to your pride and bank balance was somehow worse than the scrapes and bruises you came away with. Never again, thanks.

“Security office and medcenter are in the building over by the west gate. It’s public, so all passes have access, including visitors. Then the old Imperial base makes up the other three buildings. The first is the shield generator – the huge dish with a load of workshops, labs, and research stations below in the sublevels. It’s where I work most days unless I’m needed at one of the secondary sites; I’m a senior shield gen technician. And yes, it’s as soul-destroying as it sounds, but it was an easy option when salvage jobs dried up. It’s a secure site, so your guest pass won’t get you in there.”

Turning down another corridor, you glance at the bounty hunter to check if he’s listening, and you’re pleased to note you have his attention. You really hope you’re piquing his interest and not pissing him off.

“The second ex-Imp site is the landing platform up in the northeast corner. Any type of pass can access it, but only if you register a ship to land. And the third is this building, where you’ll find quarters, the commissary, the mess hall, and the cantina. You can access all the communal areas, of course, but your guest pass also entitles you to a free room if you stop by the accommodation office. Again, visitors pay, guests don’t, so you’re welcome, Mr ‘I have barely enough credits to refuel’.” You’re unsure if mocking him is the best move, so you point to a wide corridor on your left that leads to a bank of turbolifts. “Access to the residence wing is through there, levels two to six, guest rooms as well as assigned quarters.”

You receive a deep nod in response, and you’re unsure whether he’s expressing gratitude for the free lodgings or telling you he’s fully aware of all this. For all you know, he could’ve already obtained a room under your credentials, having figured it out himself. But something tells you that’s not the case.

So you persevere against his silence and steer your monologue toward his reason for being here, hoping to address the topic of you assisting him.

“The residence wing might be a less, um… conspicuous place than the mess hall or cantina to grab your target if you want to avoid alerting security. But we’ll need to find out a bit more first.”

Finally, your companion surprises you by speaking up. “I have a holopuck,” he offers, his modulated voice quiet and careful, almost hesitant. “You might recognise him.”

Yes! Pride and fulfilment wash through you at his verbal acceptance of your previous offer. The feelings create a different kind of buzz to the fatigue that’s been your constant shadow for months on end, something much more welcome. How long has it been since you last felt success or triumph? Too long.

You throw a genuine smile at his helmet, which he’s tilting at you as if eager for your reply. “Sure. Let’s grab a meal and bring it to my quarters. Then we can take a look away from prying eyes.”

Another nod from the hunter, and you press ahead to the mess hall, his approval mixing with your hunger to further charge your appetite for the evening’s plans.

As you reach the doors of the large eatery, the inviting aroma of freshly cooked food beckons you from within. Pleased that you’ve avoided the dinnertime rush, you hurry toward your favourite vendor, a Volpai who serves delicious stews and soups.

The lanky orange-skinned chef greets you warmly before he notices your companion and throws up two of his four arms in elation. “Mando! Welcome, welcome! What can I get you?”

You glance between them in confusion, addressing the vendor before your new associate can respond. “Ari, you know this guy?”

The Volpai laughs, and you frown and glance at the armoured figure fidgeting beside you.

“No, no, my dear,” the chef clarifies, shaking his head and chuckling further. “I’ve never had the privilege of meeting a Mandalorian before today, but I studied their culture as a boy. I’m well aware of their legendary reputation as elite warriors, and I can certainly recognise one when I see such exquisite beskar armour.”

You feel slightly sheepish at your error, but then again, you’ve never heard of a Mandalorian, so how were you to know? Legendary reputation or not, you don’t recall hearing any stories. Although, to be fair, your upbringing was somewhat… focused on other issues.

The word ‘beskar’ unearths a vague memory, though, and pieces slowly resurface. Someone telling you about the most durable metal they knew of and how rare and priceless it was. Damn, that means this guy’s got a fortune strapped to him. As you try to subtly rake your eyes across his outfit, you finally realise the thing on his back is an actual kriffing jetpack. Wow.

You hurriedly shrug off your mistake and refocus Ari’s attention on his business, ordering his signature dish to go. The hunter, however, continues to shift beside you, seemingly uneasy.

As the vendor presents you with two lidded soup bowls, he uses a third arm to offer a sturdy straw to the Mandalorian. “In case you require it,” he explains earnestly.

Your companion seems briefly blindsided, but his unease dissipates, and he accepts the offering with a polite nod. “Thank you.” He’s a curious mix of manners and menace.

With a smile, you scan your pass to deposit the cost directly from your wages, ever grateful for Ari’s easy way with his customers. Then you set off toward the compound’s residence wing with the mysterious Mandalorian in tow.

“So do I just call you ‘Mando’ then, or do you have a real name?”

The pause before he responds is shorter, and you hope that means he’s warming up to you. You did just buy him dinner, after all. “That’s what most people call me.”

“And what if I want to know your real name?” You might be pushing your luck, but you’re more curious than ever to discover some details about this enigma of a man. The questions simmer inside you like Ari’s soup over a burner.

“I don’t know your name,” he counters.

Was that a sign of interest in you? Okay, you’re willing to trade equally if that’s his angle. You’re surprised you haven’t thought to give him your name already, though this is the first person you’ve been keen to connect with in a while, and your social skills are… rusty.

You introduce yourself and raise an eyebrow, inviting him to match your disclosure, strangely giddy at the prospect of learning something about him.

The helmet observes you for a moment, its silver sheen washed out under the muted white lighting of the common building. “Few people know my real name. Even fewer call me by it.”

Kark. You drop your gaze to the floor, nodding. You shouldn’t be this disappointed. It was perhaps too personal a question at such an early stage, and at least you now have something to call him.

“Then I’m okay with ‘Mando’. For now, at least.” You smile slyly as your fatigued brain finally lands on a potential insight into this stranger’s character that hadn’t struck you until now. Hunters often negotiate…. “How about we say that if I help you catch this bounty, my reward is a proper introduction?”

You hear a faint sound from the vocoder, and it almost sounds as if he’s… was that a laugh? Your brow furrows. Is this progress? Have you softened that steely exterior? Or is he simply dismissing the idea that you could ever help him with his job as laughable?

When he still hasn’t replied by the time you reach the turbolifts, you prompt, “Well?”

The visor angles to regard you again as if he’s suddenly realised you weren’t kidding.

So he was scoffing at the idea.

You fight to prevent your wounded pride from flitting across your face, suddenly feeling small and helpless. You’re used to people selling you short, but for some reason, this hunter’s scorn cuts deeper than the knife sheathed in his boot ever could. You’re no longer the little kid who always got left behind. And although you proved that to yourself some years ago, you’re strangely eager to prove it to this Mandalorian warrior.

“I’m not useless,” you scowl as the lift arrives, and you lead him in and jab the button for level four with a measure of frustration. “Maybe I know your target. Maybe I can lead you directly to them and save you days of searching. And whatever you might think to look at me, I can sure as hell defend myself in a fight.”

Mando glances away from you and down at the floor, and the slope of his shoulders suggests your rebukes have chastened him somewhat. The modulator buzzes with his exhale. “I’m not judging you. But I’m not going to put you in danger.”

His tone sounds sincere, and your annoyance is mostly diffused, a curious warmth replacing it. Well, he certainly seems a lot more principled than most bounty hunters. Not that you’ve known any to talk to, but you’ve heard about them and seen them operate a few times. There tended to be violence in both the stories and the few glimpses you’ve had, so you hadn’t expected him to be so concerned for your well-being.

Exiting the lift, you try a different tactic. “Would you tell a trusted friend your name?”

The shiny headgear now tilts off to the left, and you assume that means he’s weighing his answer to your question. You hope you’re getting better at ‘helmetese’.

“Most of those who know my name I trust to some degree,” he concedes slowly.

He doesn’t call them ‘friends’, you notice. Nonetheless, you can work with this.

“Alright then, new terms,” you propose. “When you land the bounty, if two of these three things are true, I get your name. One: I helped. Let’s say without me getting my hands dirty, since you want to avoid putting me in danger. Two: you trust me. Three: you consider me a friend.”

You’re not sure what being friends with a bounty hunter will entail, and given his demeanour, you suspect it might be the most challenging of the three criteria to achieve. But this has already been your most exciting evening in more years than you can remember, which makes you all the more determined to make it happen.

Mando is directing his visor at you again, and you wonder briefly how he can walk straight ahead without smacking into stuff. Not that the corridor is busy; level four is sparsely occupied, and it’s always quiet around here. Then you hear a further short exhale through the vocoder, a puff of amused flippancy digitised into static, followed by, “Sure.”

This time, you ignore the implied scepticism. Even if he scoffed a little, he agreed. You try to keep your triumphant smile at bay, though it leaks despite your efforts, and you’re relieved to reach your quarters at that moment. With something else to focus on now, you fumble for your pass, thrusting the bowls at his beskar chest. His large hands easily accept them, allowing you to unlock the door and lead him inside.

Your quarters aren’t large or lavish, but they’re furnished, and you’ve made them cosy enough. The main room has a soft fabric couch that folds down into a decently sized bed. To the right of the window opposite the entrance, two chairs on either side of a small metal table occupy one corner. Several drawers and cabinets line the walls, containing your clothes and all your worldly possessions, much of which is tech you’ve salvaged and repaired for your own use. Another door on the wall to the right leads to a small but functional private refresher. Like the forest outside, the room contains numerous leafy plants, most gifted to you as symbols of friendship by the Ewoks you’ve come to know since moving here.

However, it doesn’t surprise you that the hunter’s attention is instantly drawn to your collection of melee weapons, salvaged as prizes for yourself alongside the tech you brought in for the New Republic. But although he looks, he doesn’t ask why you have them.

You dash to clear the table of some tech you’ve been repairing on your days off, and Mando sets down the bowls in the space. He then pulls out chairs for you both and steps back, waiting until you’re seated before lowering his imposing frame into the opposite one. You’re mildly surprised by this apparent display of chivalry, and the list of things you’re dying to ask him about grows longer.

You rummage for a spoon in the drawer built into the table, buying time as you consider where to start. You’ve never had anyone join you for dinner in your quarters before. Is it impolite to question him over food? Despite his profession, he appears surprisingly well-mannered.

Adopting a casual tone, you go for the obvious and wonder aloud, “So… the straw means you’re not taking the helmet off to eat?”

Your guest de-lids the bowls and nods. “Correct.”

“Can I ask why?”

He nods again, and you figure this is a common question for him. Maybe you’re about to learn some details at last. But the smooth modulated voice simply declares, “It would go against my creed.”

And displaying his adherence to this ‘creed’, he unseals his helmet and tips it only a few degrees without showing any skin at all. Then he submerges one end of the wide straw in his bowl and pokes the other end beneath the beskar, sucking up the rich liquid as if he hasn’t eaten in weeks.

Well, that’s not very forthcoming. No wonder he doesn’t label those who know his name as ‘friends’. How hard is it to penetrate the metaphorical armour he wears within?

You’re ravenous for both food and facts about him now, two delicious prospects. Most of what you’ve learned so far suggests he responds best to straightforward honesty, which is pleasing. You hate beating around the bush. But you still feel like you need a smooth and subtle opening line.

After spooning a couple of mouthfuls of your dinner, you pluck up the courage to say what’s on your mind. You decide to address the issue head-on, yet keep it general, speaking as placidly as possible.

“Mando?” The visor angles up in response. “This whole ‘silent and mysterious’ thing you do… you realise it makes people more curious to learn about you, right?”

“People,” he states, instantly inferring that you’re the curious party here.

You abandon subtlety and concede his deduction with a dip of your chin. “Maybe it’s because the stupidly short days here all blur together and I’m always tired, but you’re the most… interesting person I’ve met in kriffing ages. I’ve spent about an hour with you by now, and I already have dozens of questions.”

Mando tilts his helmet to the side. You want to imagine he’s amused by your sincere interest or, at the very least, not annoyed by it. Seconds tick past, though, and he still doesn’t say anything. Have you somehow offended him? What’s so wrong about calling him ‘interesting’?

You start to panic and scramble to try and mitigate what you thought was a compliment but appears to have landed poorly. “I mean, I get that bounty hunters might not be… the easiest people to, uh… I mean, I wouldn’t want to, um….”

Kark it, you’re making a real kreetle’s ass out of yourself.

You sigh and avert your eyes so the black visor doesn’t unnerve you as much. “Look, we just made a deal that gives me an incentive to befriend you. But if it’s not okay for me to ask you questions – if that’ll just piss you off – then I’ll respect your privacy.”

The Mandalorian is silent and continues to stare at you, his helmet still cocked to the side as if he’s trying to work out exactly how insane you are. It was going so well before, but now you’re back to feeling small and helpless. You blame it on the fatigue, but it doesn’t stop you from feeling mortified, your cheeks burning again as you chance tiny glances at him. How does he keep doing this to you?

When he finally moves, it’s unhurried. He slots the straw beneath the beskar and sucks up some more liquid, then replaces his bowl on the table. A sigh precedes his terse response. “So this is your price.”

Your gaze returns to him, and several moments elapse as you stare blankly in perfect mimicry of his usual impassive expression. Then it dawns on you. He thinks your offer of help is dependent on him answering your questions.

You stutter slightly in surprise. Okay, so you do hope that helping him will lead to learning more about him, but it’s certainly not a price.

You find yourself shaking your head firmly. “N-no, not at all. I won’t ask you anything if you’d rather I didn’t, and I’ll still help you if you prefer we just eat in silence. If not speaking is the way to befriend you, I’ll shut the hell up. We can just have our soup and then look at the holopuck.”

The hunter stares for several more painfully long moments. Still, you force your eyes to remain fixed on the obsidian transparisteel, hoping to hide your nerves and convey your sincerity.

Finally, his shoulders relax, and the vocoder emits the quietest grunt of what could be amusement. “I don’t mind questions. I might not answer them all… but you’re helping me at your own risk. That earns you the opportunity to ask.”

Relief floods your overtaxed and overtired brain, and you visibly slump in your seat. Kriff, you’ve been so tense since first meeting this enigmatic man that every time he lets you off his hook, it feels like a narrow escape.

That is until you hear a static-filled snort of definite mirth as he notes your palpable relief, and your cheeks burn more intensely than ever.

The bastard. He’s being purposely stubborn. You hope it’s just part of his formidable defences and not because he has a cruel streak.

Your chagrin drives your petulant retort off your tongue before you’ve considered the possible fallout. “I think you enjoy intimidating people with your silent and scary ‘bringer of death’ routine.”

“That’s not a question,” Mando retorts, modulated words dripping with playful satire.

Kriff, was that levity? Now that feels like a success! He didn’t let you get away with shouting at him in the forest, so you feared his gruffness might be innate. But that concern dissipates with his cocky response. Who would’ve thought the stoic warrior could banter like a pro?

You reward his verbal parry with a smile, the tension in the room completely gone, and you wonder if there’s a matching expression hidden behind the beskar. It almost feels as if he’s granted you permission to try befriending him. Given how hard he made you work for it, you intend to take full advantage.

“Okay then.” You consider where to start, then decide to see what tumbles from your mouth. “I’ve never heard of a Mandalorian. Are you human?”

“Yes.”

“And your creed, is that a Mandalorian thing?”

A pause, then, “Yes.”

“You can’t take the armour off ever, or you just can’t in front of non-Mandalorians?”

“The Creed forbids me from removing my helmet in front of another living thing.”

Oh, so it’s not all the armour, just the helmet. “So, not around other Mandalorians either?”

A further pause, and then he nods.

“But it’s okay if you’re alone?”

“If there’s a reason to. Maintenance, bathing, sometimes eating. Otherwise, it stays on.”

You note the absence of sleeping on his list but decide against mentioning it. Stars, trapped inside that metal all the time? Now that’s solitude, a concept you thought you were the expert on.

You also wonder if his pauses indicate his answers are oversimplifications, but it feels too pushy to ask. He’s clearly not in the mood to give details.

Thoughtfully, you spoon more of your soup into your mouth, and Mando takes a concurrent slurp of his through the straw. You now understand why he was so tense while you ordered and so relieved when Ari gave it to him. Without that straw, he would’ve had to have watched you eat your dinner while his own went cold, only getting to eat it after he’d left. And he’s clearly starving, poor guy.

You want to keep things light, so with a teasing smile, you ask, “What about around a tooka or a blurrg? They’re living things… Mandalorians can’t keep pets?”

He sighs, but there’s a vibration to it that suggests he’s trying to conceal a chuckle. His tone is wry as he corrects, “Sentient living things.”

“Oh good,” you respond with an equal amount of sarcasm, hoping it will elicit yet more levity from him. “It’d really suck if you were just trying to shower and your hungry animal cornered you in there. With a blurrg, you could be hiding in the ’fresher for days.”

You receive something akin to a snort in reply, which tells you your lame attempt at humour worked. You’re now providing your guest with entertainment as well as dinner.

More moments slip by as you consider what else to ask, working steadily through your soup as it cools.

“So… how long since you last took that thing off?” You gesture at his helmet with your spoon.

He answers slowly this time, needing to calculate his response. “Fifty? Sixty hours?”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “That’s over two Standard days. More than three rotations here! Doesn’t it get uncomfortable?”

He doesn’t even pause. “This is the Way.”

Kriff, the piety with which he declares those words… they’re steeped in doctrine like over-fermented spicebrew.

You shake your head in disbelief. “Good endurance.”

A huff comes through his modulator, and alongside his slow nod, you interpret it as ‘that’s an understatement’.

You let out an uncertain hum, wondering if he’ll answer your next query, but the helmet’s slight tilt seems to invite you to risk it. Is he starting to enjoy your interest in him? He’s responded to all your questions so far, but you nonetheless phrase your next inquiry carefully, wary of another misstep.

“No living thing can see your face, but can they know what you look like? Are you allowed to describe yourself?”

Mando visibly stiffens at that.

Kark. “I’m sorry, that’s too personal.” You find yourself backtracking once again.

“It’s—” His voice wavers, and he appears almost flustered. He’s clearly searching for something to respond with, so you wait patiently. Finally, he offers, “Many have tried to make me remove my helmet. With bribery, force, guilt, temptation. They never just ask; they always want to see.” He pauses again, then quietly states, “I’m used to curiosity, but you’re… different to most people.”

Huh. Not the first time someone’s called you different, but possibly the only time it hasn’t felt like an insult. Almost the opposite, in fact.

You focus on the issue. “So it wouldn’t break your creed?”

He contemplates this for a few moments. “Strictly speaking, no. But it’s… discouraged.”

Unable to determine how to convince him and concerned it might be offensive to try, you fall back into silence. Then, to your surprise, your companion takes a sharp breath and continues unprompted.

“The Creed doesn’t mention names or descriptions; it only refers to wearing armour. But Mandalorians went into hiding after the Empire destroyed our homeworld, so we keep our identities secret to protect ourselves. It is for our safety that we stay hidden, even now.” Then he affirms once again, “This is the Way.”

It’s the most you’ve heard him say in one go, and you’re somewhat bewildered by his rising urge to interact, not to mention the tragic news that the Empire destroyed his planet. You’re guessing it wasn’t by a Death Star since you’re an expert on the destruction wrought by that abomination. Perhaps it happened when you were much younger, explaining why you’ve never heard of his people.

But the hearty meal you’ve almost finished has focused your fritzing brain, and once you’ve considered what he’s said about identity, you promptly spot a hole.

“It makes more sense now that you don’t give out your name – that’s an obvious identifier. But surely your armour identifies you, too? A generic description of a human male could be similar to billions of other humans in the galaxy, but an impressive suit of eye-catching armour is easy to pick out in a crowd. Even Ari was able to call you by the name you choose to go by, though he’d never met you before.”

You pause for a second to let that argument nestle itself inside his brain. You’re rather pleased with how cogent it sounded. Now that he’s confirmed his creed doesn’t forbid him from describing himself, you can’t help wondering if you can convince him to.

As expected, he offers nothing in response, so you continue with an extension of your point. “And you’re a bounty hunter, so I assume you have a reputation within the Guild. And probably in the criminal underworld, too, if your skills are as impressive as your whole ‘capable of killing you in a thousand different ways’ vibe suggests. It seems… redundant to be cautious about giving a vague description of yourself when you’re already so recognisable, that’s all.”

Mando glances away, focusing on the small window as if he’s carefully pondering your words, despite the closed blind that blocks his view. You allow him a moment to consider, spooning some more soup while he digests your argument in his usual stoic silence. At length, he turns back and concludes, “You have a… unique perspective.”

You’re a little unsure what to make of that. Is it a compliment?

Before you can ask, he clarifies. “You’re perceptive. And….” He pauses to take an audible breath. “Interesting.”

Holy stars. Not only is this man paying you a compliment, but he’s also using the very same word you bumblingly tried to flatter him with a few minutes ago! The warmth in your cheeks returns at his praise, now for different reasons, together with a subtle heat in your chest and – kriff – between your thighs.

“But describing my face would be meaningless,” he continues, tugging your attention back to your so far one-sided debate with his sudden input. “My armour is my identity – you’re right about that. What’s underneath is just genetics. Mandalorians define themselves through actions and beliefs; where you come from doesn’t matter.”

You’re ecstatic that he’s willing to contribute his opinion, giving you more words than ever and an actual rebuttal to your perspective.

“You’re confusing concepts,” you chastise, wholly into the discussion now. “I’m not trying to assign an identity to you other than the one you wear. I’m just saying a vague description of your features won’t eclipse that identity because it’ll be so generic in comparison.”

The Mandalorian returns to being silent at that, but this time, it feels as though you’ve given him food for thought rather than him doing his ‘quiet thing’ again. You get the impression he’s parroting excuses drummed into him by others, yet the fact that he’s engaging in the debate at all suggests he’s considered these concepts himself. That tells you he’s intelligent and broad-minded, even though doctrine has constrained his actions and conduct.

Has he ever had a chance to discuss this with anyone before? It’s doubtful if he’s accustomed to people just vying to get a proper look at him, never debating the more abstract concept of identity.

You take a second to order your thoughts on what else to say, delighted by how fluidly your argument is forming in your mind and rolling off your tongue. Most of the time, you’re pretty good at talking your way into getting what you want by using logic to your advantage. In fact, you received lessons in logical discourse as a young woman. But you’re impressing even yourself here.

Perhaps the rare confluence of having a full stomach and heightened pheromones has endowed you with new and impressive powers of debate. Or maybe you’re just having fun using your words to dazzle your guest since he often seems to struggle with them himself.

You go in for the kill with the final limb of your rationale. “I’m asking because most sentient beings connect through visual cues, and facial expressions are the primary source. That’s why we don’t tend to have deep and meaningful friendships with droids. And why we send holos more often than audio or text-based messages these days. Your helmet prevents me from knowing what you’re thinking and feeling, which makes it difficult to read you. That may be good for criminals you’re tracking, but it could interfere when someone’s helping you track down your bounty. I have to use your body language and voice to visualise how my words and actions affect you. But even then, I can’t imagine how your expressions look because I’ve got no template to use. It would help me trust you if I can visualise the person rather than the outfit alone, even if I’m just using a rough template of someone I’ve met with vaguely similar features.”

It’s the flimsiest element of your argument, and you’re not sure it’s the whole truth, but it’s certainly a part of it. His appearance is what piques your curiosity the most, given it’s what this mystery man zealously chooses to hide from the world. And you do want to build trust. But if he won’t give you a description, then you figure you can move on to asking more about his culture and his life.

Mando ponders your contention for several painstaking moments, and you feel his eyes searching yours from behind his visor. Finally, the vocoder crackles with a sigh. “You’re… annoyingly good at talking.”

Yes! You innocently bat your lashes at him, playing coy to conceal how gratified you are by his compliment. All the while, your heart thumps faster as you eagerly await the outcome of the speech he thinks was ‘good’.

A further sigh crackles through, heavier than the last. Then in a low and defeated tone, he mutters his consent. “Tell me what you want to know.”

“Eye colour?” The words gush out a little too eagerly. You’re amazed and somewhat taken aback that he’s responding to this line of probing. Simply finding out the colour of someone’s eyes has never felt like such a victory.

He waits for a beat as if having to recall what he sees in the mirror. “Brown.”

“Hair? Colour and length. And facial hair, which I’m guessing you have if the helmet stays on for days.”

Another pause. “Also brown.” Then he warily offers, “Short. Kind of. I… cut it when it gets too long, but it’s… a mess.”

Okay, cuts, not shaves, so it must have a bit of length, especially if it can constitute a ‘mess’. You’re thrilled that he chose to offer more than a single-word answer, and you wonder why he felt ‘short’ needed more context when you would’ve happily accepted it on its own. Of all your questions this evening, this is the one he’s answered in the most detail. Despite his initial hesitance, does he want you to know what he looks like?

The hunter’s glove gestures at the lower half of his helmet as he responds to the latter part of your query. “When I’m not out hunting, I use a groomer to keep things… neat.”

So some facial hair, but likely of a limited length if he uses a groomer. Again, he’s surprising you with bonus details. You’d expected a vague answer along the lines of ‘some’ or ‘lots’ or ‘not much’, yet he’s provided an insight into his habits. Messy hair, tidy face. You slowly build a mental picture of what sits beneath the metal mask before you.

Despite his apparent urge to give you such a descriptive response, his modulated voice sounded distinctly anxious while forming those helpful words. So you focus your gaze where you imagine his brown eyes are behind his visor, and you smile earnestly to convey your gratitude for his efforts. Even if he can’t offer you his facial expressions, you can at least bestow yours upon him. His armoured shoulders relax slightly.

Speaking of communication… “How much does the modulator alter your voice? Since you’re human, I assume you’re speaking Basic under there. Do you sound similar to this without it?”

Your phrasing allows Mando to respond wordlessly, and he simply nods. Hmm, that’s… pleasing. You find it strangely attractive how his baritone varies between smooth and raspy, and you wonder if it would be even more alluring without the modulation.

Wait. Kriff. He’s just answered a question distinctly not about his appearance, which is what you agreed to discuss. Neither of you noticed during the exchange, although the sly smile you throw at him as you realise clues him in too. He huffs gently, seemingly not annoyed by it.

Okay, what next? Finding out how old he is would enhance your mental picture of him, but for some reason, asking that feels too brazen. Unless… yeah, there may be a subtler way to figure out his age…

You soften your voice with your next question as if he were an easily startled scurrier liable to flee at any moment. “Are you allowed to take your gloves off?”

Again, he reacts as if nobody has ever asked him such a thing, with a slightly confused cant of his helmet. Warily, he gives you the answer you’re hoping for. “By creed, it’s only my face I can’t show.”

You stare pointedly at his gloves for a few seconds and then move up to his visor again.

He gets the message, but he doesn’t move. “What—” he swallows. “Why would you want to see my hands?”

“Hands can tell you a lot about someone. You won’t have to suffer my questions, and it won’t break your creed.”

You allow your guest a moment to consider, aware you’re pushing him much harder than you intended. You can’t help it, though; you’re spurred on by the rush you’re getting from all of this evening’s victories.

He thinks through your request for several long moments. You start to hope he’ll give in, but then he huffs a frustrated breath, and his broad shoulders drop forward. “You don’t wanna see my hands. They’re not—”

The way he cuts himself off leaves you confused. What was he going to say? He sounds almost regretful, but you can’t fathom why. Perhaps he’s horribly scarred. “Why wouldn’t I want to see them, Mando?”

The dark T-visor angles upward as if he were looking to the heavens for an answer. After a few more moments of loaded silence, he responds in a low and borderline dangerous tone. “I’m a bounty hunter. My hands have blood on them.”

A tiny smirk escapes across your features, but you tamp it down. You don’t want to appear as if you’re making light of his solemn assertion. “Gonna assume you’re not talking literally….” You take in a deep breath and then take a risk. “Yes, Mando, you’re a bounty hunter. But your hands are just tools of your trade, like your blaster and your blades and whatever else you’ve got stashed away on you right now. They’re weapons. But you see that display rack over there?” You nod to your collection. “What makes you think I don’t respect and admire weapons? Or are you worried I’ll try to cut your hands off and add them to my shelves? I won’t, I promise.”

Your companion is visibly surprised by your slightly sassy comeback, and you’re treated to a fleeting wobble of the helmet. The brief twitch gives the impression that his eyebrows have just shot up his forehead (assuming he has eyebrows… surely he must have if he’s got facial hair?). Your questions have been persuasive but polite so far, so he probably didn’t expect you to be so spirited in response. However, you believe his doubt warrants a measure of flippancy to balance it.

“No, I—.” He cuts himself off again, but you hear hesitance in those two words, not resistance.

You get the feeling he’s vaguely… ashamed? At least when it comes to admitting to you what he has to do for credits, although it’s unclear why that should be the case. After all, you’ve already offered to help him locate his bounty, so you clearly don’t condemn his profession.

So maybe it’s not shame; maybe it’s simply him trying to shield you from the harsh reality of what he does. Does he see you as a delicate flower offended by violence? Just a collector who’s never considered the pain inflicted by the tools with which you decorate your home? Given the state of the galaxy, that’s a joke. Though, in fairness, you don’t look or behave as if you’re hardened to the realities of conflict. He just doesn’t realise that’s a conscious choice on your part.

You fix your gaze where you imagine his eyes are beneath the darkened transparisteel, offering him a sincere slice of the truth. “You’re not the first person I’ve met who’s found it necessary to take lives. I don’t judge you by what you do for a living.”

After a tense minute during which his visor’s eyeline subtly darts between his hands and your face several times, Mando gives a modulated sigh of surrender. Then he stiffly slips off his right glove and places it near the table’s edge by the wall. He suddenly appears unsure of what to do with that hand, adjusting the angle of the straw in the soup with an adorable awkwardness. He finally settles for tucking in his fingers and half concealing his bare fist behind the bowl. It contrasts starkly with the assured movements you’ve seen from him thus far.

You suddenly recognise that his objection to showing his skin was less about his job and more about his cultural urge to cover himself. You deflated his flimsy argument, so unless he wanted to admit his discomfort, he couldn’t refuse. You feel a little guilty for coaxing him into this so doggedly, so you undertake to be as respectful as possible.

“May I?” You lay out your flattened palm in a benign gesture. It feels as if you’re inviting a cornered animal toward you, the metaphor distinctly fitting for this fierce yet unexpectedly vulnerable man.

After a moment, the Mandalorian cautiously extends his tightened fist across the table. Then he seems to realise you’re not looking to examine his punch form, and he flips his hand, stiffly unfurling his fingers like a reluctant flower opening under weak sunshine. Slowly, you reach forward to cup it gently with your own.

He almost flinches when you make contact, but his reticence dissolves, and he lets it fall heavier against your palm. It’s as if he’s scalded by hot water before slowly submerging his hand to acclimate to the heat.

His tanned skin is softer than you’d expected for a hunter, but you guess his gloves must protect him from calluses. He does have a rough patch on the inside of his trigger finger, though. He’s an expert marksman, for sure. You carefully turn over his hand to discover he has a few scars on his fingers and knuckles where blades or projectiles have seemingly breached the leather. Demi-gaunts on his gloves protect the backs of his hands, which remain unblemished.

The smoothness of his skin and the depth of the lines across his knuckles give you a ballpark age. He’s probably not a whole lot older than you, a fact you’re relieved and elated to learn. It means that you and he could hypothetically have something (romantic? sexual?) without it feeling too scandalous, which makes certain thoughts you’ve had seem less… wrong.

The size of his warm hand eclipses yours, his fingers strong and thick, yet you can tell he handles weapons nimbly and with extreme skill. Something divinely wicked stirs within you as you ponder such dexterous prowess. You reflexively lick your lips at the filthy notions that flood your mind.

Reining in your fantasies, you refocus on your appraisal, noticing his nails are neatly trimmed. Alongside his comments about grooming his hair, you realise he attempts to keep his appearance in check, even though nobody ever sees.

As you explore his hand, Mando is motionless in his seat, the man as rigid as the beskar surrounding him. Kriff, if he’s forever shut away inside that armour, he must be so overwhelmed by this. But it’s oddly thrilling for you, too. Getting to see his skin, feel the warmth of it, it’s kind of… intimate. More so than two strangers have any right to be, really – at least in the context of his culture. He must be way out of his comfort zone.

So you tamp down your own feelings and focus on his, willing him to relax. Slowly, you turn him palm-up again and softly trace the creases there with your thumb until you come to rest in the very centre. Then you apply gentle pressure there in a calming gesture your mother taught you when you were a nervous child.

But if anything, it has the opposite effect to what you intended. Mando inhales as if you were touching him somewhere much more sensitive, a deep and heavy breath, and you swear you detect a tiny shudder running through him.

You pretend not to notice. This hunter is not used to skin-on-skin touch, so drawing attention to his discomfort would be unkind. Instead, you gently lay his hand back on the table and retreat your arms. Clearly, what he just let you do was intensely intimate for him, and truthfully, it was more sensuous than expected for you too. That wasn’t what you were aiming for, but you can’t say you’re unhappy it turned into that. A different type of connection from that which you first sought.

The simmer of regret at having to break contact swirls in your gut, but you reason you may have pushed far enough on his appearance for one evening. You’ve made a hell of a lot more headway than you thought you would. So you lean back in your chair a little, giving him space.

Mando still seems hypnotised by your gentle inspection of his hand, though, and his visor continues to focus on it even after you’ve retreated. You attempt to draw him out of his reverie by offering some requital, hoping to ease his discomfort.

“Is there anything you want to ask me?”

It takes him a few seconds to answer. He seems distracted as he withdraws his hand and drops it into his lap beneath the table, shielding it from your roving gaze. Then he shifts in his seat and finally angles his restricted line of sight toward you once more. “Ask… you,” he echoes, sounding uncertain.

“Yeah. You’ve answered my questions, so you should get to ask me some of your own. Like-for-like.”

It’s only because you’re now looking for his subtle reactions that you notice the fractional movement of his helmet toward your weapons rack. He’s clearly curious, and that knowledge fills you with glee.

But he shakes his head once.

Kark. You’re a little confused and discouraged, but you tell yourself that perhaps the hand-thing has fried his brain, so you label it ‘to be continued’ for now.

The air between you is somehow charged with something, yet you’re unsure what. It’s not discomfort, but you don’t recognise it as desire either. Not that you believe you have any chance at getting under this inscrutable man’s armour, nor do you think you genuinely hope for that. Your intense interest in him is likely nothing more than a reaction to the mystery, the challenge, and your boredom, alongside a woefully long dry spell in the bedroom.

Nonetheless, something sits between you now – something that feels messy, confusing, unnamed.

Not wanting it to become awkward, you consider where to steer the discussion next. Although, truthfully, your curiosity is already quite sated from all you’ve coaxed out of him this evening.

Down to business, then.

“Should we take a look at your holopuck now?”

Mando nods and somehow manages to exude moderate relief through the beskar. However, you can see the tension remains in his body as he shifts again in his chair. He may have answered all your questions, but it’s strikingly apparent that much of the verbal exchange dragged him out of his comfort zone. The physical touch even more so. You’re suddenly awash with gratitude that he willingly allowed it all, regardless.

But before you can thank him, he drops back into his expert hunter guise, using his gloved hand to produce the holopuck from his belt before setting it on the table. Then he activates the display, and you study the flickering holo image while he leans back in his seat, watching you examine it.

The target is a human male, which is not helpful. More than half of the compound’s workforce is human, and there are more men than women, which means he’s one of hundreds. The image is grainy, but you notice he has a thick neck, closely cropped dark hair, and deep lines across his face. Other than that, he’s not terribly distinctive. He probably blends into crowds rather well.

Your heart sinks when you don’t recognise him; you had hoped to be of more assistance to your new ally.

A quick glance at the device’s design reveals a button you can press for a second image. Ah yes, there’s extra data here that you can check for any clues.

You start with his name. Zared Nantoogen. It’s not a name you recognise. He’s wanted for… oh… for multiple counts of sexual assault, kidnap, theft, fraud, extortion, rape, murder and more. In fact, the word ‘multiple’ doesn’t do his rap sheet justice – dozens, no hundreds of galaxy-wide offences scroll past. You suddenly feel less safe at the compound if a dangerous criminal such as this is your neighbour. He’s wanted alive, and when you revert the display to the first image, you note the reward amount is an obscene sum of credits (a kriffing million of them!). From this, you surmise he must be a tricky one to capture.

Your brow furrows as you sigh in frustration.

“You don’t recognise him.” Your companion’s words are a statement rather than a question.

“Based on this, I assume he’s not an employee, so I doubt he’s been here for long. Guess I haven’t crossed paths with him. But if he has the credits to pay for a room, he can renew a visitor pass as often as he needs. Or someone here could’ve vouched for him on a guest pass like I did for you. None of that means I can’t still help, though – there are still loads of options for finding him.”

The Mandalorian returns the puck to the pouch on his belt in a smooth motion, swiping up his glove from the table and fitting his fingers back inside without responding to your comment.

You’re about to voice your thoughts on where to start looking when he stands and turns abruptly, taking several hurried steps toward the door. What the kriff?

The confusion of alarm and dismay overcomes you, and you shoot to your feet so fast you almost knock the near-empty soup bowls off the table. “Mando?” His name leaves your mouth with more distress than you intended.

He stalls at your hail, and his helmet turns to the side to show he’s listening, but the rest of him remains facing the door. He offers no excuse for his oddly quick exit attempt.

“Where are you going? I can still help you,” you assure him again.

But he shakes his head, and you detect something akin to frustration or possibly even regret behind the gesture. “If you can’t tell me where he is, I’ll have to follow the fob. The guest pass is… useful. Thank you for the soup.” And with that, he nods once and exits your quarters, his cloak flapping like an agitated tooka’s tail.

“Wait, Mando, we’re not—”

The door swooshes closed behind him, and once again, your hope for an exciting evening leaves with him.

“—finished.”

Chapter Text

You’re in low spirits for the rest of the evening, and although you pour over the facts, you can’t figure out why you feel this way. Mando’s hasty exit has produced a medley of adverse responses in you, and it’s exhausting trying to sort through them all. The tired half of your brain insists you need sleep, but if you want to reach that blissful state, the active half needs to reconcile your troubling thoughts.

Your most tangible reaction is disappointment. You had a chance to get involved in something different for once – something exciting. Setting aside the inherent risks of hanging out with a bounty hunter, you had become increasingly thrilled by the idea of helping to catch a bad guy.

The Mandalorian may have a sense of justice born from his mysterious creed, but your atypical upbringing gave you one of your own. After seeing numerous false examples, it took you many years to figure out what justice should truly look like. Bringing in a rapist and murderer fits your understanding perfectly. Yet now, that chance to improve upon the quiescence of the past few years has melted away into the forest’s darkness.

Yeah, you’re a hell of a lot more disappointed than you expected to be.

Then, of course, you’re frustrated – about a few things, in fact. You thought you’d been getting somewhere with Mando. You hadn’t. You hoped you might be making a new friend. You weren’t. You felt like you’d found someone who saw you as smart, skilled, and able to assist with something besides tech maintenance. Wrong again.

It irks you that your assumptions were so far off the mark. You can admit when you’re wrong, but you’re only human, and it still frustrates you.

There’s a little bit of anger in you too. You were nothing but kind to the hunter (initial meeting aside), and he ate it up while it suited him. But all he offered in return were some cryptic clues about himself and a lot of blank stares, and that stokes a darkness deep within you.

Anger isn’t a natural state for you; not anymore, at least. There was a time before you came to Endor when it burned inside you, affecting your thoughts and actions. But nowadays, it only ever happens when you’re tired and provoked, like with your brief clash in the forest. You otherwise take pride in being able to recognise and rid yourself of anger if it ever starts to swirl within. You grew up surrounded by shameless and visceral fury, and you’re more than aware of how destructive it can be if it takes root. So now you don’t care to engage in it unless it’s unavoidable. It was a primary reason for travelling so far to this now peaceful Outer Rim moon.

So the fact that you’re feeling it toward Mando now inflames your mood until it aggregates and becomes self-propagating. You’re angry because he made you feel anger.

You won’t allow yourself to say you feel sad. Kark no. You’ll never surrender to sadness again. Nope. He wasn’t part of your life, so this cannot possibly count as a loss, even if it has the same sort of sting to it.

Finally, when you’ve dragged yourself out of bed the following morning after barely sleeping a wink, and your skin is prickling under the shower’s hot water, a new thought occurs. Except… it’s not new. It’s just a concept you’ve been refusing to consider.

Could the myriad of negative feelings also include a sense of… carnal rejection? And if so, are you truly attracted to him, or do you just wish he’d find you attractive?

Your mind conjures the memories of how Mando’s thighs and chest and hands had felt wrapped around you on the speeder. How he’d inhaled such a deep and heavy breath when you’d pressed your thumb against his soft palm. How his low and gravelled words had tugged at something in the depths of your core as he’d told you he wouldn’t put you in danger.

You’d actively tried to ignore it when you were in his presence, telling yourself that your fixation on him was nothing more than your sexual frustration and boredom. But now that he’s gone, you can’t stop reviewing all your prior interactions and how you both behaved during each one. Almost desperately, you dredge your memory for moments that might’ve hinted at genuine physical attraction, collating what you recall of his conduct during those encounters.

Did his shudder when you caressed his hand indicate more than just discomfort? That warm skin, those thick yet nimble fingers….

It’s a much more positive and tempting notion than feeling angry and unfulfilled.

So under the shower’s soothing warmth, you cling to it, indulge in it, drench yourself in the fantasy, hoping a release will wash away your woe. It doesn’t. You emerge from the refresher with a fully sated body but a still anxious mind.

When you leave your quarters for another shift at the compound’s main shield generator on-site, you find it’s not just your brain that won’t relax. Your eyes won’t either.

Most days, when going about your business, you focus on your route and ignore the people around you. Today, though, you’re constantly darting your eyes about, hoping to catch a glimpse of beskar shine around every corner. Or even, stars above, hoping to spot the bounty so you’ll have intel Mando needs.

Not that you know where he’s gone. Despite his conspicuous dress sense, he’s a veritable ghost when he chooses to stay out of sight. Where the hell can he be hiding?

Your ongoing ruminations over his location become so intense that you even consider asking the accommodation office whether he’s claimed a guest room on his pass. You manage to restrain yourself, but only because admitting you have no idea where your own guest is staying would seem suspicious.

So instead, despite your fatigue, you remain hypervigilant all day. Several times, you could swear there’s something shiny just out of your eyeline, but when you turn to look… nothing. It must be the desynchrony playing tricks with your mind, as per usual.

Your swirling thoughts torment you throughout your entire six-hour shift of tedious tasks. Sullenly, you trek back and forth between the array, the power station, and your workshop, testing and maintaining the components you replaced yesterday. It’s not a good day.

Your shift seems to drag, but when the evening finally sets in, you mindlessly join the queue for another bowl of Ari’s soup. Lack of variety aside, you crave the taste as if it can somehow transport you back to the events of the night before. Then you could spend more time with the frustrating yet strangely attractive hunter, and maybe make different choices that might prevent his quick exit. It’s absurd, but wishful thinking is all that’s keeping you afloat today.

Ari looks deflated that you’re alone, and you feel a sharp stab of empathy. “Where’s your Mandalorian, hmm?”

Your Mandalorian? You doubt he’s ever belonged to anyone in that sense. Lone wolves don’t linger anywhere long enough for close connections to develop.

As you well know.

“Uh, he had some… business to deal with, so I guess just one bowl this evening, please.”

Though you don’t socialise outside the mess hall, you’ve had a good relationship with the Volpai for as long as you’ve been on Endor. You enjoy chatting with him and are comfortable calling him a friend, one of the few non-Ewoks you’ve connected with. As you stare blankly at the violet stripes along his four arms, absent and unfocused, he easily spots your malaise.

“Don’t worry, my dear; I’m sure you’ll see him again. Mandalorians are fierce and brave, but they’re also honourable.”

Ha. Not in your experience.

“You’ll have to tell me all about them sometime, Ari. Right now, I just need decent food and plenty of sleep. I barely got any last night.”

“Oh, you work fast, my girl!” His primary left eye gives you a knowing wink, and he hands you a free bread roll. “To help restore your energy.”

You don’t have enough emotional fortitude to feel embarrassed or even deny his suspicion. Instead, you simply grimace and flee toward your quarters. Safe in the turbolift, you struggle to repress the tiny voice inside your mind that wonders if you wish his sordid assumption were true. You did imagine it in the shower this morning, after all.

Your fatigue seems to coat everything in a grey fuzz, just as it has for years in this repaired and repurposed ex-Imperial base. Yesterday, it seemed as if the dark clouds had parted a little. Yet now, as you stalk the corridors of level four, they sit low above you once more, pregnant with the promise of stormy weather in your future.

Or maybe not.

There. A break in the clouds.

The Mandalorian leans against the wall directly opposite your quarters, thumbs hooked into his belt, a heel kicked back against the angled durasteel behind him. The weak white light panels wash out the rich silver tones of his beskar yet fail to penetrate the deep charcoal of his flight suit. It’s a starkly beautiful contrast – he’s the dichotomy of shadow and light, night and day, deep space and blazing star.

Although he knows where the closest lifts are and your likely route, his visor points away from you as you approach. He’s also a hunter – an observer – so you get the feeling he’s fully aware that you’re walking toward him and is being deliberately… what? Polite? Casual? Sorry for all the karking angst he’s made you endure over the past eighteen hours? The anger swirls to the surface, and you do your best to keep a heavy lid on it.

You have mere moments to decide how to act. To greet or to confront? You want to do both, but that’s not really an option. Just as long as you don’t call him a son of a murglak again. Hurling that insult at him when you first met wasn’t your smartest decision.

Calm is the rational approach.

When you can’t channel calm, you reach for sarcasm. It’s somewhere between happiness and anger, and it’s a gut instinct when you’re out of options. It’s the best you’ve got right now.

“So. I guess you’re here for round two of ‘convincing the tired and lonely girl she might make a friend, then fucking off for no apparent reason’.” Oops. It seems the anger wasn’t as suppressed as you’d hoped, and you really need to watch your language.

Mando actually scrambles a little, straightening up and allowing his arms to fall to his sides, clearing his throat in apparent shock. Whatever his plan was, you don’t think he was expecting such attitude behind your words. But he recovers fast, and the cocksure warrior guise slams down once more – thumbs returning to his belt, response flowing smoothly through the vocoder. “Nope.”

Though your tone is level, the negative thoughts that have plagued you since he left last night coalesce into a bitter heat, and your voice cracks on your final word. “‘Nope’ you’re not gonna run out on me again, or ‘nope’ you’re not here to make friends?”

This time, he has the decency to look at the floor when it becomes clear he’s pitched this entirely wrong. His shoulders drop slightly as he finally sees that you’re no longer willing to banter with him like yesterday. A few fraught seconds tick past, and then the visor’s angle rises from the floor but remains low, a signal he’s speaking humbly. “Can I have a word with you for a moment? Please?”

Debating the chances of that word being ‘sorry’, you eye him warily. You know he’s asking to come in, but you’re sorely tempted to demand he say his piece here in the corridor. It’s not a busy hallway, and he tends to speak concisely.

But your soup is cooling rapidly, your feet are aching from being on them all day, and you just want to sit down. Plus, a small part of you is desperate to be in his company again, even if you are still a seething mess of emotion. Feeling things again is enticing, regardless of how good or bad those feelings are, and you did just spend the whole day hoping to see him again. Plus, this morning’s shower fantasy still tingles in the back of your mind… and elsewhere.

Screw it – it’s worth the risk. But if he runs out on you a third time, you’ll never take this many chances on someone again. You scan your pass on the reader and gesture for him to follow you into your quarters, striving to maintain a neutral expression.

Mando remains by the entrance as you deposit your dinner on the table, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Once you’re seated, you sigh and gesture for him to take his place opposite you.

As he settles into the chair, you focus on his tightened fist – the one you caressed last night. He leaves it on the table between the two of you, almost as if he wants to reach out to you again but isn’t sure how.

An awkward stillness envelops you both, and neither of you moves nor speaks for what feels like a terribly long and tense moment.

As the silence verges on deafening, you can’t hold your tongue any longer. “How goes the hunt?”

“Not well.”

“So… what? You’ve come crawling back for more help? Third night in a row; what do you wanna use me for this time?” Again, it’s much more acerbic than you intended, and the mighty warrior visibly flinches.

His modulator buzzes. “I’m… sorry.” His voice sounds almost pained through the distortion, and you’re not sure if it’s because he hates how he acted or if he just hates apologising. At least he said it.

“For?” you prompt, eyebrow raised. Does he know what he did? Do you even know yourself? After thinking about it for hours, you can list the actions that upset you, but you still don’t understand why they had such an impact. Now that you’ve got your apology, you find yourself wanting more.

Mando squeezes his balled fist so tight that his leather glove creaks, and the noise makes him realise what he’s doing. You watch him attempt to relax, flattening his palm against the table as he averts his visor’s gaze, preparing his response. Then his index finger double-taps the metal surface – once, twice, three times. A heartbeat rhythm, albeit much slower than your current hammering pulse.

It’s not an action you’ve seen him display before. Other than when he was without his glove for those few minutes last night, his movements have all been so controlled and assured until now. Although perhaps he’s not even aware he’s doing this.

Is he feeling guilty? Ashamed?

Before speaking, he returns his visor’s focus to you. His voice is low and gentle, and you’re surprised to hear a slight waver in his tone – uncertain like his hand gesture. “You’ve been kind to me, and I shouldn’t have—”

“—run off without so much as a goodbye after I gave you a ride and vouched for you as my guest to get you into the compound? Then fucked off again after I showed you around, bought you a meal, tried to befriend you, and did my best to help you with your stupid fucking job?”

You didn’t intend to use such crass language, but it jolts you into restraining yourself, blessedly stopping short of revealing how he made you feel certain… things.

Mando nods solemnly throughout your outburst, accepting every word – the most you’ve seen him move that shiny helmet in a single gesture. He lets your grievances sit for several moments, giving them due respect and concern before attempting to respond.

“It isn’t… easy for me to accept free help. Or kindness.” Another double tap on the table as if it calms him. “I’m used to deals and bargains. You said it wasn’t a price, but I told you things about myself last night… things barely anyone knows. And it was….”

As he struggles for the right words, you start to see the rationale behind his actions. He put a hell of a lot on the line to answer your questions – willingly, no less. There was no guarantee that you would recognise his target, but he opened up to you anyway. And you didn’t even thank him for it. But you stay silent, hoping he can find some way to complete his explanation.

He releases a heavy sigh. “I gotta stop trying to work out who’s indebted to who. I did not intend to upset you, and I’m truly sorry I did.”

Kriff. He may struggle to find the most fitting words, but he offers raw honesty and radiates regret. The bitter gloom you’ve been battling is fading fast. What is it about him that makes you so… willing? To help, to interact, to… forgive.

The treacherous portion of your exhausted brain directs your hand to open the table’s drawer and extract the rinsed-out straw from last night instead of a spoon. You push it toward him with the soup, keeping the bread for yourself.

Mando looks between the bowl and your face several times, helmet tilted slightly toward his shoulder. You’ve seen it sit at that angle enough over the past two evenings to correctly interpret the meaning by now. He’s trying to make sense of something he doesn’t understand.

“This is a kindness, not a bargain,” you explain. “Or if you have to assign some meaning to it, consider it a peace offering.”

A gentle huff comes from beneath the beskar. “Then let’s call this a mutual kindness, if not an apology….” And he reaches behind his cloak and extracts a slim object from his belt, sliding it across the table beneath his palm.

He’s… giving you something?

He lifts his hand away, and his fingers instantly return to tapping out the heartbeat rhythm, making you realise he’s not just feeling guilty or ashamed. He’s nervous. Your own heartbeat quickens at his offering, and you reach forward and draw the object closer to examine.

Stars, it’s….

Shock and delight chase each other along your spine as you realise it’s a small sheathed knife… and you collect melee weapons. You don’t think anyone has ever given you such a thoughtful gift!

A huge grin stretches across your face, displaying your joy as you unsheathe it to examine it, noting Mando’s visible relief at your positive response.

“It’s, uh… a vibro-shiv,” he explains, and although you’re already aware, you let him describe what he thinks you should know about it. His voice remains hesitant, tending toward the more formal guise of weapons expert until it’s clearer whether your seemingly happy reaction means he’s forgiven. “The sheath has a hook for your boot, see? The hilt is small and there’s no guard, so I’d cut my glove if I used it. But… I thought you could add it to your… collection.”

Kriffing hell. On the surface, this man is a badass killer who makes violence his trade, and he’s displayed some frankly dickish manners two nights in a row. How, then, can he also be so observant and so sweet as to give you the one gift you value more than any other? How can he know what this means to you when he doesn’t really know you at all?

Suddenly, there’s a lump in your throat, and you swallow it down with effort.

“Damn it, Mando, apology accepted. This is… amazing.”

You hear him take a deep breath as if he’s had to conserve his oxygen until now, and he finally has permission to fill his lungs. He was clearly far more worried you might not forgive him than he let on. So if it balances the scales between you at last, you’ll allow him to treat the gift as an apology as well as a kindness.

Tracing the elegant patterns on the hilt, you ask, “Where’d you get it?”

“Took it off my last bounty. I lost my backup blade bringing her in, so I snagged hers before I put her in carbonite. But like I said, it’s not a good fit for me.”

It’s an impressive piece, and you’ve seen many shivs throughout your life. Normally custom-made by stripping down larger knives, the weaponsmith will start by removing the guard and much of the hilt’s bulk before installing a slim blade. Then, to complete their handiwork, they’ll securely wrap the handle frame with a sturdy fibre thread for grip and comfort. The result is a dainty yet deadly weapon favoured by smaller-handed assassins and criminals alike.

This piece is no exception. The expertly woven cerulean and black threads zigzagging across the hilt are eye-catching additions alone. It was clearly assembled by a weaponsmith with an artistic flair and exquisite taste.

You activate the vibration and find it balances perfectly in your grip. Switching it off, you weigh it between your hands, passing it back and forth a few times. As you hold it up to let the light glint off the blade, you notice no flaws across the flat planes. Then you look along the cutting edges, pleased to behold the smooth lines of a perfectly sharpened blade.

“Beautiful…” you murmur, hypnotised by its elegance. Mando just sits and watches you examine his gift, a blurry background to your focused study of its nuances. A tiny part of your brain notes the blur moving as he nods in agreement.

Once you’ve acquainted yourself with its size, weight, balance and personality, you relax your wrist and smoothly toss the small knife into the air. The blade rotates lengthways three times before you deftly catch it by the hilt.

The hunter sucks in a sharp breath through the vocoder, so you reassure him, “Don’t worry, I’m good with close range.” You tilt your head toward your weapons rack nearby.

The helmet nods slowly with a slight forward bob, which you interpret to mean he’s impressed. You bet he assumed you couldn’t utilise what you collect. Proving him wrong makes you feel… something. Glad? Justified? No, it’s more powerful than that, yet somehow more pitiful. Almost like you’re finally worthy of his approval. Truly pitiful but pleasant nonetheless.

You jump up, ready to add your new toy to your collection, then change your mind and lift your boot to the chair. Slipping the sheath’s hook securely over the lip, you rest it along the outside of your calf before nestling the shiv inside. Though you’re not accustomed to carrying weapons, Mando gave you a way to wear this beautiful blade, and you’re eager to do so.

Like the sheath and parts of the grip, your boots and trousers are black, so the ensemble blends perfectly. The shock of cerulean from the hilt’s intricate thread-wrapped design blazes like a bolt of blue lightning along your calf. It looks stunning, and it makes you feel fantastic.

Your guest has leaned back in his chair to watch you arm yourself with his gift, and he gives that slow, approving nod once more. His right hand remains atop the table, his fingers now spread wide and pressed firmly against the metal surface. Perhaps he’s trying to avoid tapping them again, or maybe suppress the urge to curl them into a fist. He did force himself to relax from that more aggressive pose earlier… for your comfort, you suddenly realise. That was sweet of him. He’s trying his best.

“I love it, thank you,” you affirm warmly, settling into your chair again and gazing into his visor with genuine gratitude, eyes sparkling happily.

Mando puffs out a breath and sits up straight again. “Sure. Now, do we eat to celebrate?”

You smirk as his default arrogance returns now that the whole apology awkwardness is out of the way. Finally feeling relaxed, you find yourself wanting to engage in the banter again too.

“Celebrate becoming friends? Absolutely. I’m one-third closer to learning your name now, so let’s share some soup.” You drag the bowl toward you, silently cheering the fact that he doesn’t deny your bold assumption of friendship. Then you dip in a chunk of bread, soaking up some of the lukewarm liquid before returning it to him with a push. He gets the routine and takes a slurp through the straw before sending it your way again.

As you submerge another chunk of bread, he suddenly declares, “Mandalorians sometimes offer blades to seal an alliance or partnership. It’s a sign of trust.”

Wait. Is he serious?

You’re so desperate to clarify his meaning, that you’re not even embarrassed by the squeak that escapes you in advance. “You’re telling me I’m two-thirds of the way to getting your name? The terms were that I help bring him in, that you trust me, and that you consider me a friend. And I only needed two. So you have to tell your trusted friend right now!”

He chuckles at your eager reaction, and it’s the most heavenly sound you’ve ever heard. “Those were the terms, but you time-locked it. You said two of them must be true when I land the bounty.” He looks around the room pointedly, then returns his attention to you. “No bounty yet.”

You huff and pout your bottom lip, but you’re secretly thrilled that he’s conceded your win, albeit not in so many words. Pushing the bowl back to him, you chew thoughtfully on another piece of bread. “You said it’s not going well… I thought you had a tracking fob?”

Mando stirs the soup with the straw, weighing his response, and you think he’s almost embarrassed to admit he’s struggling with this job. After a few moments, he confesses, “It doesn’t contain his full chain code, so it’s not helpful in a place like this. And two nights of surveillance hasn’t gotten me anywhere.”

You’re unsure how the fobs work, so you shrug to indicate he needs to offer specifics if he wants you to understand the problem.

“Nantoogen’s had a price on his head for decades, but nobody’s ever caught him, and he somehow stayed off the grid during Imperial rule,” the hunter explains. “That makes him one of the rare few without a registered chain. He uses fake codes to move about – changes them constantly.”

He produces a black and silver device from what looks to be a specially designed pouch on his belt. It’s boxy but flat, with two thick wires protruding from the end and leading to a metal sensor.

Holding it up, he reveals the issue that’s impeding his progress. “Without a genuine chain code, this fob only contains the pieces worked out by people who’ve pursued him over the years. Species, gender, age range, and a genetic marker for his planet of origin, Corellia. That means any other human males from Corellia around his age will register on it too.”

You lean forward to examine the device, and Mando passes it to you. As he lets go of the sides, the fob emits a brisk pulsing tone, the red light on the front blinking in time. You move it around and note the fractional variance in the pulse speed, but overall it continues in its rapid tempo.

Unsure how to shut it off, you hand it back, and he demonstrates a tiny switch on the bottom that mutes it but leaves the light blinking. Then he flips the audio on again and presses the sides, showing you how to silence it completely. He slides it into its pouch, where the pressure keeps it quiet, and you muse on what he’s just told you.

“Corellia is a core human world, one of the biggest ports in the galaxy – there are Corellians everywhere.” You frown as your companion nods at your new insight into the challenge he faces. “There are dozens of people here who could set that off. I’m pretty sure half the maintenance department comes from Corellia. I know of at least three on the landing platform, and I bet there are others. Kriff, I dated a Corellian….”

Trailing off, you briefly wonder if your ex could offer any clues on locating the bounty, but dismiss that thought as foolish. The criminal was likely already on the run before Taron was even born, and them simply sharing a planet of origin yields no advantage.

In any case, you have zero desire to share this exciting opportunity with him. There’s no animosity between you and Taron when you cross paths, but you suspect he and Mando are so different that it would be disastrous. One is a cheerful ray of sunshine who wears his heart on his sleeve, the other an evasive mystery whose heart is probably encased in beskar like the rest of him. You’d rather mediate a cantina brawl than put those two in a room together.

You refocus. “If the fob is blinking away at all and sundry, how can you be sure this Nantoogen guy is on Endor?”

The hunter’s tone is all business as he launches into the lengthiest offering of words he’s given you to date.

“The Guild received intel of various sightings over the past few months, which gave us the first lead anyone’s had in years. Witnesses spotted him on several planets along the Great Gran Run, so plotting his path was finally possible. First Noe’ha’on, then Takodana, then Cerea. He could’ve gone in a few different directions from there, but he turned up next in Ponemah Terminal, so he was heading this way. I’ve confirmed he was in each location, so I’m getting close. He left Ponemah about a Standard week ago, but there are too many hyperspace anomalies in this sector to leave the trade routes. That means his only possible next stop would be Endor. After this he’ll stop at Bakura, and from there he’ll jump into Wild Space, so I gotta catch him before his trail goes cold. The bounty jurisdiction is galaxy-wide, but he’ll be outta reach if he makes it off the grid. He must have a base out there somewhere; explains why nobody’s ever been able to locate him.”

Thanks to his thorough report, you now understand his frustration at his lack of progress. This must have been a protracted hunt for him already. “How long have you been tracking him? And why is he making so many stops?”

“Almost three months,” Mando admits wearily to your first question. An embarrassed silence punctuates his admission before he provides even more detail in response to your second query. “From what I can tell, he’s building a smuggling syndicate along the Great Gran Run. He’s probably collecting profits or arranging buyers – things he can’t do from Wild Space and doesn’t trust anyone else to take care of. He’s cautious, though. At every stop, he lies low for just long enough to conduct his business and make sure nobody’s tailing him, then changes ships and disappears. The compound has no stationed patrols, which makes it an ideal place to establish a node in his network, so I know he’s here. Until now, I’ve been far enough behind that I doubt he’s aware I’m tracking him. But now that I’ve caught up, things might get… messy.”

Kark, smugglers in the compound? You’re aware some dodgy types live here, but a smuggling ring surprises you a little. When you read the details on the puck last night, you didn’t spot that one among the crimes listed. You’d assumed this Nantoogen guy was just a dangerous offender lying low, but if he’s on Endor to collect profits, he must have an accomplice here.

The fact that the Mandalorian is only hunting his assigned target makes you nervous. He won’t be able to take custody of anyone else involved unless they’ve got a bounty on them too. He’s not a lawman – he can’t arrest people unless he’s commissioned to bring them in – so you need to be vigilant. For once, your lack of a social life serves you well.

Musing on the new data, you lean back in your chair and lace your fingers behind your neck, stretching the muscles as you roll your head from side to side. Your guest watches you silently, exuding a quiet intensity you now find more soothing than sinister. When you release your neck, his visor follows your fingers as they push your hair away from your face then descend to drum on the table.

“You need a better plan,” you reason, and he nods but doesn’t suggest anything. You can’t tell if he’s on board with you helping or just wants advice. You don’t want him to turn you down again, so you prompt him with a generic question. “Will you let me help you come up with one?”

Mando’s helmet tilts with an angle and slowness that’s new to you, and you can’t place the emotion he’s giving off. “I… wasn’t sure you’d still want to help me.”

Silent amusement gathers in your chest. Even though you’ve made it clear you’ve forgiven him, he remains reluctant to ask you for more than you’ve already provided. He still feels guilty. Then again, earlier this evening, you outright accused him of using you, so his humility feels somewhat warranted.

You shrug, playing at casual to mask the excitement that’s slowly bubbling up once more. “Friends help each other out, right?”

“Friends don’t put each other in harm’s way,” he counters, and you glow inside as he finally confirms the friendship by using the actual word. “This isn’t your typical bail jumper bounty. Nantoogen is a career criminal murderer who has managed to evade hunters sent by two galactic governments over three decades. He’s headed countless crime rings, syndicates and cells. Whenever anyone gets close to catching him, he disappears, and all his associates are either taken out or remain tight-lipped. He’s clever, ruthless and arrogant, which is a dangerous combination. One of the worst I’ve ever gone up against. You were right when you guessed I have a reputation – I do – so the fact that I’ve got his puck should tell you how dangerous he is. I need you to fully understand what helping me with this means. You’ll be putting a target on your back by associating with me. I’ll do my best to protect you, but I can’t offer any guarantees.”

Based on both his pledge and the detailed breakdown of his mission, the hunter clearly wants (and perhaps needs) your assistance. And if there’s risk involved, it’s not limited to advice, either. However, it’s also clear he won’t accept any input until he’s confident you recognise that risk, which is unexpectedly caring of him. His offer of protection glows like warm coals in your chest, despite his grave warning.

Now you just need to reassure him that you haven’t made this decision lightly.

“Mando, the idea of even remotely helping to bring in that mudscuffer is the one thing I’ve been keen to do in… I don’t know how long. Probably years. My life here is just the same shit on repeat. I’m trapped in a job I’m overqualified for, and the most action I’ve seen on Endor was when some Ewoks took down a gurreck once. I understand it’s dangerous, but you’re doing me a disservice if you assume I’ve never faced danger before.”

You point to your weapons rack again, and his helmet follows your gesture. It’s time you confirmed a few things about yourself, even if he still hasn’t asked.

“In case you haven’t realised, those aren’t just for show. I grew up on Onderon surrounded by people who thought combat skills were… important. I have training. A lot of training. And I understand the risks in helping you, but I can defend myself well enough. That said, I’m grateful for your offer of protection, and I think I’d rather you handle any violent stuff anyway because it’s what you do best. So thank you for offering.”

You give him a smile to reflect your genuine gratitude, then switch from assurance to persuasion.

“But, I know this compound inside out, plus some well-connected people here. And, yeah, the guest pass I got you may give you more access than visitors get, but my resident card gets me in everywhere. This will work best if we team up. I have no idea how bounty hunting works, but I know that success in any field is more likely if you utilise all your assets. And I can be a useful asset to you.”

Mando has the midnight black T of his visor fixed on you again in that unyielding stare. But there’s something in the way he’s leaning slightly forward, his beskar chest expanding slowly with deep breaths. It feels like he’s hanging on your every word rather than glaring at you.

“So,” you continue. “A final bargain: my original proposal, since the friends thing is a done deal. I help you bring him in; you tell me your name.” You proffer your hand for him to shake. “Partners?”

You expect him to simply nod or mumble ‘sure’, but after a moment, he reaches out and carefully wraps his large hand around yours. He doesn’t shake it – just holds it firm and still. Whilst last night’s palm-to-palm contact was hesitant, this warrior is fully confident with his gloves on.

He stares at you for a beat, the air humming with promise. Then he tilts your joined hands sideways to put his beneath yours, no longer a prelude to a handshake. If he wasn’t wearing that helmet, you might think he wanted to lay a tender kiss on your knuckles. The thought is strangely thrilling.

Then, in a voice so rough it’s almost breathless, he insists, “You are an asset, but I’m not just gonna… use you. You already earned my name; you don’t need to change the terms. So if you wanna help me – as friends – while you wait for your reward, I’m… happy to accept.”

Kriff, he’s so intense – enticingly so. Every promise and guarantee he just drawled makes you happier than you’ve been in a long time.

“Great,” you sing, smoothly yet reluctantly extracting your hand from your companion’s soft leather grip and flashing what you hope is a casual smile.

You try your hardest to ignore the heat creeping up the nape of your neck and down to places that shouldn’t be tingling when simply committing to a joint endeavour. And damn it, you absolutely refuse to interpret his heartfelt assurance as anything more than his desire to keep you safe.

Although you’re pretty sure you’ll revisit that exchange later on.

With a few balancing breaths, the erratic onslaught of emotions you’ve been grappling with since you met this hunter seems to settle into something more stable. The anger has completely gone and the excitement has returned. There’s satisfaction from achieving what you set out to: becoming friends with this intriguing man. There’s acceptance of his apology and gratitude for his gift. And there’s respect for his willingness to set aside his instincts and work with you because it’s what you both want, not because you’ve made a bargain.

At long last, you feel a certainty begin to swell inside that your life may finally be on the right track.

The inexplicable attraction still simmers beneath it all, but it’s an undercurrent, not strong enough to tug you down into its unknown depths. You can ignore it. Probably.

“So… I have some suggestions if you wanna hear them?” you suggest, and Mando leans back in his chair, gesturing for you to continue. Eager to diffuse the white heat that persists after having his large hand envelop yours, you point to the forgotten bowl and grin playfully. “Step one. Finish the soup before it gets cold.”

Chapter Text

Once you’ve finished your shared meal, you and Mando find yourselves heading back to the mess hall with a plan.

Unlike last night, you’re brimming with confidence from your latest dinner with him, and your fatigue takes a rare and welcome back seat for a change. It’s quite a thrill.

Best of all, having left behind the negative thoughts of the past eighteen hours, you’re now able to view your recent dealings from more positive angles.

In only three days, you’ve managed to convince a secretive and standoffish bounty hunter to trust and befriend you. Not only that, he’ll even banter with you and gift you his weapons – successes you’re still amazed at achieving. Plus, there’s the fact that barely anyone knows who he is, yet you’ve already discovered some of his secrets. You’ve extracted a vague description of the face he hides from the galaxy. You’ve seen and felt the bare skin of the hand he rarely shows. You’ve learned some compelling clues about the mysterious creed he subscribes to. And you’ve secured the promise of his name.

That’s some impressive (and speedy) progress. It seems silly that you didn’t recognise these wins sooner.

You’re somewhat proud of how little time it’s taken you to get a peek under his armour – figuratively, at least. Your unhelpful brain then offers you the linked thoughts about the physical aspects hidden by the beskar. Unbidden, the memory of his body wrapped around yours on the speeder springs to mind, and you hurriedly suppress it.

During each encounter over the past three evenings, you’ve felt emotions you’ve repressed for years: anger, attraction, frustration, delight. However, you find yourself oddly grateful for even the negative responses, which is not how you expected to view your recent emotional unrest in hindsight. Except it makes sense. The cocktail of sensations has pulled you from the wretched gloom of nothingness in which you’ve existed for so long. This shining stranger has stepped into your path and powered up your senses like the compound’s outdoor lights coming on in sequence as the suns dip below the horizon.

As you walk toward the mess hall, you feel confident enough to inquire into Mando’s movements since he arrived. “So, did you use your pass to get guest quarters?”

“Uh-uh,” he negates. “I staked out the cantina for the past two nights. It’s usually a good place to start a hunt when you have limited data. Drunk bounties make more mistakes.”

“I take it there’s no chance of that happening here, though?”

He sighs. “None. Nantoogen visited cantinas on the last few planets, but they were quieter – more remote. There are too many people here; he won’t risk the wrong person seeing him. I can’t rely on this guy making a mistake. He hasn’t evaded two galactic governments for most of his life without a few tricks and a lot of smarts.”

“That’s why this plan is sound,” you assure him. “Food and transport are essential, so if he’s gonna show up anywhere, it’ll be the mess hall or the hangar. The cantina’s always packed, but these two places are quiet mid-shift, so he just needs to time his visits carefully.”

Mando gives you a firm nod, and it feels as if he’s just pinned a shiny medal to your chest. The plan’s specifics were almost entirely your idea, and you soak up his ongoing approval with unfettered glee.

Returning to your previous line of thought, you comment, “So you haven’t slept for three days?”

He shrugs as if sleeping is nothing more than a hindrance to his job. “I found somewhere quiet and got a few hours’ rest while you were at work.”

Nodding with envy at his statement, you wish you had his control over your own body’s capacity for suitably timed slumber. You get the feeling that he’s learned to catch a few hours of repose whenever possible, which is a talent you could really benefit from. You’re about to ask whether it’s a teachable skill, but you’re seconds from your destination, so you pin that question for later. Right now, you need to focus on the task at hand.

The night shift is just beginning as you enter the mess hall, and Ari remains at his booth to serve those who toil through the short nights. Not for the first time, you wonder when the Volpai rests. He never seems to leave – a permanent feature of compound life like the ceaseless hum of insects in the forest. Luckily, the place is quiet since the night shift workers have finished their ‘breakfasts’, and not all jobs here have rolling shifts anyway. You’ve arrived at an opportune time to implement your plan.

Mando’s visor scans the tables as you make your way toward the vendor, but he remains relaxed beside you. He’s trusting you to lead the mission for this part, and his faith in you is like oxygen filling your starved lungs. This is your long-desired chance to shine, and it doesn’t feel in the least bit burdensome. You’re keen to prove just how capable and cunning you can be alongside the helpful and heedful qualities you’ve already displayed.

“You’re back! And you found your Mandalorian!” As you approach, Ari’s four arms extend in opposite directions, and he is briefly a talking orange compass. You pointedly ignore his use of the possessive word ‘your’ again, hoping Mando doesn’t notice. “Have you come for another serving?”

“No thanks. It was delicious, as always, but we’re okay for now.” Your praise is sincere. “We’re hoping you might be able to help us with something else, though.”

The hairless brow ridge above his primary left eye quirks with interest. “Do tell, my dear.”

“My friend here is looking for someone called Zared Nantoogen.” Mando glances at you as if surprised by your public admission of friendship, but you ignore him and focus on your goal. “Given how renowned you are for good food and good gossip, I’m willing to bet he’ll have come by your booth for one or both of those at some point.”

You know that flattery goes a long way with someone like Ari, so you have no qualms about feeding the chef’s ego, especially as it’s true. Of course, you are painting the target in a completely false light, which you’re less thrilled about. According to Mando, Nantoogen is the silent and stoic type, except for when he’s committing the atrocious acts for which he’s wanted. The rumour is that the criminal gets arrogant and mouthy when he’s revelling in the thrill of breaking the law, as if it’s the only thing that inspires him. Given this, you can’t imagine him gossiping with mess hall vendors any time soon.

Keeping your body language open, you ask the Volpai your question. “Have you met anyone with that name, by any chance? A human male?”

As he hums in thought, all four of Ari’s violet-striped arms seem to adopt contemplative gestures. His lower limbs stir the soup as he drums his three fingers on the pan’s handle; his higher pair cup his angular chin and scratch his bald head. “Hmm, I don’t believe I have. Is he a recent arrival?”

The hunter steps forward and gently places a gloved hand on the counter with his fingers spread wide – a sincere gesture, not a threatening one. He has an impressive talent for evoking the perfect level of calmness or fear in others depending on what the situation calls for. “Yes. He would’ve arrived within the past week. We have important business; I need to locate him urgently.”

“I’m sorry, young man, I don’t recognise the name.” Ari somehow manages to give a four-armed shrug despite only having two shoulders. “Nor have I noticed any new faces in the past week, in fact. Aside from yours, of course… by which I mean helmet, not face.” Despite his deflated demeanour, the chef always maintains his manners, even in the wake of defeat. It’s a trait that makes him thoroughly likeable.

But you’re counting on this response. When concocting the plan, Mando informed you that Nantoogen adopts a different alias on each planet, so this is fully expected. In fact, letting Ari suffer the frustration of being unable to help is an essential first step.

The next stage of your carefully devised stratagem requires a little more finesse: dangling an incentive and acting out a tenuous lie.

Lowering your voice so that only the vendor will hear and nobody else in the relative quiet of the hall, you grumble, “Sorry, Mando. I thought I was onto something. How will you get this guy his inheritance if we can’t find him?”

As expected, Ari’s four eyes light up with interest, and he suddenly can’t be helpful enough. “Your business relates to legal affairs? Is there a finder’s fee? Perhaps if you describe this man to me, I can keep an eye out for him and alert you if he comes into the mess.”

Glancing at your companion, he turns his helmet to mirror your gesture, and your gazes meet through the visor’s dark barrier. The eyebrow you raise at him seems to say, ‘Shall we accept this offer?’ but privately means, ‘Told you I could get him to volunteer’.

Mando nods, and you adopt a grateful expression as you turn back to the chef, who is now fiddling three-handedly with his Plastex display case of sweetcakes.

“That would be great, Ari, thanks,” you smile. “Mando can authorise a finder’s fee as part of the costs of tracking down the beneficiary – it’ll come out of the inheritance. I wanted to claim it myself, but I haven’t been much help. I hope you’ll have better luck.”

Truthfully, you have no kriffing clue about such things, but growing up, you heard plenty of Imperial-backed law firms promoting their expertise in locating heirs and inheritors. The galaxy saw so much death during the Rebellion that it was a lucrative industry, although you’re unaware of the specifics since nobody official had to track you down. Still, it sounded plausible when you came up with it, and Ari has just supplied the correct jargon. You’d planned to offer ‘a reward’, so it wasn’t hard to weave this into the lie, and it sounds far better. Plus, the bounty payout will easily cover this ‘finder’s fee’.

You’re still glowing from your new partner’s impressed response, earnest agreement, and assessment of your plan as ‘clever’. His praise has melted into your soul and taken root, inspiring you like nothing else has in years.

Showing Ari the image in the holopuck isn’t possible because the word ‘wanted’ hangs above it, which you can’t explain away. Plus, you doubt lawyers would issue their agents with holopucks anyway.

Instead, you describe the target in detail, and the orange Volpai listens closely. He then wraps and exchanges two large sweetcakes for the disclosure, insisting he owes you for giving up your chance to claim the fee and letting him try instead. Gratefully, you wedge the sizeable treats into your shoulder bag, and the vendor promises to alert you as soon as he sees your quarry.

You tie up your ploy with a caveat that should prevent any gossip from spreading throughout the compound and avoid any risk of Nantoogen catching on. “But remember, Ari, the fee is for information, not assistance, so you just have to tell us where he is. That means you can’t mention the inheritance to him if you find him, and you can’t tell anyone else. If you do, he might come to us directly, which would mean no fee for you. So you just have to comm us and report where he is, okay?”

Ari nods eagerly and gives you four thumbs up. Satisfied, you supply the chef with your personal comlink code and a parting wave as you turn to go. Misleading someone you’ve known for so long leaves a slightly sour taste in your mouth, but it’s only a little fib. Plus, you’ll all benefit if it works, so you don’t feel too bad.

That is until your informant offers a parting comment. “Don’t keep her up late again, Mando. She can’t match your warrior’s stamina – you exhausted her last night.”

That skinny orange bastard.

There’s only one way Mando can interpret that, and it makes you look bad. He’s going to think you implied a carnal reason for your fatigue when you picked up your soup earlier. The soup you just shared. And even if he does conclude it was Ari’s assumption rather than your suggestion, it’s shamefully clear you made no effort to set the Volpai straight. Kark.

You pick up your pace to stay ahead of him and avoid his inevitable questioning stare, hoping your embarrassment isn’t evident. But damn it, his legs are long, and he has no trouble catching up.

Side by side again, you move down the drab corridors of the common building in awkward silence, heading toward the compound’s lush outdoor section. The instant you realise he’s looking along his shoulder at you, alarm joins the shame written on your face. Stars, he’s walking without looking where he’s going again, just like he did last night, although you’d prefer not to invite his scrutiny tonight.

Still mortified, you duck your head and let your hair hang forward, hoping it’ll cover your guilt-ridden expression, but it just draws attention to it.

It soon becomes painfully clear that he’s not going to ask, but he also won’t stop staring at you and wondering. There’s no avoiding it; you’ll have to address the issue. Except, your only real option is making light of the situation, which requires a tad more deceit.

Putting on a false air of nonchalance, you insist, “Karking hell, Mando, it’s just one of Ari’s bad jokes. I never adjusted to the eighteen-hour days here because I grew up with a twenty-eight-hour rotation. That means I’m always tired because I can never fall asleep when the suns set. Ari just thinks it’s funny to suggest I get up to… certain things while everyone’s asleep. As the subject of his latest ‘joke’, you know there’s no truth in it.”

Your companion emits a noise somewhere between a grunt and a static-filled snort, which gives you precisely no insight into what he’s thinking. However, he finally turns away, seemingly satisfied with your cover story. Yes, a long-standing joke sounds far better than admitting you let the Volpai believe his assumption was true because you wanted it to be.

In fact, the idea has become all the more tempting now that you’ve repaired the rift between you, but you shake off the sudden urge to play the vixen. With concerted effort, you resist commenting that you’d surely remember if that were the reason for your lack of sleep because even he’s not that stealthy. You don’t want to test his patience, so flirting is off the table, regardless of your suppressed need to clarify that your stamina is better than Ari suggested.

You step out into the bustling sounds of the forest at sunset, munyips and ruggers singing in the trees nearby as they scurry through the branches. Steering toward the vehicle hangar, you prepare for phase two: enlisting similar assistance from the transport manager, Suriee. The compound’s outdoor lighting is beginning to flicker on, and you move sedately between the bright pools of light, carefully traversing the rivers of shadow between.

Now that you’ve diffused the tension, you playfully catch your lower lip between your teeth and nudge Mando until you have his attention again. “So, go on, admit it. I’m pretty good at the tracking part of bounty hunting, right? My plan worked perfectly with Ari.”

He’s quick to hum in amusement at your buoyant tone, having seemingly unwound a great deal since you first met. “You were… convincing,” he concedes. “It’s not how I would normally approach a job, but I can see the merits of this method. Even if it’ll cost me credits if it works.”

You snort. “Merits? Without my help, you’d have just sat in the cantina night after night, waiting for the bounty to wander by. And maybe when the frustration kicked in, you’d have broken down every door in the residence wing that the fob flashed slightly faster at. But let’s be honest, there are too many signals here, so you wouldn’t even have known when he left. Without me, your only option would’ve been to move on to Bakura and wait. And don’t pretend you’ve never had to spend credits bribing anyone before, Mandalorian,” you chastise teasingly. If you’re going to deny yourself the flirting, you can at least revel in the repartee of casual banter.

Mando shrugs affably, and the friendly gesture is a glory to behold on the stoic hunter’s broad frame. It emboldens you.

“My plan got you a four-eyed spy covering the busiest location in the complex,” you check off the merits on your fingers. “My plan is about to get you a furry transport manager reporting on anyone using a land-based vehicle. And, if we find him first, my plan won’t cost you anything,” you finish with a grin. “This method has all the merits. You just don’t wanna admit how much you like having my help.”

He avoids answering directly, but your playful showboating gets a chuckle out of him, and he hums again in thoughtful agreement. Thrilled, you covet that chuckle like a prize.

As you continue wandering toward the vehicle hangar, you jointly slip into a relaxed and contented silence for a short while. The levity from a moment ago has flitted away into the forest’s darkness, leaving a pleasant atmosphere in its wake, and you gladly absorb its comforts.

But quite suddenly, as you approach the shadowy rear of the hangar, your companion stops and grasps your wrist, arresting your forward motion.

“What’s wrong?” you query, cautiously curious. His firm grip turned gentle the moment you stopped walking, but you’re acutely aware he hasn’t removed the fingers wrapped around your wrist. You wonder if he can feel your sudden rapid pulse, despite his leather gloves.

Your first thought is that he’s spotted his quarry, but his visor gazes directly at you. His touch is soft now, so you don’t feel remotely threatened by this weapon-clad warrior stopping you in the building’s shadow where nobody can see.

However, when he slowly draws you forward into his personal space, a charge cascades through your body. It’s still not fear; you trust him and move willingly as his gentle tugs encourage you closer. But it’s a sense of intimacy you’re totally unprepared for. The powerful new feeling rises into your throat in tingling suspense of what he’s about to say.

When he speaks, his voice contains that same tone he used in his apology, at once both smooth and husky. “I gotta… say thank you… for helping me with this. I should’ve said it already. You’re right; it is a good plan, and I— I do like having your help. I’m… happy to have it. You’re perceptive, persuasive, and you think like a hunter, even if you don’t realise it.”

Stars. Your cheeks warm at his unexpectedly effusive compliments, and you’re unsure how to respond. His fractured exhale suggests he’s searching for more words, so you remain silent and frozen under the scrutiny of his shadowed visor, wondering if there’s a caveat. But soon enough, he takes a deep breath and continues his surprising praise.

“I don’t meet many people like you – good people. Most who can help rarely choose to do so without payment. You’re…” He trails off, searching for the correct word but unable to find it, dismissing his attempt with a slight shake of his helmet. Finally, he simply addresses you by name – the first time you’ve heard him vocalise it in that deep baritone of his – and it makes your breath catch. “Thank you,” he rumbles.

And then his gloved thumb slowly travels in a back-and-forth motion across the inside of your wrist where he holds it. Once, twice.

Mando just stroked you.

Something stirs in your chest, something both magical and deadly, and you’re torn between terror and joy. For once, you’re almost pleased you can’t see through the visor’s blackness because – kriff – his sincere tone and gentle touch were staggering enough on their own. But… if his brown eyes had met yours too, you know you’d be unable to ignore the strange attraction to this metal-clad hunter that’s been simmering behind your chronic fatigue. You’re struggling even now.

You swallow that unhelpful notion and scramble for a suitable response, but your brain gives you nothing, offline and utterly drunk from the sudden flood of blissful serotonin. You’re rarely lost for words, and that’s all the more startling. It’s too dark to see your reflection in his helmet, which you’re glad about as you’re sure your eyes are wide, pupils blown from your sudden arousal. You hope he can’t see them either.

Mando stroked you. What does that mean?

You have to react; you can’t just freeze. After a few intense seconds of staring into his visor’s profound and arcane mystery, you force yourself to nod and breathe a one-word response. “Sure.”

Before it can become awkward, you gesture at the vehicle hangar and begin to pull away from him, and he instantly releases your wrist. You stumble as you turn, but you tell yourself it’s the uneven ground behind the building, not because you’re suddenly feeling weak at the knees. Finding your feet (though not your dignity), you pick up your pace and head toward the entrance. After a beat, you hear him begin to follow, although he doesn’t quite catch up with you this time and lets you maintain your lead.

Shit, you need to get a grip. Whatever that was, your attraction is pure intrigue, nothing more. A juvenile crush at most. A whimsical musing to counter the sense of physical isolation you’ve felt for so many years.

You only met this man a few days ago.

You know so little about him.

He kills for a living.

You’ve never even seen his face.

There are no real feelings here; your body is simply responding to natural biological needs. It’s getting confused by the proximity of another warm-blooded person because it’s been so long since you’ve felt someone’s touch. That’s why you didn’t correct Ari’s assumption earlier, and it’s why you’re reading too much into a simple thank you now.

Your treacherous brain has confused things by indulging in pointless musings and fantasies about this warrior. What shade of brown his eyes are. Whether his scruffy self-cut hair falls across his forehead. What his smile might look like in those precious few moments that you’ve made him chuckle. How he would smell pressed up close to you. The divine feel of those gorgeous, strong hands caressing you skin-to-skin…

Stop it. What happened a moment ago was merely him expressing his gratitude, that’s all. Plus, you prompted it by extolling the virtues of your plan and joking that he likes your help. And he probably feels guilty for upsetting you. In light of all that, it’s logical he’d want to convince you that your comment needn’t have been in jest and that it is, in fact, the truth.

Perhaps he’s also seen beyond the surface of Ari’s lurid comment and realised the truth is that you lost sleep because he upset you, adding to his guilt. Surely it’s not possible for him to desire what the Volpai suggested? You’re just friends, for kriff’s sake.

Oh. That’s… a somewhat startling insight. It seems your earlier joy at Mando confirming your status as friends has transmuted into mild regret that it’s nothing more than that.

Fuckfuckfuck. You rarely even think with such profane language these days, which demonstrates how far into your psyche this fixation is already embedded. You need to let go of it, fast. You have a job to do. An important job.

His earlier grave warning flickers through your mind – that this bounty is one of the most dangerous he’s ever faced. Following that thought to its inevitable conclusion, it suddenly dawns on you what has to happen. Indulging in these fantasies is affecting your focus on this hunt, and that could be dangerous. There’s simply no way around it…

You have to keep him at arm’s length.

Though you don’t regret getting closer to this enticing enigma of a man over the past few evenings, that’s close enough now. From now on, you have to shut down any confusing feelings for your own safety (and sanity).

Rounding the corner of the vehicle hangar, you hurry inside before he fully catches up, accosting Suriee with an almost feverish urgency.

You have to do the whole routine yourself this time since your companion doesn’t speak Ewokese. Besides, you suspect the grumpy transport manager will only help you if you’re polite enough to address her in her native tongue. There’s no need for flattery and subterfuge with the striped brown Ewok, as neither would convince her to assist you. Instead, you just explain that Mando is trying to locate a beneficiary and can offer a reward for any helpful clues on his whereabouts.

She has no interest in New Republic credits, but despite her outward grouchiness, you know she’s kind at heart, so you prepare yourself for some bargaining. She’s finally convinced when you replace the financial reward with a promise to teach the Woklings in her village to understand Basic. Your new terms easily sway her since the ongoing presence of immigrated species on Endor requires the youngsters to broaden their communication skills. Although she lives at the compound now, Suriee puts her tribe’s needs before her own, just as all Ewoks do. It’s a quality that you find both noble and charming.

Mando lingers by the hangar’s entrance as you bargain with Suriee, and after closing the deal, you breeze past him, trusting he’ll follow. It’s a welcome contrast to the night you first met, when you dashed out of the very same building, hoping (and failing) to catch him. Now he’s the one chasing your exit.

You halt at the far edge of the pool of light outside the large building, balancing on the border of shadows as you wait for him. He appears unrushed by your quick departure, and when he finally draws near, you offer him a tight smile and two thumbs up. “I convinced Suriee; she’s on board.”

“Great,” he responds evenly, nodding once as he stops a few paces away, unwilling to join you in the shadows this time. He then stands completely motionless, his beskar glinting in the light, staring at you with that intense hidden gaze of his.

Is he waiting for you to decide on the next step? Well, this is your plan. Kark, you didn’t really think this far ahead. The next step would be… waiting?

Now that the elements of your strategy are in place, you simply turn and start wandering back toward your quarters. Your comlink is a fixed line, so you should stay near it in case your informants call with a lead.

The hunter falls into step, allowing you a slight lead again, making no attempt to converse. Not that he often does. You suddenly realise that aside from his recent display of gratitude, you’ve started almost every conversation. Sure, he responds now, which is progress, and you’ve discovered he’s linguistically adept once you get him talking. But he still seems content to remain silent unless you encourage him to the contrary.

As you walk, the fatigue from your desynchrony begins to emerge, the sinister shadow of it prickling at the edges of your consciousness. Ever your eternal nemesis, you understand its cruelty, and you know you’ve missed your chance to sleep now. You’d planned to go straight to bed after your dinner, but a certain Mandalorian distracted you with his enticing apologies, gifts, and offers of trust and friendship. All the exciting events have roused your brain from its usual daze, and it’s no longer possible to trick it into an early bedtime.

Since you’re not on shift tomorrow, the next best option to reset your sleep pattern is to use your free day to catch up with Endor’s eighteen-hour rotation. That means staying awake through tonight and half of tomorrow, then balancing the exhaustion with a decent nine hours’ rest from early tomorrow evening.

Then again, you now have a guest, so your plans might not be as straightforward as you’d hoped. How the hell are you supposed to entertain both yourself and Mando until some intel comes in? Somehow, you doubt he’ll be up for watching a holoshow with you.

You make it back to your quarters without so much as a word spoken between you, but he hesitates on the threshold as you enter.

“Don’t be a lurdo; just come in.” The Ewokese insult comes out sounding far more impatient than you intended. It also doesn’t help when you grab his elbow and pull him inside, similar to how you dragged him through the security gate when he first arrived.

The door swooshes closed, but your guest continues to loiter by it, and awkwardness saturates the room.

Well, this is far from ideal. But what can you do? You invited him in, and you assumed he’d feel relaxed enough in your quarters by now to take a seat without needing permission. Maybe he’ll drop that awkward stiffness if you just act like nothing’s out of the ordinary. Pretend you’re not having an emotional crisis over your feelings for him.

Turning to busy yourself, you transfer Ari’s sweetcakes from your bag to the table before clearing away the bowl and utensils from earlier. You’re unable to stifle a yawn as you dump them in the refresher’s sink and blast some water over them. Then you return to the main room with a hair tie, smoothing your hair into a ponytail while fighting the urge to yawn again.

He hasn’t moved from the doorway. “I should find some lodgings of my own…” he begins, but you shake your head. Keeping him at arm’s length means maintaining a distance while not losing sight of him again.

Your tone remains impassive as you justify your desire to stop him from leaving. “No matter how tired I am, we’re already well into this absurdly short night, so I can’t sleep now. That would throw me more out of sync, and I’d feel even worse by the time I’m next on shift. You said you slept while I was working, and I need someone to make sure I stay awake overnight, so congrats, you’ve got the job. Then I can use my day off tomorrow to reset my sleep pattern.”

You gesture to the couch, at last giving him your outright permission to sit, but he still doesn’t take it. Instead, he steps over to your rack of melee weapons and studies them. Well, at least he’s not leaving.

With a shrug, you slump onto the cushioned seat and watch him inspect your collection, waiting for him to voice the questions you know he has about them.

But he surprises you.

“I’ve upset you again.” Mando doesn’t turn around as the impassive statement filters through his vocoder, staring intently at the net on the end of your kar-shak.

Kriff. It takes you a minute to formulate a suitable response, but he doesn’t rush you. Instead, he runs his gloved fingers along your ceremonial Ewok baston as if admiring the carvings while he waits.

When you can’t come up with anything helpful, you breathe a heavy sigh. “No, you haven’t.”

It comes out sounding somewhat annoyed, and you’re not sure how to explain that it’s not annoyance with him. There’s simply no straightforward way to clarify that it’s your overactive mind that’s the enemy here. Is there?

You try again to reassure him. “How could you have upset me when you’ve barely spoken to me for half an hour? I’m still not convinced you’re truly capable of conversation.”

Shit. You didn’t mean to say that, but surprise has twisted your earlier thought into something you know is untrue. You wince as you register how cruel and insulting it sounded. Guilt and panic flood your body as it becomes woefully clear that your attitude is directly threatening the friendship you fought so hard for.

You see no obvious reaction from him since he’s facing away and covered in armour, but the tension in the room seems to thrum louder. You need to fix this.

“Kark… Mando… I’m sorry. I never meant to suggest… ugh. Look, there’s honestly nothing for you to worry about. I swear I’m not trying to be a bitch; it just keeps... happening. I think it’s partly because I’m so tired, but also—”

Stop. You were about to say it. You were about to admit out loud that he has some kind of effect on you, but you don’t understand exactly what or why. You were so close to confessing that he makes you feel something, and it’s unsettling and confusing and thoroughly frustrating.

And of course that’s why you’re being standoffish with him. You’ve resolved to keep him at arm’s length while you figure out your feelings and help with his hunt, but that appears to be manifesting as insulting behaviour.

How can you possibly explain this to him?

With minimal forethought, you decide to mimic his ‘less is more’ approach. “I’m just… confused.”

Still facing the weapons rack, your guest rotates his helmet slightly toward you as if he misheard you. “Confused,” he repeats, not as a question, but it’s clear he’s asking for more.

“Yes.” You refuse to budge. Let’s see how he likes his own brand of silent stubbornness when it’s used on him.

He lifts your Kyuzo petar from the rack and rotates it in his hands, taking care to prevent the sharp blades from piercing his leather gloves. “These are rare,” he observes, apropos of nothing, and your head spins with the dizzying turn in the discussion. He’s clearly not willing to allow you any advantage in this battle to justify your behaviour.

“I found it in some wreckage. It was the first in my collection.”

Mando hums and finally turns to face you, still gripping the petar between his gloved fingers. It might be alarming if you weren’t already fretting about other things. But you recognise it’s not a threat… it’s a tactic.

Perhaps in response to your insult, this hunter wants to prove he doesn’t need words to make you talk. And so the black visor fixes on you, and he waits.

And waits.

You narrow your eyes at him. “I know what you’re doing.”

His helmet tilts inquisitively, but he remains otherwise still and silent. The steady rise and fall of his chest is the only sign there’s a living man beneath the armour.

You squirm beneath his stare, glancing away. Your stubborn desire to withstand his (clearly very effective) interrogation technique is slowly crumbling as the loaded silence thrums around you, oppressively thick. But you can’t explain your sudden change in attitude to him. That would mean admitting something you don’t want to admit to.

And he wouldn’t understand anyway. He hunts down bounties and rarely removes his armour, even when alone. He couldn’t possibly entertain the idea of any feelings evolving between himself and a random woman he met on a job.

Except…

Clearly, you’re not just some random woman he met on a job. You’ve both agreed that trust and friendship have already made you into more than that. The question is: how much more?

Your brain chooses that moment to pipe up with the memory of exploring his bare hand yesterday evening. He was willing to remove his glove for you, to let you touch his skin, to softly caress his palm. And you saw what it did to him. His intense gasp when your thumb found his pressure point, his hypnotised stare that was obvious despite the visor. And the vibro-shiv. He could’ve just apologised, but he also gave you such a thoughtful gift. And earlier, when he stopped you by the vehicle hangar. He was the one who reached out to you and chose to supplement his grateful words with that gentle caress.

Could Mando have a soft side?

Are there more complex emotions hidden beneath that shining armour?

Or maybe you’re heading in the right direction on the wrong track. What if the whole concept of feelings is moot? What if this really is just a simple case of physical attraction? For both of you. You can’t see what’s going on under that helmet; maybe he’s been eyeing you up all along. Perhaps this is his signature move for picking up women. The faceless warrior routine. Fully clothed sex with a stranger. Would that be so bad? It’s certainly tempting to remove the idea of a more complex connection and frame it that way.

As you rub your tired eyes to prevent them from meeting the inquiring darkness of his visor, your brain once again plays devil’s advocate with itself. This time, it wonders: are you simply projecting your own desires? Wishing he might share those sordid thoughts you had in the shower this morning?

But surely it can’t just be about sex if the friendship is genuine, right?

Right. You can’t reconcile behaviour from either of you with the notion that it’s nothing more than sexual attraction.

Whilst a quick tumble with him might satisfy you in a physical sense, it’s far more complex and frustrating on your side. Your interest in him is something more than that, and the friendship you worked hard for is worth more than that. It’s not just about sex for you.

And as for Mando…

You look back at him standing by your weapons, still patiently awaiting your response, and you see something else. It’s not softness, although you’re starting to suspect there is indeed some of that beneath all the hard metal. It’s not carnal attraction either, although you can’t know for sure that there’s none of that on his side. But either way, you don’t think he would jeopardise your friendship by acting on that.

No, this is something different from both of those things. It’s… need. He needs you to explain your strange behaviour because he doesn’t understand it. As much as it’s confusing you, it’s confusing him too. And how can he rely on you and work with you if he can’t understand you? After earning his trust, you can’t risk losing it by refusing to tell him why your attitude has soured so abruptly.

It suddenly strikes you that Mando has been far more forthcoming than you’ve been yourself. He even described his appearance when you said it would increase your trust in him. That counts for a lot. So he absolutely deserves to know what’s going on so he can have that same level of confidence in you.

Then another thought presses itself against your consciousness. Perhaps he even suspects what you’re feeling, or at least some version of it. After all, this hunter appears to be an astute man – adept at getting inside the heads of his quarries to predict their reactions. Clearly, your demeanour changed after he stopped you behind the vehicle hangar. Though he’s come to the (incorrect) conclusion that he’s upset you, he’s starting to join the dots.

Kark, he must be wondering if he’s overstepped. Does he think he offended you by stroking your wrist?

You realise you have to reassure him, but you have no idea how to do that. You can’t just announce, ‘Sorry, I have a secret crush on you, but I promise it won’t interfere with hunting the bounty. And anyway, it might just be because I need to get laid, so if that’s on the table, I wouldn’t say no. Oh, but only if it doesn’t ruin our friendship because you’re decent company.’

No, that wouldn’t go down well, as much as you wish your interactions could be so honest and straightforward. But perhaps there’s a vague version of honesty that’ll allow you to avoid the awkward truth.

Resignation flows from your lungs in a deep sigh, and you focus beyond him on your weapons rack to avoid the direct glare of his visor.

“I promise you, Mando, you haven’t upset me. You’ve done nothing wrong, I swear. I’m sorry if my mood is a bit off, but it’s nothing for you to worry about. I’ve just got some… stuff on my mind, and… well, explaining it is even more confusing than thinking it. I need to figure out… a few things before I can talk about it, okay?”

He dips the helmet in slow accord.

Encouraged by his acceptance of your purposely vague excuse, you continue, “Please don’t take my shitty attitude to heart. I swear I’m not trying to be insulting; I’m just… distracted.” You hesitate, then reaffirm, “Confused. And I don’t want it to ruin our new friendship because I really like you.”

Shit. You didn’t mean to say that last part. It just spilled forth, a modicum of truth fighting its way out in the wake of the untruths you’ve told today. Through your widened eyes, you notice Mando stiffen slightly.

Embarrassed again, you stand and turn away, stepping over to the table. “Listen, I’m gonna run to the cantina and order us some tarine tea. Will you wait here? Please? I’ll be quick – five, ten minutes at most. I promise.”

Glancing at him sidelong, you’re gifted another slow dip of the helmet. You notice the hand holding your petar has now dropped to his side. His demeanour is almost one of surrender.

Before any more words can trip off your tongue, either intended or impulsive, you collect your shoulder bag and dart through the door. The instant it swooshes closed behind you, you lean against it and sigh, swallowing your utter frustration at that whole interaction.

Have you done enough to lay the matter to rest for now? Or have you just admitted your feelings without meaning to? How skilled is he at reading between the lines? You said quite a few words, yet you offered little to justify your changed demeanour. Then there was that last bit. Kark, why did you carry on talking?

You wish you could better understand and control your emotions, not to mention how you express them. You’re logical to a fault about anything outside of your own sphere of existence, but besides the obvious stuff, you’ve always been something of a mystery to yourself. Just as the Mandalorian in your quarters is a mystery wrapped in beskar.

Maybe that’s why you’re so drawn to him.

Chapter Text

The cantina is busy, but it always is around this hour. With such absurdly short nights on Endor, the compound’s residents try to cram as many sins as possible into the few hours of concealing darkness. Most of those amoral acts, of course, begin at the base’s only watering hole.

Running the gauntlet of drunken and leering patrons, you make it to the bar unscathed, squeezing between a greasy human and a tanked-up Rodian. When the young bartender lifts his chin for your order, you shout your request for a flask of tarine tea, barely audible above the raucous chatter. It’s a tense wait while it brews, and you scrutinise the sticky counter to avoid catching anyone’s eye as the minutes tick past. Fighting off a handsy suitor is the last thing you want to deal with while you’re busy figuring out your feelings for the Mandalorian.

The bartender winks at you when he finally hands you the flask, and you try not to grimace. Offend the staff, and it’ll be an even longer wait on your next visit. You offer him extra credits instead, which gains you an appeased nod. Then you weave back through the rowdy mob with your breath held and the tea securely sealed in your shoulder bag. When you reach the relative safety of the corridor, you breathe a deep sigh of relief.

Not for the first time, you wish you could get tea from the mess hall, but the refreshments droids there can only handle water and instant caf. For all other drinks, you have to brave the cantina. Kriff, even your latest awkward exchange with Mando was less stressful than visiting that den of iniquity after sunset. Why in the galaxy’s name did you think this was a vital errand?

Well, you know why. You ran to avoid admitting your feelings. A short breather should allow the tense atmosphere to dissipate, making the stress of the bar worthwhile. In theory, anyway. You begin an unhurried return journey, resolving to use the walk back to come up with some distracting topics to divert his attention if needed.

By the time you’ve concocted numerous questions to derail your guest’s interrogation of your behaviour, the door to your quarters is in sight up ahead. You steel yourself for the expected awkward reunion… but something entirely unexpected happens instead.

Suddenly, you’re yanked backward into an adjacent corridor, a hulking stranger’s hand clamped over your mouth, a large arm restraining you across your middle, pinning you tight against them. Fuck, no! Instantly, your body reacts in panic, pulse hammering faster than a blaster bolt, and you attempt to scream against the obstruction to no avail. When you realise that’s not an option, you thrash in your assailant’s grip, but it’s vise-like and achieves nothing.

“Stay still, you little schutta!”

Your attacker is male, speaks Basic, and the well-muscled arm restraining you looks human… oh no.

Fuck.

Zared Nantoogen. The bounty! It must be either him or his accomplice. Mando warned you that helping him would make you a target, but…

How has he already discovered you’re involved?

Abject terror drowns every cell in your body, spreading through you like a crack in a window that endlessly branches out until it completely obscures its clarity. Behind its burning bitterness, your mind makes an unpleasant connection, and you fleetingly wonder if it was Ari or Suriee who gave you up. Betrayal doesn’t sit well with you, and anger boils on top of your fear of that likelihood.

Rage and adrenaline fuel your drive to fight and escape, bringing you momentary focus. You cease your thrashing long enough to square your stance and lift your foot, smashing it down on your attacker’s with the full force of your locked ankle. The aim is to throw him off guard so his grip loosens, but your plan is only partially successful.

The arm across you falls away, but he instantly pivots and presses harder with the hand clamped over your mouth while he kicks your legs from beneath you. You flail as you fall, grabbing at his forearm, but you’re woefully out of practice at combat defence, and you land hard on your back, crushing the air from your lungs entirely. As you hit the ground, the hand over your mouth smashes your skull into the metal floor, making your vision flash bright white and your teeth puncture your tongue. You can’t even groan in despair, lungs deflated, eyesight blurred, head throbbing.

Your only thought is Mando. Your room is nearby, and he’s inside. He’ll probably hear you if you can just shout loud enough. You need to call out to him, but you’re badly winded, fighting to refill your lungs and simply breathe.

Please come outside, please please please.

Your attacker looms over you like a Gorax about to devour an Ewok. Through your blurred vision, you can confirm beyond any doubt that it’s Nantoogen himself. His hair now falls almost to his shoulders, and it’s struck through with grey – a stark contrast to the dark, close crop you saw in the holopuck. But the deep lines creasing his brow and cheeks have become even more prominent and serve as clear proof of identity.

With your lungs barely working, your brain amplifies its efforts to protect you, processing as many vital details as possible while you struggle to breathe.

The bounty carries no visible weapons, but his jacket must surely conceal some. He is much bigger than you expected, although the holopuck only showed his head. He’s about the same height as Mando, but he eclipses him in terms of sheer bulk. It’s the sort of bullish figure older men get when layers of age-related fat develop over already bulging bands of muscle. You recall from the puck he’s suspected to be in his late fifties, which you judge to be accurate, though he’s clearly remained in impressive shape. An amused smirk curls his lips as he watches you urgently fight for oxygen on the floor beneath him, and there’s a sadistic cruelty in his glare.

You manage to inhale at last, then urgently try to find your voice to summon Mando, but all that comes out is a crackling wheeze and flecks of blood. Shit!

As soon as he sees you draw in air, Nantoogen begins to advance again, and you tense for what’s coming…

No! Fuck that. Coughing prone on the floor and wishing for rescue is not you. You’re not a victim. Your mind revolts against the label. You can fight!

And you’re armed.

That’s why you just analysed him for weapons and strengths, you realise. It’s reflexive – echoes of the training you received as a young woman kicking in. And now they start to reignite your muscle memory too.

Misdirect him. You instantly roll onto your side to obscure the blade hooked into your boot, curling into a foetal position as if trying to protect yourself, though subtly reaching for your weapon.

The bounty grabs your wrist and starts to haul you up, but your fingers find the shiv’s wrapped handle and slide it free. Twisting your body, you slash at the arm that drags you upward, which jerks away and releases you, giving you a split second to control your landing. This time, you come down with more poise, rolling sideways to save your spine and distribute the impact along your body. The move also brings you closer to your attacker, and with all your remaining strength, you plunge your blade into his calf muscle.

It sinks deep, and as his flesh tears, the violent action rends your soul. You hate how much it sickens you, despite how justified you are in defending yourself.

“Fuckin’ bitch!” he hisses, swinging back his injured leg with the knife still buried in it, and then he swiftly kicks out at your face. You see it coming, but you’re helpless; seconds slow to a crawl, your muscles are too strained to respond. And then his boot cracks into your temple with a sickening thud, sending you spiralling into a nightmarish pit of darkness as you begin to lose consciousness.

Pain lances through your skull like an army marching to battle. You failed. As your world fades to black, your last thought is of Mando and your bitter regret at leaving his side.

Stupid. So stupid.

When the world takes shape again, the first alarming thing you notice is that you’re restrained. Then, one by one, the other distressing specifics of your current plight make themselves known.

Stripped of your bag and jacket. Hands in binders behind your back. Gagged with a dirty cloth. Hunched on the floor in the corner of a grey room. At the mercy of a murderous criminal.

Injured.

Pain thrums through your head like a vibroblade, bisecting it from where the back of your skull hit the floor, straight up to the site of the knock-out blow to your temple. A searing flash of agony shoots along your spine from the impact of your fall. Your lungs burn from having the air forced out of them, and you can taste the tang of blood from biting your tongue. The pinch of the binders and the ache in your shoulders where they’re wrenched backward are minor misfortunes by comparison.

You feel a warm dampness on your forehead. Is that…? Shit, you must be bleeding from his strike too. How? Does his boot have something sharp on it? Whatever the case, the grievous fact that you have an open head wound flies straight to the top of your list of distressing things.

As you groan through the foul rag in your mouth, you notice Nantoogen sitting across from you like a creature guarding its captured prey, observing you with disdain. You note the blaster he brandishes, and rising terror floods your senses.

“Finally!” he spits, as if falling unconscious was somehow your own fault.

How long were you passed out? It’s still dark outside, but then there were probably at least five hours of night left when you went to the cantina. You suppose you were out long enough for him to have dragged you in here and get himself extra riled up.

Darting your gaze around, you see there’s very little in the room at all. It must be guest quarters. The bounty sits atop a couch similar to your own, pushed lengthways near one wall, and there’s a single dresser against another, nothing else. You doubt he took you far, then. Few residents have quarters on level four, leaving plenty of vacant rooms for guests. It explains why nobody saw or heard the commotion.

Despair and terror fight for dominance, their smoky tendrils coiling around your heart and your hope, squeezing until you can perceive only peril. You failed to defend yourself. You’re weak. And your Mandalorian isn’t here. Your panicked whimpers echo in the almost empty room.

The monstrous criminal rises and staggers toward you, and the sneer on his lips causes the deep lines in his face to crease even further. Gesturing with the blaster, he yells, “Why the fuck have you been lookin’ for me?!” The volume of his shout hurts your throbbing head.

You’re not sure if playing dumb is the most sensible option, but you cannot admit you’re hunting him. Not without Mando to help you defend yourself against the resulting wrath. If your somewhat rusty hand-to-hand skills were no match for this guy when armed, you have no chance in your injured state with your limbs restrained. You’re not foolish enough to tell him the truth.

You spot your shoulder bag on the floor nearby, but there’s no sign of the blade you plunged into his calf. Thinking about your shiv just makes you feel as if all your combat training was for nothing. You forgot to do the one thing that would’ve given you the edge in that fight: switch on the blade’s vibration. Well, it’s too late now, and your options are severely limited. You need this piece of bantha fodder to keep his cool, or you’ll die just down the hall from your own karking quarters.

Logically, your best option is to maintain the lie you’ve rehearsed the most.

You mumble behind the filthy rag tied across your open mouth, and the trick works – he crouches down next to you and removes it. You cough and splutter, trying to rid your tongue of the rank fabric’s bitterness.

“Tell me!” he bellows, leaning in close. His saliva sprays over your face in his fervour; his breath is a rancid assault on your nasal passages. You almost retch.

“T-to give you an inheritance,” you manage to croak. The taste of blood still sullies your tongue, now combined with the dirty cloth gag’s foul aftertaste.

You watch as surprise and confusion flicker across Nantoogen’s lined features, briefly smoothing the contortions of his rage. If this is the first he’s heard of your cover story, perhaps Suriee and Ari didn’t rat you out after all. Surely they would’ve mentioned it? But your flicker of hope snuffs out before it can progress any further as his demeanour reverts to his prior malice.

“My family’s been dead for decades, schutta.” He thrusts the blaster beneath your chin, forcing your already bruised head against the wall. “Tell me the truth, or I’ll paint this wall with your fuckin’ brain!”

Through your panic, a small part of you knows your only choice is to keep him talking, or your life will be over instantly. Memories surface unbidden as your subconscious attempts to distract you from your impending death by showing you things long forgotten. Moments from your early childhood on Onderon flicker by: the Imperial occupation and oppression, the defiance and chaos, the death and destruction. Things you try not to dwell on. Except, your brain now reminds you that these were struggles you and those around you survived.

You can survive this too.

The lie evolves in your mind, offering a ray of plausible hope amidst the rage and despair. You try to keep your voice steady, but it comes out as a desperate, high-pitched whisper against the blaster muzzle jabbing upward into your jaw. “Not a family inheritance… some crime lord left you his spoils.”

Nantoogen eases off and straightens up, stepping away while he considers this news. You pant in relief the instant the pressure under your jaw lets up, and your head rolls forward again until your chin meets your chest. The blood on your forehead streaks a warm, wet path toward your eye, so you lean sideways to ensure its course won’t compromise your vision.

“Who?” He demands, fitfully pacing the room and waving the blaster wildly.

For some reason, only now do you notice he’s severely limping. A tiny spark of justice and pride soothes the other rawer emotions bombarding you. You did that to him. It was worth enduring the surge of revulsion you felt when you opened up his flesh, because this stabbing… it was justified. And even if you failed to switch on the blade’s vibration and turn the weapon lethal, you nonetheless left your enemy with a short-term handicap.

“I’m just delivering documents,” you rasp, thinking as fast as your panicked brain will allow. “Not allowed to know details….”

It sounds feasible, just as the original lie did. If you’re learning anything from this nightmare, it’s that you can deceive with finesse when your life is on the line. You just have to hope it’s enough to calm his bloodlust. You haven’t let yourself think beyond that – about how you might escape this karking mudscuffer and return to Mando’s side. Tackle one problem at a time. First: survive.

The thug staggers as he paces the room despite his injury, his leg bound with another germ-ridden rag and dragging feebly behind him. He remains silent, though, and the arc of the blaster swinging from his grip is the only clue to his thoughts. Then he stops and looks at you, taking in your cowering posture and terrified eyes. And then he laughs – a hideous roar of malice as if he’s taking great pleasure in your sorry state.

But as swiftly as his glee began, it’s gone in an instant. “Delivery girl, huh?” he snarls, and the sudden coldness of his tone chills you, grim and foreboding.

For a moment, he just stands there staring at you again like a gurreck sizing up a potential meal, thinking, wondering, scheming. The room is deafeningly quiet except for your rapidly beating heart and the insistent throbbing of your injuries. The potential for what he’s planning lurks as a sinister shadow in your mind.

[/]

Then suddenly, something else flashes in his expression that makes bile rise in your gut, and he lurches toward you again. All wild eyes and twisted grin, he tucks his weapon inside his jacket, grabs you by your upper arm and wrenches you to your feet. His move is so fierce that you feel a tendon in your shoulder twinge painfully as he drags you up.

In your weak and wounded state, you have no choice but to stumble face-first in the direction he pushes you: the couch. You land on your side and recoil in horror as his massive bulk climbs over you, and he sneers, “I’ll take what you’re deliverin’, pretty bitch.”

There’s a click beside you, and you realise he has flattened the couch into its bed state. Your eyes squeeze shut as you recall the list of this bounty’s heinous crimes on the holopuck and realise what this is about to become.

You have your life, for the moment at least… but he’s about to take something else you would never willingly give such a vile creature.

Dank-fucking-farrik!

Your tears dampen the fabric beneath you as Nantoogen wrestles you flat on your stomach, pinning your legs with his knees and pressing your sore shoulder to the bed. You need to resist, trying your hardest to thrash against him, but your hands remain bound behind you, and his heavily muscled weight above you prevents any movement.

A deluge of feral rage floods your body – at him for putting you in this position and at yourself for being too weak to escape from it. It overwhelms you, and you surrender to its savage mastery, a more practical emotion to focus on than your acute terror.

The only tool you have left is your voice. You begin screaming at this monster to stop, to let you go, to fuck off and die in the most painful fucking way possible. But your vocal resistance only seems to spur him on, his sickening laugh a discordant soundtrack to the living nightmare.

The frustration at your weakness boils inside you until it forces itself up and out of your body in a guttural scream. You channel the last vestiges of your strength into the sound, so full of anger and agony it could split the universe in two.

But your half-crazed howl lasts only a moment before he grabs your loosened ponytail and shoves your bleeding face into the bed, pain from your injuries tearing through your skull. You croak a muffled, furious sob, knowing there are only seconds before this horrific ordeal becomes inconceivably worse.

The bile rises into your throat as Nantoogen palms your ass, then forces his fingers under your waistband and attempts to drag down your pants.

Then suddenly, he’s gone.

His weight is no longer atop you; his vile hands are no longer grabbing your flesh. You hear a thud and a yell from across the room, and your eyes snap open, trying to blink away the blur of your tears and understand what’s happening.

The relief slams into you faster than a speeder with a turbo-repulser mod.

[/]

Your Mandalorian has found you!

Mando has Nantoogen pinned against the wall, one glove constricting the man’s thick throat while he repeatedly slams his other fist into the thug’s stomach. Your attacker is large and well-built, but your rescuer is strong and determined. The bounty scrambles to escape, one hand clawing at his throat while the other tries to shield his midsection.

You roll fully onto your side and release another sob, this one laced with joy and desperate relief. He found you.

But your solace is short-lived.

Mando growls in uncontrolled rage at your attacker, putting his whole weight into beating the larger man into submission, and Nantoogen soon gives up trying to free his throat. Instead, he reaches into his jacket and discharges his blaster through the fabric, point-blank into Mando’s armoured chest. The beskar prevents injury, but the plasma bolt’s ballistic force is enough to hurl him right across the small room. His heavy armour clangs as it impacts the hard floor beside the bed.

The criminal lurches toward the door to make his escape as Mando swiftly rolls to his knees and draws his own blaster. But Nantoogen’s weapon goes off again first. The hunter dives sideways to shield your prone form on the bed, and the plasma bolt singes his cloak but bounces harmlessly off his cuirass backplate beneath.

The door hisses shut and softly beeps as the lock engages, signalling the quarry’s successful getaway and stymieing Mando’s chances of pursuing him with any haste. Then once again, your ragged gasps become the only sound in the room. Your saviour glances briefly at the door and then turns back to you, his helmet scanning you intently and taking in your injuries. Perhaps he thinks it’ll take too long to catch up with Nantoogen now. But whatever the reason, he remains on his knees beside you, measuring his breaths to calm himself after the fight.

Through the haze of your tears, you glimpse his gloved hands hovering over you as if he fears any touch will cause you more pain or discomfort. It’s a stark contrast to the repulsive touches you were forced to endure just minutes ago, perversions that almost….

The full extent of how close you just came to suffering even darker and more depraved horrors barrels into you like a starship crash landing. Wheezing sobs instantly rack your body, and your eyes squeeze shut again.

It’s too much. Now that it’s over, emotions flood through you, and you can’t distinguish them from each other. Positive and negative have double and reciprocal meanings. It’s all just raw feeling, and it consumes you beyond endurance.

Safe. Weak. You needed saving, and he saved you, but you needed saving… it loops in your mind while the confusion floods from your eyes.

“Hey,” Mando whispers gently, worriedly, and you feel him settle a tentative gloved hand on your shoulder.

His touch grounds you slightly. But you can’t stop the tears, can’t choke out any words, full of rage and despair and relief, with no way to process the insane events. You’ve fought before, but out of choice. You’ve never been at someone’s mercy. You’ve never needed rescuing. You’ve never felt so weak.

He continues in his soothing baritone, “I gotta remove the binders. Can you lie flat?”

You obey without thinking and roll to your stomach again, feeling pressure at your wrists as he uses some sort of tool to release your bonds. Your memory flashes to when Nantoogen had you in the same position, but Mando’s protective presence and careful movements are a world away from the horror that loomed mere minutes ago. He frees your arms, and you roll onto your side again, facing him but curling into yourself, belatedly seeking protection from the attack’s barbarity.

He saved you, but you needed saving. Safe. Weak. You needed saving from—

“Hey,” he repeats, cutting through your spiralling thoughts, his voice strangely soothing through the modulation. But you continue to wheeze, unable to respond. He lays his hand on your shoulder again, lightly at first, but then his gloved fingers gently press your skin with the echo of a caress. It’s soft yet earnest, innocent yet intimate. His touch breaks the loop of confusion in your mind and focuses you on a single crystal-edged facet of your ruminations.

He saved you. You’re safe.

Your wheezing begins to quieten, and your rapid gasps start to slow into longer, more controlled breaths, albeit ragged ones. Slowly, like the gradual growth of the forest outside, your composure begins to return. Mando stays beside you, maintaining the soft brushes of his thumb against your skin with each receding whimper, patiently inspiring your recovery. You can’t tell how long he waits with you, but when your eyes blink open again, you see your faithful protector kneeling before you.

His visor is close, his helmet tilted with concern. He doesn’t remove his hand from your shoulder, and you’re glad; his soothing touch is the anchor you need right now.

He saved you. You’re safe.

“Hey,” he repeats for the third time, lower now, softer, and it’s a greeting rather than a call for your attention. You hear the relief and encouragement in his tone as he watches you slowly return from the edge of your terror.

You search the blackness of his visor, wishing you could see those brown eyes but somehow knowing they’re full of gentle concern.

Still, your saviour remains in place. He seems unwilling to move until you give him permission to withdraw. Perhaps he understands that he’s your only hope, a shining silver light to guide you from the dark place into which you were just thrown.

Between ragged breaths, you sniff and swallow down what results, instantly dismayed at how disgusting that was. You must look gross. Luckily, the diffused lighting within the complex obscures any reflections in Mando’s armour, so you can’t see the state of yourself. But you hope he doesn’t think you’re too unsightly.

For a second, it feels wrong for that thought to surface in the wake of what almost just happened. But this man is the opposite of your attacker, and to avoid descending into a darker mental state, your brain has chosen to focus on how profoundly you want and need him. His closeness, his gentle caresses – they reassure you. So you want him to want you too.

Gathering your nerves, you move to sit up, and your companion shifts on his knees to allow you sufficient space. His supportive touch remains with you as you struggle up, and he mirrors it with his other hand at your opposite shoulder, helping you to gingerly right yourself.

Pain.

You whimper as you reach the vertical, the blinding agony in your temple and throbbing ache in your lower skull demanding you pay your injuries due attention. You raise your palm to your forehead, but Mando gently catches your wrist before you can make contact, shaking his helmet.

“No.” His soft tone persists, even through the modulated command. “I know it hurts, but you can’t touch it. I can… I’ll take care of it.”

“H-how bad?” you croak, lungs still not behaving, voice hoarse from screaming. Your first words to your rescuer demand yet more from him.

He hesitates. “Do you have bacta in your room?”

His avoidance of the question gives you your answer. It’s certainly not good. The rust-red bloom of your blood staining the bed’s fabric confirms it. But you don’t want to go to the medcenter, and clearly, neither does he. Explaining your injuries without the security office getting involved would be… tricky.

“Medpac.” Your lungs still won’t allow you to answer him with more than a few shuddering syllables. “For jobs.”

“Okay, good.” The helmet dips once. “Can you stand? It’s one corridor over.”

So he didn’t drag you far. It strikes you once again how close you’d been to Mando when this happened, just a metal door between the two of you. But despite your failure to summon him, he somehow tracked you down and came to your rescue anyway.

He saved you. You’re safe.

This time, that single grounding thought makes it to your lips, though your continued erratic breathing prevents barely any sound from emerging with the whispered syllables. “Y’sav’d’mh.”

The hunter cocks his helmet as if he didn’t hear you, which may well be the case.

But you don’t repeat your sentiment. Instead, through your stuttering breaths, you wheeze a slightly clearer question. “H-how’d you find me?”

Mando swallows audibly, perhaps debating how much to tell you before he answers in snippets. “You took longer than you promised… a lot longer. I got worried, so I went to the cantina. The guy behind the bar said you’d come and gone already. So I returned to your quarters, waited outside for you. Then I heard him yell.” He hesitates as if recalling the events is difficult for him too. “I found your shiv… with blood on it. And then I heard you… and I thought—” His thumb stills where it’s persisted with those gentle strokes down by your inner elbow since you sat up. “I’m sorry… I sliced the lock as fast as I could. When you screamed, I thought he’d—”

“You got here in time.” It comes out with another sob, but you think it’s relief. You can’t really tell anymore. But he saved you, and that simple truth is enough to prevent the torrent of tears from returning. You’re safe.

Yet your saviour looks away. Something in the hunch of his shoulders radiates guilt, shame, failure. He stands and walks to the door, deftly using his knife to pop open the pass reader panel next to it. Then he extracts what looks to be a scramble key from his belt and plugs it into the exposed scomp jack. It takes him about half a minute to slice the lock. When he looks at you again, he seems less burdened, as if repeating the exercise has proved he couldn’t have done it any faster on his way in.

“Can you stand?” He reverts to his previous inquiry and seems happier when you nod an uncertain yes.

Mando collects your bag and jacket from the floor before assisting you to your feet, and he lets you lean on him when you teeter unsteadily. He settles his arm carefully around your shoulders, that gentle thumb caress returning whenever the pain in your skull makes you wince. Without even thinking, you snake your own trembling limb beneath his cloak and jetpack, grasping the thick coarseweave on his other side.

Your companion angles his helmet to get a better look at you, assessing your readiness to move. When you sag a little, he relocates his hand to your waist, keeping you upright and pressed securely against him, his thumb still soothing you in its new location.

He saved you, and now he’s supporting you.

“Thank you…” you murmur. You mean for all of it – for rescuing you, for supporting you, for caressing you. You owe him your life, not to mention whatever remains of your dignity and virtue. It’s just another insane fact at the end of the long list of today’s insane events.

Mando simply nods.

With small steps, he leads you out through the exit, then helps you slowly scuff toward your quarters. Your pace steadily improves as your legs become more stable, even picking up a little speed, but he doesn’t let go of you.

Luckily, thanks to the sparse number of people living on level four, you pass no other residents on the short journey. Kriff, you would not have wanted to explain why you’re bruised, bloodied, and hanging onto an armoured man covered in weapons. When the door to your quarters closes behind you both, relief escapes you in a deep and tortured sigh, your breathing still not fully normalised following the ordeal.

Mando leads you to the couch and lowers you down, but you cling to him, forcing him to sit as well. He lets go of your waist and tries to withdraw to create some space between you, but you’re glued to your rescuer. When you feel him pulling away, you throw your other arm across him, tucking up your legs and draping yourself over his broad chest.

The cool metal of his cuirass soothes your feverish need for comfort like bacta for your soul. Your tears have dried up, and although your breathing is smoother, little gasping stutters continue to break through. You’re boneless and fragile, and he seems to be your only source of strength in the storm’s aftermath. A vital part of you feels cracked, broken. Your life on Endor has been so soft and easy, yet now something jagged threatens to pierce your heart. But this Mandalorian – as hard as his armour is – somehow softens that sharp edge. You can’t bring yourself to let him go.

A gentle sigh comes through the vocoder as it becomes clear you simply need him to hold you for a while longer, and he surrenders to your wordless request. He lets his arm fall back to your waist and raises his other one to complete the embrace, resting his hand lightly on your shoulder again. After a moment, he resumes the gentle pressure of his fingertips and the slow caress of his thumb.

Burrowed into Mando’s chest, arms thrown around him with his strong ones encircling you, you finally begin to feel calm again. And with calmness, the vital facts clamour to the forefront of your consciousness once again, vying for acceptance.

He saved you. You’re safe.

Your brain keeps replaying the events, but you focus on the feeling of his gloved fingers and imagine that each caress repairs a piece of your damaged self. You’re safe. He made sure of it.

As you recover, you begin to notice what your senses are telling you about your rescuer, pressed up so close to him.

He feels like calmness. His broad chest rises and falls with long, smooth breaths, lulling you gently. His armour is firm and cool against your cheek, and the soft leather of his gloves infuses you with a balancing warmth.

He smells like comfort. There’s a woody scent to his flight suit, which you’re surprised to find is barely tainted by sweat, though a pleasant hint of musk lingers beneath. His beskar carries a slightly sweet metallic smell, similar to benzene, perhaps from whatever he cleans it with.

You allow the inviting sensations and aromas to saturate you, restore you, feed you, lift you.

He saved you. You’re safe.

When the room is finally quiet, your breathing no longer audible, Mando breaks the silence, his modulated voice sounding soft yet resonant in his chest as you rest against it. “We gotta take care of this….” He lifts his palm from your shoulder and gently runs a gloved finger along your hairline, near to but not touching your most obvious wound.

You shiver slightly at his gesture, though you can’t tell if it’s from pain or pleasure. Sensations don’t work in the usual way right now. But as reluctant as you are to leave his comforting embrace, you need bacta rather urgently, so you peel yourself off his torso.

Your companion scrambles up from the couch the moment he’s free, glances around, and then rasps, “Medpac.”

Not quite ready to focus your vision, you blindly point to a cabinet, and he rummages through until he retrieves the item, setting it on the couch. Then he hurries into the refresher, and you hear the faucet run for a moment before he emerges with a small damp towel and a cup of water. Returning to the couch, he sits between you and the medpac and drapes the towel across his cuisse before passing you the water.

There’s a pause as you wet your parched throat, taking it slowly, repeating the action when you manage to swallow without coughing. You think he’s just waiting for you to finish your water, but from the corner of your eye, you notice him fumbling. Your focus snaps back instantly when you realise what he’s doing. He’s removing both his gloves.

Mando notices your questioning gaze and simply shrugs as if it’s no big deal, setting his gloves aside. But the tiniest part of your overtaxed brain reacts in shock. He’s willingly taking down a barrier between you – one he had such reticence about lowering only yesterday. He wet the towel with his gloves on; why is he removing them now?

But that fleeting thought dissolves as his naked hand takes the cup from you, and he leans aside to set it on the cabinet. Then he lifts the towel from his thigh and shifts toward you, holding it near your temple but waiting for your permission.

“It’s gonna hurt?” you croak nervously. You know it will; this isn’t your first injury by any means, but perhaps you’re seeking reassurance over an honest answer.

“I’ll be careful.”

His answer relaxes you a little; it’s as if he knew what you sought. You blink slowly and dip your head in assent.

Mando steadies your jaw with a gentle, ungloved grip, and the warm contact calms you further. Then he carefully begins to dab your skin with the damp cloth, cleaning the trail of blood that seemingly made it down to your chin. He starts as low as possible, perhaps so you can get used to the sensation, saving any potential pain at the injury site itself for last.

Closing your eyes at his touch, you focus on the restorative feel of his warm, bare hands against your cheek. This is why he bared his skin again, you reason – the soothing warmth of direct contact. It makes you shudder slightly when he brushes the towel over your lips to clean up blood from either your temple or your tongue, probably both.

Somewhere in the depths of your mind, you suddenly realise that you’re no longer fretting about those confusing feelings from earlier. This man – this hunter – is fully trained to fight and kill, and you assume he often needs to do so. But he’s also capable of great tenderness. He rescued you, delivered an excess of violence upon your attacker, and now he’s caring for you. What’s more, that care comes with such compassion and concern the likes of which you haven’t felt from anyone since long before you left Onderon. Yet you’ve only known him for a few days.

You were wrong. You were so kriffing wrong. You thought you needed to keep Mando at arm’s length, but now you just want to be as close to him as possible. You still don’t understand precisely what you’re feeling, whether it’s romantic interest, lust, or simply misguided hero worship. But it’s a connection you know you don’t want to break.

As you reflect and rethink, a single conclusion keeps presenting itself: you need him. You’re a burnt-out star, and he’s the hydrogen required to catalyse the nucleosynthesis and start burning brightly again. He has brought you back to life. Your entire existence has lit up since meeting him, and you need it to continue, to fuel you.

Keeping your lids firmly closed, your mind’s eye follows the feeling of the towel’s slow ascent until it nears the injury site. Your companion is extra careful as he cleans around it, though you wince when he nears the torn skin. You blindly reach forward to grasp the cuisse on his thigh for support, wrapping your fingers under the metal edge as soon as you find it.

Mando soothes your growing discomfort by resuming his caresses as he cups your jaw, skin-to-skin now, giving you something pleasant to focus on. It calms you instantly. Kriff, you got so worked up when his gloved thumb fleetingly stroked your wrist earlier, yet now his bare thumb repeatedly strokes your cheek, and there’s nothing confounding about it. How in the galaxy’s name did that happen?

Trauma will do that, you suppose. It knocks down walls, some bad, some good.

And it doesn’t feel odd, or profound, or scary. It just feels easy, touching like this. It’s the first easy thing all day. Maybe all year… perhaps even longer. Normality transmutes itself into something different. Better.

As he moves to clean the wound itself, the sharp pangs shooting through your temple worsen, despite the contrasting tingles where his bare thumb caresses your cheek. It’s an effort not to flinch. But he notices your pain and finds another way to distract you.

“You did good with the blade I gave you.”

“Would’ve done better if I hadn’t had my guard down,” you whisper, voice like sandpaper. At least your words are finally starting to return. “You warned me there could be danger.”

As Mando slowly puts gentle pressure on the worst part of the wound to clean away the drying blood and dirt from your assailant’s boot, he reassures you. “It was a surprise attack in a location you felt safe in, yet you still caused him serious injury. That’s good. Real good.”

“Not ‘serious injury’,” you sigh. “I didn’t switch on the vibro. Could’ve taken his leg off if I’d remembered to, but I didn’t.”

Fleetingly, you wonder if failing to turn it on was a subconscious effort to limit the damage. Not that the criminal deserved any mercy, but sinking a blade into flesh is something you hoped you’d never do again. Or maybe it’s just because you’re aware he’s wanted alive, and if he’d died from blood loss, your Mandalorian would’ve missed out on a million credits.

You refocus your thoughts. “Any injury I gave him wasn’t bad enough to stop him from booting me in the face, even with my shiv stuck in his leg.” Wincing again, as much from that memory as from the careful tending of your gash, you swallow a whimper as Mando cleans the centre of the wound.

“Adrenaline,” he explains. “You severely impaired his mobility. You did good,” he insists again, stroking his thumb more keenly against your cheek.

It’s hard to accept, but you don’t know why. Although…. Behind your closed eyelids, insight suddenly hits you, finally providing a label for the cruel emotion at the root of your unravelling. Immense shame. At your failure to defend yourself, at your helplessness, at how this warrior is having to care for you and reassure you.

Your tears, your vulnerability, your desperate need to be comforted by his fearless strength and patient kindness… they all reduce you to a small and childlike state. And such feelings threaten to bring with them older, unhelpful memories you’d rather not reflect on right now.

You may feel fragile, but you can’t let him think you are. No fucking way.

“Mando, I’m….” You’re unsure how to vocalise it, but you try. Talking to him seems a little easier with your eyes closed. “I hate feeling this… helpless, weak. I can fight, usually. I swear I can. And I’m good at it… usually. I don’t want you to think I can’t—”

He shushes you, an odd yet smooth susurration through the vocoder. “I know, cyar’ika. I know you’re strong,” he assures. “He bested me too, and this is my job – my life.”

“But you didn’t need someone to rescue you….” It’s not bitter, but your voice carries your shame as a beacon of despair.

“Not this time. But not… never.” The hunter’s awkward double negative signposts his discomfort in admitting that even he’s needed help in the past. “We all need saving sometimes. It doesn’t mean we’re weak. This doesn’t make you weak.”

Your closed eyes begin to moisten again, though you can’t tell if it’s because of his treatment of your wound or his praise to your ego. Both are welcome yet uncomfortable. Either way, you’re able to continue with minimal wincing as he completes his task.

You feel the towel leave your temple, and when it doesn’t return, your eyes blink open. The helmet slowly manifests as a glowing beacon of strength, filling your vision.

Mando still cups your jaw, his thumb caressing your cheek, and he stares at you. He’s probably just checking he got all the blood, but it somehow feels like he’s simply gazing into your eyes. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but you stare back nonetheless, focusing on the dark blade of his visor where you imagine his eyes are, trying to look beyond the smoky transparisteel. You hope he can see the gratitude in your own wide and watery gaze.

A few breathtaking moments pass. Then he mumbles, “Bacta,” seemingly shrugging off whatever thoughts had fleetingly fixated him. His hand recedes from your face in a slow, almost reluctant manner.

Your rescuer rummages through the medpac and finds a bacta patch, checking the date and pulling off the backing strip. Then his visor focuses on you again. His fingers smooth your mussed-up hair away from your temple, holding it back while he gently affixes the patch, gingerly applying pressure until it stays in place.

The warm gel tingles as the microbiotics get to work, numbing the stabbing sensation and finally allowing you to relax your facial muscles. Your other injuries are less severe and don’t require urgent treatment.

Now that he’s attended to the most critical wound, you feel much calmer. That one thought you were clinging to like a desperate wretch now settles itself as a singular truth in your heart. You’re ready to accept it at last.

He saved you. You’re safe with him.

He doesn’t remove the hand that brushed back your hair, and you search the inky blackness of his T-visor for a clue as to why. Stars, how you wish you could see what he’s thinking, where he’s looking… what those brown eyes could tell you about this man.

“How does it feel?” Mando’s voice is low and a little bit husky. Coupled with the sensation of his skin against yours, it does something to you.

“Good,” you whisper on an exhale, and you think you might be describing more than just his medical care.

It strikes you that you’re still gripping his cuisse, and you’ve worked your fingers over the inside edge to sit against his inner thigh. Suddenly, the intimacy of how and where you’re touching one another is strikingly apparent.

You want to talk to him, connect with him, but you don’t know how. Your complex feelings remain unlabelled, but he’s given you so much… you need to give him something in return. And the consequences of speaking your confused thoughts now seem somehow trifling in light of all you’ve just endured, alone and in his presence.

“I was… scared.” Your statement is utterly true, but it lacks context.

Nonetheless, he accepts it with a subtle dip of his helmet. He thinks you’re talking about the ordeal you just went through, but it’s not what you mean. The attack made you angry, vulnerable, weak, ashamed. Your fear has a different origin.

“Earlier. When I said confused. I meant scared.”

Mando’s hand starts to leave its position in your hair when he recalls what you’re referring to: what you told him when he stood brandishing the deadly blade of your Kyuzo petar. And his withdrawal tells you that you’re still not explaining yourself correctly.

You raise a hand from his thigh to catch his as it drops from your face, his large fingers wrapped up warm by your own. “Not scared of you. About you.”

His visor continues to study you, but you can sense the confusion rolling off him in waves as he attempts to interpret what your movements and words mean. He tried to retreat and give you space, but you clasped his hand mid-air between you, and your palm still rests on his thigh. You can feel his tension, but he doesn’t pull away from your grasp, obeying your unspoken request to stay despite your fear.

His helmet shakes slightly. He still doesn’t understand.

“About… this.” You slot your palm more firmly against his, squeezing gently, while the fingers of your other hand graze his thigh.

Mando is silent and motionless, as if your actions have transformed him into a statue. You’ve trapped him on a cliff’s edge of truth and understanding, but all he can see is the sheer drop behind him, and he’s frozen. Yet he still doesn’t withdraw.

Kriff, you need to give him more, but it’s hard to convey a feeling you have no name for. So you abandon the idea of making total sense, and with a sigh, you simply let words spill forth instead.

“I— I lost my family to the Empire. And I left Onderon to get away from the pain… and the memories… and the bad choices I made because of them. Salvaging out here let me be alone… and being alone helped me… protect myself. Like armour,” you tap your thumb against his cuisse. “I told you that you’re interesting? Well, I haven’t thought anyone is interesting in a long time… years, probably. I haven’t wanted to get to know anyone at all. So letting someone in, knocking down the walls I spent so many years building up is… it’s… scary….” You trail off, wondering if you’ve simply confused him (and yourself) even more.

It’s a very bare-bones description of the muddled emotions swirling inside you – no mention of the mysterious attraction you harbour. There’s only a hint it could be more complex than just a lonely girl struggling to make a friend following years of trauma-induced self-isolation. Then again, your fingers are grazing along his inner thigh, so the attraction aspect may be evident. Part of you hopes he’ll accept your earlier behaviour as platonic anxiety, but an increasingly large part hopes he understands the subtext.

Mando’s chest rises and falls slowly, and it’s clear he’s taken a deep breath, though it wasn’t audible through the modulator. Whatever effect your admissions have had, he’s trying to control his reaction.

But then his other hand – the one that held the towel and has been absent since he finished applying the bacta patch – covers yours atop his cuisse, large and warm. He takes another deep breath, quicker and audible this time, and then he murmurs, “My name’s Din.”

It takes you a second to process. He’s given you something personal in exchange for what you just shared. Because of what you just shared. You may be no closer to knowing what your feelings mean, but at least you know he’s willing to connect and reveal more of himself to you. And now that you’ve each disclosed something you struggled to confess, you’ve finally consummated the friendship declared earlier in words alone.

An unbidden smile stretches across your cheeks, a genuine and reflexive response. So used to schooling your expression, this might be the first time you’ve allowed such truth and honesty to display themselves on your face in months. Probably longer.

“Din…” You test how the consonants feel on your tongue. “I like it.”

He relaxes as if relieved by your approval. As if it would’ve been a tragedy if you hadn’t liked the sound of his name on your lips.

“But… it was supposed to be my reward when you catch Nantoogen,” you remind him. “You’re even farther away from that now.” You’re suddenly shocked, confused, flattered as you realise he allowed his quarry to escape just so he could make sure you were okay. He’s been chasing him for months.

But the hunter shakes his helmet. “After tonight, he’ll leave the compound, so catching him just got a whole lot simpler. The tracking fob will work better without all the false signals here. Our hunt will be easier out in the forest.”

“Our hunt?”

Your Mandalorian’s response is instant and emphatic, and your own name falls through his vocoder for the second time in a single Endorian day, this time as a promise. “I will find and punish him for what he did to you tonight. What he… tried to do. But you gotta see it. You can’t let this make you doubt your strength. You deserve to see that dalgaana’ad lying in the dirt with your boot over his neck.”

Though you don’t feel strong right now, his oath causes a sense of purpose to swell within you. You manage another half smile, fixing your gaze on his visor again. And then you show your agreement by adopting that gesture language he likes to use. You give him one of his iconic, single nods.

Chapter Text

The recent traumatic events have exhausted you. Coupled with your desynchronised schedule and lack of sleep last night, your eyelids are heavy, and your whole body screams for rest.

After directing you to apply the dregs from your tube of bacta gel to your bruised wrists, shoulders and head, Mando—

(No, wait. Din. Your addled brain needs some time to get used to this.)

—Din cups your chin in his still-bare hand while he leans in close to check your pupils for signs of concussion. However, at this proximity and without his own eyes to focus on, your gaze keeps dropping to where you think his mouth would be. It’s not conscious – you just can’t stop imagining his lips, only centimetres from yours. This both frustrates and amuses him, based on the mixed tone of his repeated plea for you to focus on the centre point of his visor. Are those lips smiling or pouting?

After several attempts, he changes tack and resorts to moving a finger back and forth in front of your face. This, you happily focus on, drinking in the delicious sight of his exposed skin.

In short order, he produces a small medical tool from his bag and gently touches it to your neck. You suspect he must have a HUD in his helmet because the device has no apparent display screen or holo-emitter. Whatever it reports satisfies him.

Your acting doctor then proceeds to grill you on numerous topics. Whether your pain level is improving. Whether there’s any nausea. Whether you have any gaps in your memory. Whether the light seems brighter or dimmer than usual.

Just when you think he’s finished, he directs you to pace the room’s length several times so he can check your balance. Fatigue and post-traumatic stress make the idea of having to propel yourself anywhere an unwelcome one, despite the bacta gel helping to ease the physical discomfort. You gingerly lever yourself up to follow his instructions, and he closely shadows every step.

You’re both thankful for and frustrated by your companion’s fussing – needing his care but feeling equally ashamed of such weakness. You haven’t mentioned how much your spine still aches from the fall. Reaching the bruises there with the bacta gel yourself had proved too challenging, but you couldn’t bring yourself to ask for his help applying it. There wasn’t enough left to cover your whole spine anyway, so you’d used up the tube by giving your other injuries a generous coating. You’re pretty sure he was aware of your dilemma, but he didn’t mention it either. With you both ignoring the issue, it’s a redundant discussion, so you simply wince through it.

By the second lap of your tiny quarters, you begin to wonder whether a trip to the medcenter would have been less hassle after all. But, once you’ve paced enough to satisfy his request, Din finally leads you back to the couch, and it’s a blessed relief. That is until he caps off his list of frustrating directions by insisting you settle down for some proper rest. You protest that you need to stay awake until the following evening to reset your sleep pattern, but he pointedly ignores your argument. Instead, he reminds you the first sun will rise in only a few hours and assures you he’ll wake you when it does.

“But my brain won’t switch off,” you counter through a yawn. “I won’t be able to sleep.”

He sighs as if you’re the most annoying patient ever, then stares at you in a silence that speaks volumes about his opinion. Its weight is so heavy that you can’t help but look up at him. As your eyes meet his visor, he softly reassures you, “You’ve just gone through physical and emotional trauma. It will shut off because it needs to for survival. Without a bacta shot, you need rest to recover. It’s why I checked you so thoroughly for a concussion.”

He has a point. Suddenly, your discomfort lifts, and his excessive coddling morphs into something you’re genuinely grateful for. Perhaps your shame at needing his help made you unable to accept that someone’s caring for you. It’s a foreign feeling; you’ve been on your own for so long. In a way, it’s not surprising that you reacted to it like a petulant child.

But the harder truth to admit is that you need yet more of it. Continued care and protection. This battle-hardened warrior may have expertly tended to your physical ailments, but your emotional state remains fragile at best, and frankly, you’re barely keeping it together. Only his calming presence and proximity have allowed you to maintain a tentative grasp on what’s left of your composure.

The instant you realise this, something between doubt and dread sneaks past your rational mind and digs in its claws, making you worry he’ll leave you while you sleep. You nervously paw at his cuisse, once again feeling childlike, clutching at the beskar as you mumble a reluctant question. “Will you stay here?”

But he takes it in his stride. “I won’t leave the room,” he promises, squaring his broad shoulders like a sentinel.

It’s not quite what you mean, but you’re not sure how to tell him you’ll only feel safe enough to sleep if he’s right beside you. How are you this weak? You’ve never needed anyone before.

Din helps retrieve the soft blanket and pillows from the drawer under the couch and drops down the back to make it into a bed. You wince as you hear the click, recalling when you last heard that sound in a room just down the hall. A tendril of panic rises in your chest, and you tense up, your fight or flight response pulsing back to the surface.

But he notices your reaction and gives your forearm a quick squeeze of support, inferring the reason for your distress. Comforted by the gesture, your muscles relax again. The little touches he’s been bestowing upon you since rescuing you from Nantoogen are anchors to your fortitude, and it seems he’s realised this. Why else would he be offering them so freely with his still ungloved hands?

He unclasps your boots for you, and you kick off your footwear, already down to just your tank top and pants after your jacket was forcibly removed. Then you release your messy hair from its already-loosened tie and pull the blanket over you, sinking into the soft pillows propped against the wall. Though you wouldn’t normally wear such attire to bed, this is just a nap, so you can manage. If your companion can sleep with that bucket on his head, you can endure trousers.

You blink up at him as he brings you a refilled cup of water from the refresher, and the visor appraises your well-being. You wonder where he got these caring instincts – the ones that are filling your heart with both joy and dread. Doctoring skills aside, he also makes an excellent nurse, you muse. Or romantic partner. It’s a jarringly domestic thought… is that where your unease is coming from? But you can’t analyse it right now. You’re too tired, physically and emotionally.

Seemingly satisfied with your comfort level, Din turns his attention to the ceiling, darting around the room as he inspects each light panel. You don’t have the energy to ask why. Next, he approaches your door and examines it closely. “What security measures do you have here?”

Oh, that’s why.

Another yawn overtakes you as you set the water on the cabinet to your left. “Only DNA-programmed passes can open the doors to resident-assigned quarters. They upgraded the whole base after the Battle of Endor. Too easy to slice Imperial locks.”

The hunter grunts, clearly recalling how long it took him to slice the upgraded lock on the door Nantoogen trapped you behind earlier. And that was for vacant guest quarters without the added barrier of DNA coding.

He nods, seemingly appeased by your door’s ability to keep out unwelcome visitors. You assume he’s satisfied, but then he swiftly navigates around the end of the bed to check what must be next on his list of concerns – the window. Never mind the fact that you’re four floors above ground level.

You wish he’d stop dashing around the room and just settle down beside you; you’re desperate to soak up some of his resolute strength. So when he takes a seat at the table instead, you’re somewhat alarmed.

“Uh… Din?”

The helmet jerks up, diverted from his task of extracting a cloth and his blaster – an instinctive response to hearing his true name spoken aloud.

You hesitate. How do you do this without making it weird? “Do you— um… aren’t you tired too?”

As usual, his answer is flat and laconic. “I can manage.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.” Kark. It’s out of your mouth before you even realise you’ve spoken.

He looks down at his blaster and then back at you, and you feel the weight of his hidden stare. Then, with a crackling breath, he responds in stilted and careful words. “I… know what you’re asking.”

Ah, so he’s not ignorant to it, then, just playing it safe. But it’s obvious, you suppose. Right now, it’s still possible to explain away the physical intimacy between you this evening as simple support following a trauma. Just one friend comforting another. But getting into bed together might… complicate matters. And things are already complicated.

Din’s caution here all but confirms that your clumsy attempt to describe your fear earlier did reveal how complex your feelings for him have become. It certainly explains his choice to tread carefully, although a part of you worries his avoidance means he doesn’t want to rest next to you. But honestly, this isn’t about whatever you do or don’t feel toward each other. It’s simply a practical matter of ensuring you can relax.

Thankfully, your exhaustion-fuelled dismay and your need for his soothing warmth combine into something greater, giving you the courage to persevere. “You sleep in your armour, right?”

A nod.

“Then come over here.”

It’s a non sequitur, but you’re both aware of the unspoken meaning. Confirming armour (and thus clothes) will stay on is a promise that this won’t turn into anything improper.

It only takes him a second’s pause. The hunter is silent and methodical as he refolds the cloth and returns it to his belt pouch, replacing the blaster in its holster as he rises from his chair. Then, moving at barely half the speed he employed while inspecting your quarters’ security, he warily treads over to the bed and stands above you. He has complied with your request to approach, yet it appears he’s coming no further without more specific instructions.

But the words are still not there. You can’t admit outright just how close you need him to be if you want to relax, so you simply shift over and pat the space beside you. After a lingering moment, he descends as asked, but only to perch stiffly on the bed’s edge.

This is a karking farce. It’s clear what you need, so why is he holding himself back?

You roll your eyes at him. “Is it really that difficult for you?” you demand, your voice carrying a trace of hurt. Shit… you said that aloud? Oh well, there’s no hiding from this now.

Din seems to discern that his hesitance is upsetting you, lifting his bare hand as if he were about to cup your cheek. But its path falters, and he rests it lightly on your shoulder instead, brushing your hair aside and soothing you once more with the familiar thumb caress. His reaction is confusing you. He’s not pulling away, but his movements remain oddly timid.

He sighs and offers a tiny shake of the helmet. “No, cyar’ika. It’s not… difficult. It’s—”

When he cuts himself off, you gently prompt him. “It’s…?”

He withdraws his touch, but the visor’s dark slash fixes on you as he seemingly searches for the right words. His silence is different from usual. This isn’t him wanting to hold back; it’s him not knowing how to move forward. So you give him time, keeping your expression open, a modicum of hope in your eyes as you blink up at him from your semi-reclined position.

When he finally rasps his slow and careful response through the modulator, it’s infused with raw honesty. “You ran away from me this evening. I ran away from you last night. And the night before that.” He pauses, but when your expression doesn’t change, he confesses slowly, as if it were obvious, “I’m… confused too.”

Oh. Suddenly, a fearsome yet thrilling fire ignites inside your chest. If you’re correctly interpreting the euphemistic language the two of you seem to be constructing, Din has just admitted that the attraction you feel… is mutual.

More than that, you both unconsciously reacted in the very same way. He held you against him on your speeder on that first evening, then escaped your company the moment he found a chance to slip away unnoticed. And when you caressed his hand the following evening, he bolted your room almost instantly without even saying goodbye. But your actions mirrored his. After he stroked your wrist behind the vehicle hangar, you all but ignored him before fleeing to the far side of the compound, ending up in the clutches of a dangerous criminal.

Now that you understand, you feel a little silly for not seeing it before. At least you’re both idiots who don’t know how to deal with having unexpected feelings.

Although… perhaps you shouldn’t be hasty. Just like with your own slightly vague admission, this could simply be that Din finds platonic relationships challenging. There’s nothing to suggest he feels the same kind of attraction to you too. Is there?

Well, his cautious response to your proposal to lie down together shows he’s fully aware that you feel something more than just friendship. He must have added it all up. Your standoffish attitude, your reluctance to explain it, your hesitant confession of just how much he’s overwhelmed you. Taken together, they’ve told him precisely why you ran from him earlier. So, he fully understands the subtext, and he’s still choosing to match up your reactions and use the same euphemism of ‘confusion’. That can only mean he’s attracted to you too. Right?

The beautiful logic flows from your brain and settles in your heart as a glowing warmth. Bathed in insight, needing your Mandalorian near you no longer feels like a sign of weakness. Now that you know it’s a two-way street, it transforms into a symbol of your new-found courage to connect, and a soft smile stretches unbidden across your lips.

Despite your reaction, his stiffened posture gives the continued impression of nerves, which makes you want to reassure him. Even though you’ve only just admitted it to yourself (and him), maybe you’re ahead of him in coping with this mutual magnetic pull. You’re glad he’s confessed it too, but now isn’t the time to discuss or act upon it.

So you speak simple truths through your smile, warm and grateful. “You know what I’m not confused about? How tired I am. You’re right, I need sleep. But it’s only gonna happen if I can relax. Knowing you’re right next to me makes me feel safe enough to do that. It doesn’t have to… mean anything. Whatever ‘confusion’ we’re both feeling, can we just deal with it tomorrow?” Now that it’s clear you’re both grappling with this attraction, it’s a lot easier to admit what you need aloud.

Din studies you for a moment and then nods, releasing a seemingly relieved exhale through the vocoder. You suppose he simply needed assurance that you wouldn’t misconstrue anything. Or maybe confirmation that it wouldn’t lead to an awkward discussion or a type of physical intimacy that neither of you is ready to deal with.

He removes the empty-looking canvas bag slung across his chest, then reaches back to unclip his jetpack, setting it on the floor. Boots, belt, and bandolier remain on, but you approve of your protector keeping his weapons on him. With a tilted helmet, he studies the space you made for him in the bed, and you almost laugh. It’s the same sort of appraisal he gave the speeder when you offered to share that with him too. But then he shifts closer and lifts his legs to rest atop the blanket, glancing at you to check how you want to proceed.

It’s all the permission you need. Ignoring the dirty boots on your linen (nothing a little soap won’t fix), you push up his arm and nestle your pillow beneath it. Then you snuggle down into the softness, humming in approval, turning your body toward him. It’s the only position you can rest your injured head without it hurting.

You’re only centimetres apart but not touching, and you hope that eases any ongoing worries he might have. The proximity certainly helps you feel more secure, even without physical contact. It’s a judicious balance, in your opinion.

“This okay?”

“Yes.” His instant agreement comes as a breathless rumble.

You inhale his pleasing scent, letting it calm you as it did earlier. Subtle musk and earthiness. But as much as you’d like to remain alert enough to savour it, you can no longer fight the urge to close your eyes. It’s like he’s your own personal deflector shield, protecting you from danger and allowing you to relax. With no conscious input, your mind and body begin to surrender to the insistence of sleep.

Just before you let go entirely and reach peaceful short-term oblivion, you feel Din’s free hand lift yours and place it on his cuirass. Gently, his thumb then finds the centre of your palm and presses there with the whisper of a caress. Stars, that’s so relaxing. He’s mimicking your action from yesterday evening when easing his anxiety about showing you his hands. Is he aware of its calming effect? Perhaps he intuited it.

“This okay?” He echoes your words in a whisper.

As you fall asleep, your contented hum and the smile on your lips both convey your approval.

Your companion wakes you shortly after the first sun comes up. Thanks to his proximity, your slumber was deep and undisturbed by memories of the recent traumatic events. Or at least you don’t recall any disruptions. You awaken slowly and peacefully to him whispering your name and lightly raking his fingers in your messy hair.

You stretch like a tooka on a lazy summer’s day until the night’s events begin repopulating your brain. The trauma starts to resurface in unpleasant flashes, making your jaw clench, but Din’s strokes soothe you before you can even process where his fingers are. When you do, the unpleasant memories are instantly blurred, coated in a softness that smooths their harsh and threatening edges. You blink up at the helmet in grateful disbelief, wondering if you’re dreaming.

“Sleep okay?” he murmurs through the vocoder, still stroking your hair. Kriff… that’s heavenly.

Somewhat blearily, you hum a positive response. Then you notice your hand remains atop his cuirass where he placed it… only now your bare fingers are laced together. Did you do that, or did he? And how are you only just noticing it? Surely it’s anomalous enough that you should’ve detected it when you felt his other hand in your hair.

You continue to gawk at your interlocked digits until he admits somewhat bashfully, “You started getting… restless. This seemed to help.” He tangles the fingers of his other hand in your hair again, gently pressing the pads against your scalp, and adds, “This too.”

You marvel that he’s still indulging in these supposedly vital touches now you’re awake, even though their purpose was to calm you while you slept. The discomfort at needing his care has now entirely dissolved, giving way to something oddly easy. It’s a strangely blissful feeling to receive what almost feels like affection from this warrior.

Eyes sparkling with appreciation, you offer him a genuine smile. “Thank you.”

Din shrugs off your gratitude as if it’s no big deal. Despite his caution before you slept, perhaps he’s getting just as much comfort from this tactile form of care as you are. He probably isn’t afforded many chances to engage in this type of sentiment, enclosed in armour and employed as a hunter.

Something has shifted since your mutual admissions, almost as if a barrier between you has lifted. You’re both cautious about reaching out to one another, sure. This is new and more than a little baffling. But these tender touches seem to represent his first tentative attempts to explore whatever’s evolving between you. And just like when he stroked your cheek throughout your injury care, every touch feels… oddly natural.

Alas, nothing lasts forever, and he soon reasons, “We should get moving before the compound wakes up for the day.”

You grudgingly unlink your fingers from his, letting your palm linger a moment longer on his cuirass. He gives your hair a final stroke and then withdraws that sublime touch too. Despite the almost magnetic urge to stay close to him, you summon the willpower to push yourself into a seated position. “I’ll go freshen up,” you concede, shimmying to the end of the bed.

It takes you less time than usual to shower and change, even with the injury to your temple. The bacta patch has closed the gash, although the new skin remains discoloured and sore while the absorbed microbiotics continue repairing the blood vessels below. But, kriff, washing the sticky bacta gel out of your hair and off your skin feels divine. For a glorious minute, you let the warm water soothe the last remaining throbs and aches in your muscles and spine.

You know Din wants to get going soon, so you wrap up your indulgence and dry off, checking your bruises in the mirror as you dress. Thanks to the gel you applied, most have already bloomed and begun to fade – those on your wrists and shoulders are now barely visible. Your hair hides the one at the base of your skull, and you cover the more tender ones along your spine with clothes.

Showered and dressed, you look much better than you think you have any right to after the night’s hardships. The semi-healed contusion on your forehead is the only visual evidence that only hours before, someone kicked you in the face and caused substantial bleeding.

You emerge from the refresher feeling like you’ve shed a sizable portion of the horrific event’s oppressive weight. In fact, you’re surprised to discover that withstanding the ordeal has boosted your confidence and fortitude levels. You endured. You survived. And now you have a chance to thrive.

Stepping into the main room, you notice that in your absence, Din has put away your bed, opened the blind, and seated himself at the table. He’s such a polite guest.

As you towel dry your hair, you throw him a bright grin to match the strength of the suns now shining through the window. “The shower really helped. I feel so much better.”

He gives an approving nod and reholsters his blaster, having finally completed the cleaning he’d started before you called him to your bed. Then he stands, seemingly uncertain, partially concealing an object in his large hand.

It’s your vibro-shiv, you realise. He must have picked it up in the hallway before he found you. And he’s cleaned it for you.

For a second, the sight of it rekindles the dark memory of last night, clouding your hope. But then you recall your Mandalorian’s praise about how well you used it, and you chase away the clouds with another smile. You’re glad it wasn’t lost in the fray and grateful you didn’t have to see it coated with Nantoogen’s blood.

His shoulders visibly relax with your positive response, and he places the weapon on the table, ready for you to return to the sheath clipped to your boot. Your smile widens to a grin when you realise that your entire interaction just happened without words, yet you understood each other perfectly.

But the urgency of getting underway regains the lead among your thoughts, and you assess Din’s readiness. “’Fresher’s all yours.”

He glances at the door and then back to you, nervously shifting his weight to his other foot but not acting on your offer.

Once again, you can easily read his body language, and you snicker a little at his hesitance. “Don’t argue; that helmet’s been on for too long. Even if you don’t have a change of clothes, you can at least take a shower. The door locks from the inside, and there are clean towels in the cabinet. Plus, you’ll be glad of the anti-insect nanofoam and sweat-stop once we’re out in the forest, trust me. They’re both on the shelf; just help yourself. And you can borrow my ultrasound cleaner if you don’t carry your own.”

You move behind your guest and gently push him toward the refresher door, hoping you haven’t overstepped. But with a sigh, he nods his agreement and proceeds to the adjoining room with a rumble of thanks.

He pauses at the doorway and then reverses his direction, grabbing the canvas bag he divested himself of the night before. Rooting around, he extracts a slim ultrasound cleaner of his own, longer than yours and clearly designed for getting beneath the helmet. It makes sense that he carries one. You imagine spending days on end in the tight confines of that bucket means keeping his breath fresh is vital. Probably more so on hunts when there are fewer comforts.

He, too, is quick, but you know he used the shower as you heard the water run for a few minutes. You figure he must be pretty fast at removing and re-equipping the armour if he’s been doing it for many years.

Instantly, related thoughts crowd your brain, freewheeling into wanton indulgence. What does he look like underneath all that metal? You can tell he’s fit and well-toned, probably thanks to what he does for a living. And he was just in your shower, mere metres from you… naked and wet.

Stop torturing yourself.

Easier said than done. When he emerges, steam billows out from the refresher, making droplets coalesce on his beskar, and the thought of them on his skin floods your mind’s eye. As he rejoins you, you realise there’s no trace of the musk you detected last night amongst the subtle metal and leather scents that cling to his outfit. Now, those aromas mix with a delicious freshness that you’d happily breathe forever, and you fill your lungs with it.

Stop. Torturing. Yourself.

With effort, you rein in your thoughts and keep your breathing shallow, returning your attention to your backpack.

Assuming that Din’s prediction of the bounty fleeing the compound is accurate, you prepare as if you were heading out on a salvage job. Two changes of clothes and underwear go into your backpack, alongside your waterproof blanket, your medpac, and some travel rations. The flask of tarine tea you purchased from the cantina remains sealed in your shoulder bag, cold but still drinkable. Rather than repacking it, you decide to bring both bags since you have no idea how long this excursion will take. There isn’t room for both sweetcakes, but your companion has an almost empty bag, so he can make himself useful.

With your vibro-shiv already sheathed along your boot, you hover before your weapons rack, debating what will fit in your limited luggage space. It’s an odd feeling; you haven’t carried a weapon with intent in years (yesterday’s gift aside). Not since you left Onderon. The pieces in your collection have remained in your quarters since you brought them home on your speeder – reflections of your past, not resources for your use. But you’re going on a hunt with a seasoned warrior, and you’re eager to suitably equip yourself for such a quest.

It strikes you how drastically your outlook has changed in only a few rotations. At some point between your near miss in the forest three nights ago and now, Din has flipped a switch inside you. Maybe it’s your sense of adventure or some wellspring of emotions you can’t name; you honestly don’t have a clue. But whatever he’s sparked, it’s made you question the logic of remaining on Endor.

You came here to salvage, but when the work dried up, you simply stayed because it was the easy option. A job offer, a decent salary, on-site lodgings, friendly Ewoks to talk to… why leave? But the role you took… if you’re honest, it’s more or less a maintenance job. A routine maintenance job, both in terms of hours and tasks. You let the offer of a position with ‘senior’ in the title influence you to choose safety and boredom over truly living your life. You’ve been treading water, becoming wearier with each short day, in danger of drowning in this pseudo-existence you never meant to fall into. Alongside your desynchrony, you’ve known little beyond apathy for so long.

Then your Mandalorian came along and, quite literally, rescued you. From Nantoogen. From yourself.

It seems clear that you don’t belong on this forest moon anymore, as fond as you are of your Ewok pals. Though you have no idea where you want to be instead, this bounty hunter who has seen the galaxy could be an excellent way to figure that out. You hope he’ll be willing to help you get off-world after you’ve bagged the bounty. Maybe by then, you’ll have a new destination in mind. If not, you can ask him to recommend some suitable options.

Even though you still can’t name this thing between you, you know that if you part ways thereafter, you want to stay in touch. Setting aside the strangely compelling attraction, his continued care and concern for you prove he’s your first true friend in a long time. And if your connection evolves into friends with benefits whenever you see each other, you certainly won’t complain.

Somewhere in the depths of your mind, one brain cell urges all the others to accept that you’re developing actual romantic feelings for this man. Feelings that go beyond just liking his physical attributes and enjoying the closeness of the friendship you’ve forged. But you continue to ignore it for now. You’ve got a hunt to focus on, after all. There’ll be plenty of time to figure out what this attraction truly is over the coming days.

So you simply stand before your weapons rack, wondering whether this assortment of found items will leave Endor with you or if you’ll embark on a new collection. Weapons again? Or stories? Maybe adventures?

You don’t remember when you last felt so excited. So alive.

The Kyuzo petar that Din handled yesterday catches your attention, and you lift it from the rack. It’s beautiful, rare, and one of your favourites. It was a lucky find, entombed in the wreckage of a Moff’s private stateroom. Salvaging mostly requires stripping and repairing useful tech, and crew quarters tend to yield fewer things the New Republic might value. But when you’d located the wreckage, you couldn’t forego the chance to sift through an Imperial governor’s former possessions.

It was fair to assume the petar had been a trophy. That fact alone convinced you to liberate it from the broken skeleton of the Empire’s deadliest space station. They’re often forged in pairs, so you’d searched a while for its twin, but your efforts proved fruitless. You were content with the single article, though, gratified by how perfectly it encircled your fingers as if someone had forged it for you.

Its bronzed metal now glints in your grasp, beautiful yet deadly. Destined to be yours.

“Bring it,” Din suggests from where he stands by the window, a shadow against the rising suns. “It’s lethal and valuable. You might need it someday.”

His choice of an indeterminate word for the future instantly stands out to you, perhaps because it echoes your romantic notions of fleeing this moon with him. That sends a warm sensation from your chest to your cheeks.

Mindful of its sharpness, you slide the petar into the leather covering you found with it. It probably wasn’t designed for this exact weapon, but it works well. Two sheaths cover the blades on either end, connected by a strap that fastens neatly in the centre above the grip.

You’re about to add it to your bag when last night’s ordeal flickers through your mind again. Glancing at the display of weaponry on your companion’s body, you decide to clip the strap to your belt instead. Carrying weapons doesn’t mean just toting them around in your pack; you should be better armed against any more trouble.

Plus, if you’re going to track a bounty with a Mandalorian, you want to look like an expert hunter too.

You hear a low rumble that sounds distinctly like a modulated growl. Was that…? Glancing up, you catch Din’s angled helmet shamelessly scanning down your body from the blade in your belt to the shiv in your boot, then back up again. Despite his hidden expression, it’s a distinctly lustful gaze.

Is he… turned on by you adorning yourself with weapons? It sure as hell sounds like it. It’s the first time he’s displayed any obvious red-blooded desire for you. Your core instantly ignites, thrilled to realise that his ‘confusion’ could encompass a mutual carnal interest after all.

Or maybe that’s all it is, nothing more complex or deep. Suddenly, you recall his sharp inhalation when you spun your shiv in the air yesterday evening. Kriff, that must have been a subtler version of the very reaction he’s having now. Why didn’t you recognise it before?

You’ve both now verbally acknowledged your ‘confusion’, but you can’t use that metaphor forever. At some point, you’ll have to determine the nature of this attraction, so perhaps you should start testing the waters a little more. Based on his somewhat raw and unprompted response just now, Din appears to be willing. And the prospect of doing it without having to talk about your feelings seems ideal in light of this man’s taciturn nature.

Flirting to find out more could be fun….

Encouraged by his reaction, you catch your lower lip between your teeth and continue to peruse your collection. Selecting your S1 vamblade next, you strap it over your dominant forearm, adjusting the fit for comfort. You haven’t worn it before, let alone used it, and it feels kind of bulky and strange. But your hunting partner wears vambraces, and you want to match. It’s designed for someone of your size, so you think you can easily get used to wearing it.

Smirking on the inside as you adopt a defensive stance, you check to see if he’s watching. He is.

You swing your forearms up and around in a few blocking routines, the moves gliding smoothly together as you dredge them from your memories of training drills. Each action increases your confidence, and you grow more animated with each step you take through the small space. After performing one of your favourite sequences, you finish by lunging forward into a sudden punch strike as you release the blade.

Din’s exhale is sharp, almost a grunt, as if he’s been holding his breath and your vamblade has pierced his body instead of empty air. You can’t help but give him a sly smile. He returns your sentiment via a slow nod, which you interpret as ten points to you in an arbitrary scoring system.

Now that you’ve realised what’s going on, you’re both being fairly blatant about it. You’re subtly circling one another, watching for clues, finding chances to provoke reactions and reveal desires. It’s not a form of flirting you’ve ever engaged in, but you’re enjoying it immensely.

Content with the bracer’s feel, you re-sheathe its blade and consider what else you can equip yourself with. You’re fond of your carved wooden baston, a gift from your Ewokese teacher, Tenal, and a reward for achieving fluency. It’s the only piece you didn’t salvage yourself, not counting your new vibro-shiv. But you can’t really call it a weapon; it’s more of a ceremonial staff. You doubt it’d be of much use in an actual fight. Frankly, it only lives with the others because you have limited storage and a single display rack. Beautifully carved and full of sentiment for you, but it’s not something you can use on this mission.

You lift the slim metal cylinder of your TZ-97 shock baton instead. Despite dating back to the Clone Wars, it’s shorter and packs a serious punch that can knock a full-grown human unconscious. You flip the switch at the hilt’s base, and there’s a subtle whine as the charge builds. It reaches capacity in only a few seconds, so you grab your wooden baston and touch it to the metal cage at the zapper’s tip. With a sharp crackle, the electric current visibly arcs over the cusp, but the dry wood safely dispels the charge. It’s oddly rewarding to control the flow of such a powerful natural force.

Carefully switching it off, you run through a few manoeuvres for Din, who now reclines against the windowsill with a thumb hooked in his belt. He’s blatantly enjoying the show. The shock baton is about two-thirds the length of your arm, shoulder to wrist, and you easily fall into more of your old drills. Energised, you twirl and wield the metal cylinder as if it were a short sword, parrying imaginary blows with gusto. You even throw in some flashier moves just for fun.

Given the lack of space, your final step brings you directly in front of the hunter, and you twist and swing the weapon at his helmet. It’s an obvious action, and you slow it down on purpose, but you’re curious to see whether he blocks you. Surprisingly, he doesn’t, and you arrest the baton’s movement a second before it impacts the beskar, hovering in place.

Kriff, he didn’t even flinch!

Your eyes lock onto the black T of his visor, and you catch your lip between your teeth again, waiting for his reaction. You get the feeling he was testing your control as much as you were his trust. You both passed, right? Points to both of you.

Slowly, his hands rise toward yours, large fingers lightly gripping your wrist as he relieves you of the weapon. You surrender it willingly. Then he releases your wrist and moves to the clasp of your belt, deftly loosening it to fit the baton behind the leather.

Your breath catches in your throat. As he unfastens your belt, you imagine how it would feel if he slipped his warm, bare hands beneath your clothes too. But the reality alone is almost enough to rival your fantasy. Din is really loosening your belt. This is a bold move on his part, and he clearly means for you to extend the action in your mind. You swallow as you stare wide-eyed into his visor, which remains fixed on your face as his fingers slowly work the leather at your waist.

He slides the cool metal past your hip and along your leg until your belt almost cradles its hilt, pausing there until you take your next inward breath. Then, with a firm push, he presses it smoothly into its resting place. You exhale hard, swallowing the audible moan that threatens to slip out too.

“This is definitely coming,” he drawls.

“Definitely… coming,” you repeat slowly. You’re fully aware of the double meaning and ecstatic that he’s seemingly open to such blatant flirtation. Did the hot shower get his blood pumping?

Whatever the case, all the points go to him in this round. Just… wow. And he maintains his grip on the weapon’s hilt, staying entirely in control as the darkened visor continues to stare directly at you.

Holy shit, that’s a turn-on.

You both breathe heavily in each other’s personal space for countless quickened heartbeats, savouring the suddenly suggestive dynamic. You were right. Confusion equals carnal… for both of you.

But Din slowly withdraws his hand, and you try not to pout as you take your cue to return to your remaining arsenal. You regather your focus, knowing time is not on your side.

Your remaining weapons are staff-length, but you have no carrying straps. You run your fingertips along the lines of your kar-shak and your lyaer’tsa, then prop them next to the Ewok baston, your quarterstaff and your vibrospear. Clearing your throat, you conclude, “I don’t think I can carry anything else.”

You hear your companion approach from behind, stepping in close again. His armoured chest almost presses against your back, the shells on his bandolier grazing you through your tank top, although he doesn’t touch you directly. Despite his actions a moment ago, you get the impression that he’s carefully bridling himself to avoid going too far too fast.

Though neither of you has mentioned it, he’s seemingly mindful that what Nantoogen was attempting to do to you when he arrived could be your rawest wound. Given this, he’s limiting his movements to suggestive rather than overtly active for now. You’re certainly grateful for his tact and concern.

Then again, part of you wishes you could tell him it’s different in his case. You feel so safe with him that any contact of such an intimate nature would be welcome if he were bestowing it. For now, though, you’ll play by his rules.

He leans in closer to speak quiet words directly into your ear. “Show me your favourite.”

You instantly point to the Twi’lek lyaer’tsa. “It’s beautiful, but it’s too long for me. Plus, it’s not practical to carry. Even if I had a strap, I’d probably forget it was there, turn my head too fast, and slice my ear off.” You glance at him over your shoulder to illustrate the action, deciding the hunter’s sharply angled helmet makes a fitting stand-in for the deadly weapon.

Din steps around you and lifts the axe-like piece off the rack, appraising it and testing its weight and size. It’s almost as tall as he is. There’s no way you can carry that, let alone wield it.

Then, to your surprise, he twists the haft, and it retracts inside itself, shortening the overall length by more than a third. He then releases a sturdy leather strap from near the top of his bandolier, fixing it just beneath the lyaer’tsa’s blade. Pushing his cloak off his shoulder and swinging the weapon behind him, he clips the strap in place again.

You stare at him open-mouthed, and he shrugs. “Helps keep my cloak away from the jetpack,” he reasons, utterly earnest. You softly snort at the image, picturing the kind of chaos that would occur if the article in question were to go up in flames mid-flight.

He steps over to the couch and retrieves said jetpack, fixing it to the backplate of his cuirass. Then he pulls the lyaer’tsa beneath it at an angle, securing the haft with another leather belt strap near the small of his back. His cloak is now trapped against his left shoulder and kept from falling over the jetpack by the weapon’s presence. When he’s done, he looks up at you, and you could swear he wants a pat on the helmet.

Instead, you approach him and lay a palm on his cuirass, back in his personal space. Staring into the deep blackness of his visor, you admit, “You’re doing so much for me. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“This is the Way,” Din affirms by rote. You assume it’s an innate response arising from a Mandalorian duty to fight and protect. But then he clears his throat and gives you a more personal assurance. “You don’t have to thank me. You’re helping me too.”

He gently squeezes your upper arm, and you’re reassured by both his words and his touch. Slowly, he runs his warm hand downward, stroking along the metal sleeve of your vamblade as if it were part of you until he reaches your wrist. There, he repeats his move from yesterday – the one that sent you into an over-thinking tailspin – and strokes your inner wrist just beneath the bracer. Except this time, it’s not a side-to-side pass. It’s up and down along the length, his bare thumb dipping under the vamblade’s lip in an oddly intimate fashion. Kriff, why is that so…?

But then he’s dropping your arm, stepping aside, and grabbing his gloves from atop the cabinet. The atmosphere goes from electric to nothing in a second.

Still, that was hot. You’re not even sure why, but it was.

Then, as he covers his hands again, your partner sparks the charge between you once more. “But if you’re set on thanking me, I bet we can find a way that’ll… satisfy us both.”

Though his tone isn’t outright suggestive, there’s something in the pitch and cadence of his modulated voice – something he’s suppressing. Coupled with his blatant glance at you, it once again fans the flames at your core. Pleasantly smouldering on the inside, you quirk an eyebrow and grin wickedly in agreement.

You’re really enjoying this new-found flirtation. You didn’t expect him to be so good at it, given how silent he was when you first met. But he gives it to you in small waves, his words and actions both subtle and obvious in equal measures. They’re easy to recognise, yet he leaves the intentions behind them open to interpretation.

With his gloves back on, you bemoan the loss of the only bare skin of his that you’ve seen and felt. You want more. But he’s drifting toward the door, exuding a palpable urge to leave. You really can’t delay any longer, so you shake off the heady feelings stoked by the flirting and dart into the refresher. Grabbing your ultrasound cleaner, can of sweat-stop, and travel hygiene kit, you shove them into your pack and close the flap.

Is that everything? Oh… the sweetcakes.

You gesture to the treats that remain stacked on the table. “Since you have a suspiciously empty bag, can you carry those?” It’s already slung across him, hanging pointlessly, and you wonder why he couldn’t just carry his ultrasound cleaner and med tool in his belt pockets. “What’s the deal with that anyway? You pack light, Mandalorian.”

Din gently huffs through the vocoder and picks up the cakes, tucking them inside the canvas. “I pack sensibly. I knew it was a long walk to the compound – that I’d be walking all day. I had a disposable water pack and some protein bars in here.”

Okay, that’s sensible. His forethought impresses you, and you’re certainly thankful for the extra carrying space.

Pulling on your jacket, you loop your own shoulder bag securely across your body and start toward the exit, carrying your pack in your hands for now.

“Wait,” he blurts, the word as stilted as his posture suddenly is.

You examine your companion with curious eyes, wondering why he’s stalling when he was so keen to get going a moment ago.

He shifts his weight between restless legs, then steps in close, taking your backpack from you. “My name… don’t use it around others.”

“I know,” you reassure him. “You’re Mando again once we’re outside that door.”

“But when we’re alone….”

You flash a lopsided smile. He likes hearing you say it. “I know, Din,” you whisper, and he breathes in the sound.

Then he shifts again, and his hesitation returns. There’s something else he wants to say, yet he appears reluctant. After a few moments, he starts, “I think… we should—” But he can’t seem to find the words. You wait patiently as he emits a few frustrated huffs through the vocoder until he finally settles on, “Forget it. We’ll talk later.”

Uh, okay… that’s cryptic.

But you’re denied any chance to question it as he hastens toward the exit, shouldering your pack and gesturing for you to follow.

You take a look around your home for the past several years. You’re not sad that you’re leaving for who knows how long. Being with Din makes you feel safer than you’ve felt in years – more alive. That’s sort of absurd since before you met this hunter, nobody had ever come as close to killing you as Nantoogen came just a few hours ago.

As the two of you step out of your quarters, clad in weapons and ready to bring justice to your attacker, you suddenly comprehend a startling truth. If the depth of your feelings for him can outweigh what happened to you last night… damn. You’ve really fallen hard.

Chapter Text

The morning shift is imminent as you and Din make your way to the ground floor of the common building. Several bleary-eyed workers shuffle past you in pursuit of an early breakfast, and you empathise with their obvious fatigue.

Although you’ve packed a few emergency rations, you convince your companion it would be wise to pick up some extra essentials. Right now, you’re unsure how long it will take to achieve your objective or how far you’ll have to travel. There are compound outposts scattered through the forest, along with numerous Ewok tribes, but you can’t guarantee you’ll be able to resupply at either. On top of that, you can’t be sure if your route will take you near any since the bounty is likely to avoid both.

There are numerous unknowns, so being over-prepared is the wisest plan in the circumstances.

En route to the mess hall, you express your doubt that Ari or Suriee gave you up to Nantoogen. “He was confused when I told him he was in line for an inheritance. If they’d ratted us out to him, they would’ve mentioned it, right? And he demanded I tell him who left him the inheritance, so he must’ve believed the lie to some extent. Plus, they’re my friends – I know they wouldn’t give me up… and Suriee doesn’t even speak Basic.”

Din concurs with your assumptions, offering a plausible alternative theory. “You said the target’s real name aloud in the mess hall. Assuming he has a contact here, the most likely explanation is they overheard you. If he’s using an alias, it would’ve been a red flag for someone who knows who he really is.”

“Ugh,” you lament as you wait for the turbolift to arrive. “I thought the plan was airtight! I didn’t think about that. I should’ve used a fake name.”

“It’s not your fault. I should’ve caught it when we were planning.”

“No, it was my plan – my fault.” You shake your head, disappointed in your lack of foresight and suddenly extra suspicious of every person in the vicinity. “Guess I’ve got a way to go before I can make it as a bounty hunter.”

Din reaches sharply for your elbow, but what starts as a grasp softens into a caress. It’s as if he forgot for a second that you shouldn’t be subject to his standard rough hunter’s grip. “It’s not your fault, cyar’ika. And… why the hell would you wanna become a bounty hunter?” His tone isn’t disapproving exactly, but there’s definitely disbelief there.

You laugh and assure him, “Don’t worry, I’m not serious. I am considering my options, though. Right now, I’m basically trapped here working a maintenance job I’m overqualified for. Frankly, anything would be better than doing this forever. Plus, you planted the thought inside my brain when you told me I think like a hunter. That qualifies me, right?” You match the playful tone of your question with a smirk.

He grunts, sounding somewhat amused now he knows you weren’t speaking literally. “Mine is not a profession I’d recommend. Those who join the Guild tend to have some degree of combat experience, a lack of morals, and usually no other options.”

“Hmm, well, I suppose my moral compass is mostly intact, and my tech skills mean I have other options. At least my combat experience qualifies me, though.” You don’t contradict him on the morality aspect as it applies to his own status as a bounty hunter, despite your suspicion that this warrior has a lot more moral fortitude than his professional persona displays.

The disbelief returns to his modulated voice as he repeats your closing assertion. “You have combat experience. Like last night….”

Kriff, he’s really not one for direct questions, is he? He’s still never asked why you collect weapons. But whilst you’ve never wanted to discuss your reasons for collecting them with anyone before, you’re somewhat startled to realise that you actually want this man to ask.

Why won’t he just come out and question you about your past? The one aspect of you both that seems like it could be simpatico. It’s clear that he wants to. Wants to find out why a seemingly quiet girl like you owns so many weapons and claims to have fighting prowess (despite last night’s evidence to the contrary). But it’s also apparent he’s suppressing his curiosity and denying any urges to ask. Perhaps he sees it as interrogation – a method for his work alone.

As you enter the lift, you decide to call him on it and respond with your own question. “Are you trying to ask me exactly what combat experience I’ve had aside from last night?”

Din’s helmet moves about unsteadily as if he can’t decide where to look. Score.

Eventually, he huffs. “I’m not asking because it isn’t my business. If you wanna tell me anything, you will.”

Interesting. “Is that how you wish I’d been with you instead of grilling you over our first meal together?”

“No.” His answer comes quicker than you were expecting, more emphatically. “No, I gave you permission to ask me questions.”

“Well then,” you reply, cocking your head to the side and observing him carefully. “I give you permission to ask me about myself. If you want to.”

He nods and seems grateful but still doesn’t respond with any direct inquiries.

There’s an awkward lull in the conversation as the lift deposits you on the ground floor, and you both turn toward the mess hall. The question of your combat experience hangs between you both; you waiting for him to ask, him waiting for you to tell. But you’re suddenly surprised that you no longer need him to ask. Like he said: if you want to tell him anything, you will.

And you want to tell him.

So you do.

Quietly, you begin, “I told you I grew up on Onderon. Have you heard of the Partisans?” The name feels dirty in your mouth; you’ve gone years without speaking it aloud.

Din rocks his helmet side-to-side as if he’s unsure. “Heard of, yes. Know anything about, no. Political group, right?”

Same as most people then. “They were insurgents who fought against the Empire. They started out as a militia and eventually became a cell of the Rebel Alliance, but one the Alliance didn’t like to admit they worked with. Most people still consider them terrorists because their methods were so brutal. They used to torture people and didn’t care about civilian casualties.” You take a deep breath. “My parents were Partisans.”

And there it is. Your confession of the violent roots of your upbringing. Din slows his pace, indicating he wants to allow time for you to elaborate – infuriatingly still not asking anything outright, but you can read him well enough by now.

You could leave it at that, hurry on to the mess hall and let him make the obvious connections by himself about how you received your training. But you realise you want to give him the context too. The ‘why’ as well as the ‘how’. So you turn along a quieter corridor and duck into the door arch of a closed maintenance room, pulling him close so you can speak quietly. Then, you ready yourself to reveal the first chapter of your clandestine past to him.

The recess of the locked doorway is narrow, and you huddle close to him, twisting your fingers together whilst his remain at his side. He dips his helmet to bring his audio filters closer as you stare into the elongated hexagonal design in the centre of his cuirass.

You’ve ruminated to such a degree over how you might describe your past that it almost feels practised, but you’ve never said it all aloud before. You’ve never trusted anyone enough. The words feel familiar yet foreign as they leave your lips.

“My parents were very dedicated to the cause, and I don’t think they really meant to have a kid. They left me with other people whenever they were away on missions for the Rebellion, which were actually just missions for the Partisans’ agenda. It kind of sucked – was a pretty lonely childhood, I guess, but they didn’t want me anywhere near what they were doing. But when I was fourteen, they were part of a mission on Inusagi, which turned out… badly. I don’t know much, but I do know there was a— a massacre.”

The memories are painful. The horror on their faces in the aftermath. The desperation in their frantic arguments. Your eyes squeeze shut for a second, and you take a deep breath before opening them again to continue. Focusing on your Mandalorian’s rhythmically rising metal chest, you channel the strength to summon the words, delivering them in short sentences.

“After that, something changed. After Inusagi, they stopped being so… militant, I guess. I don’t know how involved they were in what happened, but it changed them. They left the Partisans, and we had no choice but to move to the city. But the Empire was still occupying it, and my parents were on a wanted list. They’d always kept me away from any insurgent activities, so I was free to move about, but they had to hide all the time. We were in a safehouse – a basement apartment with access to a courtyard. It was a lot more comfortable than the Partisans’ camp, but for them, it was pretty much a prison.”

As you describe that era of your life, more memories swell to the surface of your mind, a discomforting flood of past hardships. The first year when you would all flee from the courtyard in terror whenever you heard a ship nearby, your own sensitivities feeding off your parents’ fear of capture. It was so unlike their fierce temperaments and brave spirits when you were young.

“I was a pretty nervous kid already, but having to hide from the Imps made them paranoid, and seeing them so scared terrified me. They knew I’d never leave the safehouse unless they found a way to build my confidence. So, after shielding me from their violence for so many years, they finally decided to train me. At first, it was just self-defence, not the sort of stuff they used to do. But, being who they were, self-defence led to hand-to-hand attacks, then they gave me a baton, then a staff, and eventually blades. So I learned offensive as well, but they made me promise I’d never strike first. They carried a lot of shame about what they’d done on Inusagi, I could tell. They said I needed to learn the noble side of combat.”

The ghost of a smile crosses your lips as you recall your parents’ lessons, their pride whenever you excelled at a new technique, their teachings on morality learned through bitter experience. The happiness that finally blossomed within you during those years. The memories quell the momentary ache.

“By the time I was old enough to enrol in technical apprenticeships, I’d built enough confidence to leave the safehouse and make something of myself. They turned my life around by giving me weapons. So my collection honours them and what they did for me. Every new piece I add is another way to protect myself like they wanted me to.”

Nobody’s ever asked you about your past, and you’ve never volunteered the details. Any discussions have been with people who already knew snippets, and only then within the context of the information they had. Even Din didn’t ask, not outright anyway, but you’re telling him regardless. It’s weird, yet good; cloistering, yet freeing; challenging, yet the easiest thing in the galaxy.

You’re fully aware that if he’d asked about your weapons over the past few evenings, you probably would’ve given the short version. Choosing to provide such detail with minimal prompting at this stage speaks to your deepening wish to connect with him after last night’s events. Plus, you want him to understand why his gift of the vibro-shiv is so meaningful to you. There’s more to say about your family, but you think that’s for another conversation. Those are memories you prefer not to revisit too often.

“So training, yes, I have plenty – six years learning techniques and another four after that doing daily drills. Actual experience… only of a certain type. There were a lot of… bar fights when I was younger,” you admit shyly. “Those final four years were full of them, actually. I sort of… veered off the path for a while. I wanted to use my skills… slipped into territory my parents wouldn’t have approved of. As ironic as that is, given their own sins. I’ve gone up against some pretty heavy opponents and held my own, but I think last night was the only time my life was genuinely on the line.”

Huddled together in the doorway, Din remains motionless, silent, focused as you speak. Your words have enraptured him. When you stop talking, you feel his gloved fingers brush against your knuckles, gentle at first. But then he catches the lower edge of your palm next to your pinkie, not really holding your hand but not not holding it either, observing you carefully through the visor’s blade.

You understand what his gesture means. It’s a connection. Empathy, maybe. Certainly some kind of comprehension. There’s definitely gratitude there for disclosing such a personal story.

“You didn’t believe I had any real experience, did you?”

No sound, no movement. Yup.

“It’s okay. I realise I don’t exactly project ‘capable’, but that’s kind of the point. I may have been raised around violence – seen it in the camp and then later trained to use it – and I may have willingly embraced it for a while… but it’s not how I’ve been living my life since I came to Endor. I chose to give up fighting, and I haven’t trained in years. I guess that’s why I was rusty last night.” Your voice gets a little sadder, and you frown, an understanding slowly manifesting itself. “And why I fell apart after. Everything’s kind of… broken now.”

“Broken….” His rasped word embodies its definition. Almost a question, but not quite.

And now you’ve said it, it makes sense. Finally. The reason for those feelings of rage and disappointment and terror and utter panic last night. They weren’t just in response to the attack. You’ve fought in the past, been injured before – you should’ve been able to deal with violence and not dissolved into hysterics thereafter. But by sharing part of your history with your companion, you’ve discovered a fundamental truth about yourself.

You smile wide and warm with the realisation. “I tried to make something else here, something peaceful. Tried to build on the ruins of the Empire’s destruction. I thought it would be healing and maybe a bit poetic. But then I met you, and I started to realise that all I’ve built myself here is somewhere to hide.”

You told him this already, but the context was wrong. When you explained your fear and admitted your feelings to him after the attack, you thought you were just scared about connecting with another person. But it’s more than that, and the revelation is emboldening. You finally return your gaze to Din’s visor, trying to stare into his hidden eyes without being able to see what you wish you could focus on.

“I mentioned how letting you in was scary because it felt like knocking down my walls. Well, last night, I needed to fight – I had to take a running leap over those walls, and I wasn’t ready. And feeling my safe shelter completely tumble down… it was… a big deal. I went from feeling a lot of pain to feeling almost nothing for six years, good or bad. And then suddenly, there was pain again. And it was… overwhelming. But you were patient, helped me through it, gave me the strength to deal with it – something I failed at six years ago. So I’m glad the walls have crumbled. I’m starting to see that hiding from pain isn’t the healthiest option. It’s better to face it. Deal with it. And it’s… a lot easier to do now that you’re here. Now I’m not alone. I didn’t really realise what I was feeling until a moment ago.” You twist your hand in his, lacing your fingers between the soft leather of his gloved digits, and he welcomes your move with a gentle squeeze. “Thanks. For helping me realise. And helping me deal.”

Din does his usual nod but stops short as if a thought has just occurred to him. His long exhale seems to carry both surprise and understanding. “I knew you had some sort of training. The way you handled the shiv when I gave it to you, I knew you were capable. And the moves you showed me this morning proved it. But last night, I was worried I’d….” He trails off as the guilt saturates his tone, then regroups. “Thank you for telling me all this. I’m… glad you’ve found the strength to persevere.”

You wonder if ‘glad’ is the correct word – are you sensing pride in his voice? And if so, is he proud of his role in helping you or proud of your progress? Both are valid feelings, and they settle inside you too. You’re happy you each have a reason to feel good about yourselves as well as each other. So you choose to respond wordlessly and simply nod once in return, briefly marvelling at how you’re already picking up his mannerisms. You’ve talked enough.

Satisfied the conversation has come to a natural conclusion and keen to resume your supply run, you turn and tug him toward the mess hall again. He steps along willingly, the atmosphere between you now calm and comfortable once more.

It’s not until a few moments later that you realise neither of you has dropped your hand, and you’re now walking with your fingers entwined. You glance at Din to find him already staring at you, probably just as confused as you are. It just felt so natural, so you unconsciously held on. And apparently, so did he.

Luckily, before you panic, he takes the initiative and officially makes it an ‘okay thing to do’ by shrugging and gently squeezing your hand.

You throw him a somewhat bashful, lopsided smile in response. “Aren’t you worried this will ruin your ‘menacing warrior’ reputation?”

Din barks a small laugh and walks a little taller. “Two fighters covered in weapons presenting a united front. If anyone has an opinion, it’ll be that they should avoid us for their own good.”

You smile in agreement but see straight through his attempt to play it down. By your best guess, this man is probably in his thirties or forties, but you get the impression he’s pretty new to some things. Flirting he can do, especially with that voice… kriff, he must realise how he can use it to his advantage. And it’s clear that he can effortlessly carry out the roles of mysterious rescuer of the damsel in distress and Doctor Caregiver. But this thing between you is new and unfamiliar (for you, as well), so you suppose there probably should be plenty of attempts to determine what feels right. And apparently, holding hands in public like teenagers feels right since you both did it without thinking. Good to know. You’ll accept any excuse he wants to give for testing what works.

As you turn along the final corridor to the mess hall, your thoughts return to the mission ahead. You have plenty of questions for Din about what’s next, and the sooner you ask them, the better you’ll feel about everything.

“What if he already left Endor? How do you know he didn’t run straight to his ship and go? Do you have any evidence or just a gut feeling?”

“A little of both.” Your Mandalorian’s voice once again slips into ‘hunter mode’. “He picked up a new ship in Ponemah, and I know what type it is. I managed to get up on the landing platform to check for it, but it’s not docked here. He’d need New Republic clearance anyway, which he’d never risk. So he must have it hidden somewhere outside the shield’s range, same as me. That’s at least twelve hours on foot – more since he’s limping now. So even if he left the compound as soon as he escaped, we can assume he won’t have made it off-world yet.”

Okay, that’s good news. It certainly eases your guilt about Din letting Nantoogen escape so he could take care of you. If he’d missed out on a million credits because of you, you’d never have forgiven yourself.

The hunter continues, “Based on my experience, he won’t risk staying at the compound now that he knows there’s a pissed-off Mandalorian here. He may assume I’m your bodyguard and was just protecting you – maybe doesn’t realise I’ve got a puck on him. But even if he suspects I’m Guild, his best option now is to head out to his ship. I don’t think he’ll leave Endor right away, though. He’s got an incentive to hide out when he reaches his ship: you told him about his ‘inheritance’. And you said he demanded more details – that tells me he’ll wanna check if there’s any truth to it before he leaves the system. Never underestimate the extent of a criminal’s greed.”

You scoff and confirm, “Yeah, I told him another crime lord had left him his spoils. It’s how I convinced him not to kill me straight away. Not that the alternative was any less terrifying.”

Din’s gloved thumb instantly begins to stroke your knuckles, an autonomous response to any lingering trauma from last night, even recollected. You don’t need words; with these little touches, he offers you emotional support and a reminder of his vow to bring your attacker to justice.

Nope, his words are not needed.

Unusually, he gives you more words anyway, though not about Nantoogen’s attack. He seems to realise you need reassurance about the mission specifics and continues explaining his thought process.

“Odds are he’ll stay put in his ship and make inquiries about the inheritance outside of the comms range of the compound. When he confirms it’s fake, he’ll realise we’re hunting him. Next, he’ll try to eliminate the threat, and he’ll probably rely on his contact here to do the dirty work. So the sensible option is for you and me to leave the compound, not just because I gotta bring him in, but because it keeps you safe from any unknown threat here. I won’t risk that happening again, so we stick together from now on.”

His explanation of all the facts and logical assumptions he’s used to decide on the plan gives you confidence. This is the correct course of action. It also reaffirms your urge to leave the compound (for good, if possible) since your former feelings of security in this place were shattered last night. Plus, you’re sort of thrilled by the fact that the two of you are now stuck together out of necessity. It’s almost as if the universe wants you to spend more time in each other’s company.

Focusing on that positive concluding thought, you offer him a teasing grin to lighten his mood too. “And the bonus prize to this plan: you get to impress me with your bounty-tracking skills.”

You’re treated to a quiet but appreciative modulated chuckle, and the subtle yet recognisable movements of Din’s helmet tell you he’s mirroring your grin beneath its emotionless exterior. You drink in the satisfaction brought by your fast-developing ability to read the subtleties of his body language. Once again, you’re amazed by the speed at which you’ve managed to form such a deep and unquestionable connection with a man whose face you’ve never seen.

Kriff… will you ever get to see his eyes? Are there certain circumstances or loopholes that could allow you to look without breaking his creed? That problematic brain cell in the recesses of your mind suddenly pipes up again – the one that keeps shouting to you about the strength of your feelings. And this time… you listen. Though you’ve tried to deny it, perhaps it’s time to admit that your attraction to him is more than just a simple crush on a new friend.

This is something far more intense.

You’ve never felt it before, and maybe that’s why you can’t label it properly, but you can no longer ignore that it’s there. You’ve always been aware of the reasons for any attractions you’ve had to people in the past – they were physically appealing, made you laugh, had shared interests. But with Din, you have no kriffing clue what it is, why it’s developed so fast into something so profound, nor why it feels so all-consuming.

The realisation isn’t as troubling as you thought it might be, but before you have a chance to dwell on it any further, you’re entering the mess hall.

Ari is not there for once. He must be finally resting after his recent long shift, and you’re a little disappointed that you won’t get to bid him farewell. You also wouldn’t mind seeing his expression when he noticed you holding hands with ‘your Mandalorian’. Teasing turned into truth. You find yourself liking the possessive moniker, now more than comfortable thinking it after last night’s events and all the exchanges you’ve had with him since.

You lead Din over to the droids selling pre-packaged foods, locating several long-lasting items that are easy to carry. Once you’ve stocked up on provisions and collected some extra flasks of water from the refreshments droid, your companion insists on reorganising everything. He carefully divides up your haul and repacks everything in your shoulder bag, your backpack and the soft canvas satchel slung across his chest.

“You should always divide your supplies equally on a mission,” he lectures, sliding one flask into each bag.

As you watch him rearrange things to his liking, you wonder if he’s instructing you because of your earlier frivolous comment about becoming a bounty hunter. You both understand you weren’t seriously suggesting it as an alternative profession, but it’s sort of sweet of him to play along. You hope it’s an indication that he’ll be on board with offering you a way off this moon.

Despite your usual avoidance, you allow yourself a few seconds to grab a travel cup of Endorian half-caf to fortify you for the day ahead. Even the reduced-caffeine version tends to play havoc with your already terrible sleep pattern, but honestly, you just need to avoid falling asleep en route. The memory of Din’s warm proximity a few hours earlier gives rise to a tempting fantasy of drifting off against his back, soothed by the bike’s vibrations.

But that wouldn’t be polite, so caf it is.

Sipping the dark and bitter liquid, you follow the hunter out to the vehicle hangar near the edge of the compound to see if Suriee has arrived yet. Being of such small stature, the Ewok natives of Endor require much less sleep than humans, so you’re familiar with Suriee’s tendency to work long hours. She’s just opening the gate as you arrive, and she greets you frantically, beckoning you both inside and pulling you into the speeder bike bays.

“Kush drojh, Suriee?” you ask, slightly spooked by her urgency.

The little Ewok chitters and gesticulates so wildly that you have trouble keeping up.

“What is she saying?” Din sounds concerned too.

“Shit, someone’s stolen a speeder.” You concentrate hard as she slows her frantic explanation for your benefit, translating her words for Din in spurts. “It must’ve only just been taken from the bay… because her assistant worked overnight… on a restoration… and he logged the time he left… which was less than an hour ago.”

Suriee shouts, “Chak!” in confirmation, and you try your best to calm her down, though tension creeps through your own body like frost. If the bounty isn’t on foot like you assumed he’d be, then the urgency just cranked up several notches.

But you force your tone to remain calm, now translating your own words for your hunting partner’s benefit. There’s no doubt in your mind who stole the bike, and he definitely needs to know what’s going on.

“Ees ehshtee chyasee – we offer our help. Fazwakreemo uzhe chaaa – we’re already searching for this person. Suriee, arandee kisa.” In your haste to reassure her, you abandon the dual language effort and switch to using Basic alone. “We will go into the forest to catch him.”

“Tell her we need transport,” Din instructs, unaware you’re no longer translating and that he’s just made the request himself.

The furry brown creature scurries over to the speeder you rode the evening you met Din and starts to steer it out of the bay, muttering, “Fraza koonatzgah.”

“She understands Basic; she just has trouble pronouncing it,” you explain with a wry chuckle. “And she prefers I talk to her in Ewokese since so few people here speak it. It makes her feel more at home.”

Depositing the bike before you, Suriee scans your pass on her datapad’s reader for you, chittering away as she does. You nod gratefully and translate for Din. “The engine’s fully calibrated and fuelled.”

The Ewok abruptly stops fussing when she returns your pass to you, suddenly quiet and looking at you intently. Then she tugs your sleeve hard enough to pull you down level with her. “Thesi danthee hutar,” she warns gravely. Then she places her paw near your injured temple and insists, “Pritka pritka hutaray!”

You reach out and smooth the rare striped markings on her fuzzy arm. “I understand the risks of going far from the compound, Suriee; I’ve been out there many times. Meechoo danvay – I’ll be careful.” You’d rather not explain your healing injury to her, so you point at your Mandalorian standing tall next to you and add, “Jiks shetai x’ekra kisa.”

“What?” Din sounds slightly irritated. He clearly dislikes being spoken about in a language he doesn’t understand.

You shoot him a fond smile as you stand back up. “I said, ‘This warrior will protect me’.”

Din immediately turns to the transport manager and drops to one knee to get level with her, his cloak brushing the dirt floor. “I promise I will keep her safe,” he vows solemnly, his unusually formal phrasing showing his deference. “I will protect her with my life.”

It occurs to you then that his creed may require him to display this sort of respect to other Mandalorians, perhaps elders or leaders, so he could be used to making pledges on his knees. His willingness to make one for you sends tingles along your spine that have nothing to do with its progressive healing from your fall.

“Teeha, samangan shetai.” Suriee gratefully pats Din’s large hand with her comparatively tiny paw and makes a valiant attempt to match his earnest tone. “Kiney chattu toma theesee.” Then she scurries away to the rear of the hangar, leaving your companion on his knee next to the speeder.

You try to contain your giggling mirth as he climbs to his feet, staring after the Ewok. He’s obviously frustrated that he has no idea what Suriee just said to him, so you put him out of his misery.

“She blessed you. Well, um, she blessed your children. It literally means ‘blessings upon your young ones’.” At the rapid turn of his helmet toward you, you add, “Ewoks are big on raising their kids safely and protecting their tribes.”

“So are Mandalorians,” Din reveals casually as if that isn’t a kriffing fascinating snippet of information about his mysterious creed. Before you can ask him to elaborate, he begins strapping your pack to the bike’s cargo rail and inquires, “You okay riding behind me this time?”

You stare at him, eyebrow raised, frozen midway through extracting your goggles from your shoulder bag, then jab your finger into his beskar chest. “Don’t think we’re not coming back to that Mandalorian comment later, but yeah, I figured you’d want to take point. I’m sure I can stand to cling to you for a while. Suppose I had enough practice last night.”

Din’s body language seems to radiate fond amusement at that, so you match the smile you imagine he’s giving you. As you don your goggles, he removes his jetpack and your lyaer’tsa, fixing them to the speeder. Then he throws his leg over the seat, holding out a flattened gloved palm to you so you can use it as leverage to hop on behind him.

You recall how he held onto you when he was your passenger, and you reach forward to his hips. However, the tassets that hang there give you nothing to grab hold of, so you spend a moment moving your hands around, searching for a secure grip. Your exploration more or less has you feeling him up in the process, but you make no apologies.

You feel him rumble with amusement, and then he finds your hands, gently pulling them forward, encouraging you to wrap your arms around him in a tight embrace. He presses your fingers around the front of his belt, showing you where you can hang on securely. “Comfortable?” he resonates.

“Mm, very,” you purr, burying your nose in his cloak and inhaling the rich and earthy scent. You deliberately let him feel the shiver that ripples through your body.

In response, Din slowly drops his large hand to your knee and slides it up your thigh, and it’s as if he’s raising the volume of your arousal. There, he gives your flesh a firm and lingering squeeze, causing you to inhale raggedly.

Kriffing hell. Despite all the comforting caresses and the suggestive flirting earlier, it’s the first time he’s touched your body with a blatant sexual connotation. You can feel the intent vibrating in his fingers, and the jolt of raw lust it unleashes goes straight to the apex of your thighs.

You were closer to the truth than you knew when you insisted his hands were weapons. You’ll willingly surrender to them any day.

“Good,” he drawls, his voice low and devilish, and he squeezes your thigh again. But before your brain can fully etch the new sensations into your memory, his hand is gone. You’re left clinging to an echo, willing it to linger for as long as possible.

But the urgency of pursuit retakes precedence, and the hunter wastes no more precious seconds. He powers the speeder through the hangar’s exit and proceeds out past the compound’s main gate.

Once you’re out among the forest’s trees, as if your arms weren’t already locked securely around him, he commands, “Hold tight,” and presses forward harder to gather speed.

You have no intention of letting go.

Din pilots the bike with skill along the main trail leading away from the compound, and the morning sunlight dances viridian and emerald through the leaves. The air is less humid than it’s been for the past few days, a fresh breeze saturating you with the scent of blooming forest flowers as you ride.

With the caf keeping you alert, you let the vibrations of the speeder envelop you. Coupled with the feeling of the solid man in your arms and the fresh memory of his hand on your thigh, a familiar heat stirs in your chest and between your legs. Inevitably, you find yourself giving in to the pleasurable sensations and letting them build by degrees into a cradle of desire deep within you.

It’s not so intense as to cause any discomfort, thankfully. The latent arousal simply allows you to indulge in the feel of your breasts pressed against your pilot’s back and the warmth of his body between your legs. You imagine slipping your fingers beneath the belt you’re anchored to, fantasising about what else they could grasp.

This is the first time you’ve allowed yourself to truly enjoy such sensations in ages, and you revel in them. It’s thrilling to let your mind freely conjure all sorts of scenarios, your former unease about thinking of him in this manner finally dissolved.

Soon enough, you’ve travelled a sufficient distance from the compound to reach the first main intersection of diverging routes. Here, your companion eases off the accelerator and slows to a standstill.

Still ensconced in your increasingly erotic fantasies, your knuckles are tense from your tight grasp at Din’s belt, and it takes you a moment to relax your body. You do so somewhat reluctantly. It feels as if you’ve only just set off, but the suns are casting far fewer shadows now, and you realise you must have been daydreaming about sordid things for quite a while. Your imagination definitely ran away with itself, but it was just so… irresistible.

When you don’t let go straight away, the helmet turns to his shoulder as he addresses you behind him, “You okay?”

“Mm-hmm…” is all you can manage as you fight to slow your heart rate and rid yourself of the tingles. But your nonverbal response just seems to concern Din all the more.

He glances down at your hands still wrapped around his belt, then tries once more to look over his shoulder. However, it’s impossible with the bulk of his armour and helmet and the fact that you’re directly behind him. He must think you’re in distress because he covers your hands and gently presses your skin with his thumbs in the familiar soothing caress.

Although he’s wearing his gloves, the soft hand-on-hand contact is precisely what you don’t need while attempting to pull yourself back from the edge of arousal. Nothing can stop the gasp that falls from your lips, nor the subtle arch of your body behind him.

Din’s soothing gestures pause instantly. It’s clear he’s realised what’s going on, especially as you’re radiating lust and pheromones on overdrive.

Tensing your muscles, you match his stillness, even as the breeze sways the whole forest around you. Hopefully, he’ll give you a break – pretend he didn’t notice you squirming behind him and set off again, allowing you the opportunity to calm yourself down without a fuss.

No such luck.

But, unexpectedly, your Mandalorian’s hand once again falls against your leg… and he slowly slides his palm along your thigh, squeezing sensually, just as he did in the vehicle hangar.

You can’t help it. A lascivious moan escapes you, and you press yourself against him a little more firmly as you nuzzle into his cloak. Kriff, you feel at once both wretched for giving into these baser urges and euphoric from the lustful nature behind his touches. If you thought falling asleep against him would be impolite, grinding against him – even subtly – is an order of magnitude greater. But as desire floods your mind (and underwear), you find it hard to care.

Din exhales long and unevenly through the vocoder, sounding equal parts amused and aroused himself. “Dank farrik,” he rasps. “Okay… off.” He pats the thigh he just squeezed.

You try your hardest to pull yourself together, disembarking your transport on wobbly legs. Pressing your thighs together, you pull down your goggles to dangle around your neck, revealing a blissed-out yet guilty look on your face.

It’s clear to the whole forest that you’re a loth-cat’s whisker away from the sort of ecstasy you haven’t felt in a long time. However, you try your hardest to compose yourself as Din steps off the speeder as well, both hands planted on his hips as he turns to you. He silently stares at you through the visor, only a pace away, the sunlight filtering through the leaves tinting his armour emerald and jade. It’s a curious echo of your first meeting out here in the forest.

Is he sizing you up? Images of him having you up against a tree rush through your mind, unleashing more of your desire. You dreamed up a whole fantasy scenario around this while on the bike just now, and recalling it is not helping to calm you down at all.

When nothing happens, you start to become embarrassed by your obvious arousal, but only to a degree. This morning’s flirting has confirmed that he’s attracted to you too, so it’s not as if things weren’t headed in this direction. Nevertheless, you realise it’s poor timing, and you certainly shouldn’t allow your baser urges to distract you from the mission or, worse still, actually jeopardise it somehow.

But surely you can both just clear your heads by getting it out of your systems, right? Wouldn’t that be best? There are plenty of smooth-barked trees around that he can press you up against while he has his wicked way with you. And you’re pretty sure his way would be wicked.

Plus, he was the one who squeezed your thigh. Twice.

You wish you could see what he’s thinking. Is he waiting for you to explain yourself? The hands at his hips make him look a little pissed off, but his muffled words held a trace of amusement and maybe even lust of his own. Sighing, you simply opt for an apology as the best solution, throwing in some rarely uttered profanity to emphasise your earnestness.

“Fuck, Din, I’m sorry… I’ll pull myself together.”

His hands drop from his hips, and he mutters a short phrase in a language you don’t understand, looking away for a beat before returning the visor to you. It takes him several long seconds to find the words in Basic, and when he finally speaks, it’s slow and hesitant, as if he’s considering each word carefully, his voice low yet gentle.

“I wanted to say this before we left your quarters. We gotta be careful. It’s a bad idea to rush… this.” You hear the implied reference in Din’s final word, another euphemistic acknowledgement of your mutual attraction. “The timing is… not good. I shouldn’t really let any of this happen, but I tried to run away from you twice, and it didn’t work. I can’t fight this, whatever it is. But I need you to understand something important.” He pauses to increase the impact of his next statement. “The hunt… I’m sorry, but that needs to be my priority until I’ve completed the job.”

In other words, he’s asking you not to distract him from his work. And that’s fair; you’re supposed to be helping him, definitely not distracting him. Then, on top of that, in addition to poor timing, he’s still trying to wrap his head around whatever’s developing between you, just as you are. He said he can’t fight it, but he can’t seem to label it either. You can certainly relate to that feeling, although you’re aware it’s more than just physical for you now.

You think he’s done, but after an awkward pause, he offers an additional and much more hesitant justification for his restraint. “But even if the hunt wasn’t stopping us from….” He makes a back-and-forth hand gesture between you, the meaning obvious. “If this is happening, there are things you should know first, about me, about my creed, before we….”

Your companion trails off again and, this time, doesn’t say anything more. Nevertheless, his message is clear. It seems there are some more hurdles to overcome before things can become sexual, one of which is you learning more about him. Apparently, for now, flirting and holding hands is fine, but groping your thigh was merely an experiment to find out where to draw the lines, just like the hand-holding was. It was not a signal that you should get all keyed up and try to move things forward so soon. Especially given he’s working.

Once again, you get the feeling that this is entirely new to him, and you wonder how much experience he has with women. This is all surprisingly analogous to a shy teenager working up the courage to take the first step with a first girlfriend.

You offer him a shaky nod to show you understand, sort of at least, though discomfiture has replaced desire as your dominant expression.

A deep and frustrated sigh crackles beneath the helmet. “I should be more careful about where I touch you. I’m sorry, I… crossed a line. I shouldn’t have.” Din glances at the bike and admits, “It may not have been wise for us to take only one speeder. Tell me you can… manage,” he entreats.

You match his sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, I can control myself.” Your voice is steeped in regret, but you can accept that this isn’t the time or place for anything more to happen.

“Good. I need you to, cyar’ika. Because if you can’t, I might be tempted to….” He trails off and sighs, struggling to verbalise his feelings. “I don’t wanna do this the wrong way. I won’t just take what I want and then continue the hunt. I can’t give in to that – it will completely shatter my focus. And… you deserve better than that,” he settles on.

Well, at least you know he’s struggling too and that even though taking things that far would be ill-advised right now, he wants to. Again, you wonder if he’s ever had any kind of physical relationship before or whether the armour has always prevented him from having that type of thing. How do Mandalorians go about dating? Or maybe that’s precisely the issue – this is not just a quick roll in the grass. This is complicated and confusing, so perhaps that’s the part he’s not used to.

Then again, you’re not particularly used to it, either.

But regardless of his prior experience, this gallant warrior has vowed not to simply use you and then move on. It’s sweet, and you think (or hope) it also suggests he’s feeling more than just sexual attraction alone. Perhaps that’s why he deems it necessary to tell you about his creed first. If it were just physical, then surely that wouldn’t matter? The very fact that it does suggests it’s deeper than that.

The thought transmutes some of your bridled lust into a more appropriate warm glow that settles in your chest.

You exhale heavily and attempt to match some of his raw disclosure. “Din, I— you’re right. It would be stupid to give in to anything before we’ve caught the bounty and… learned more about each other. Whatever you need to tell me about your creed, I’ll listen when you’re ready. And for now, we continue the mission and try not to get caught up in… the thrill of something new.” A tinge of frustration carries through unbidden at the end of your sentence.

Somehow, he looks both relieved and regretful as he closes the space between you, and the electricity between you sparks inside your core again. But you tamp it down with enormous effort. He catches your hand in one of his and then raises the other to cup your chin, gently angling your face to ensure you’re focusing on his visor. “This isn’t a no. It’s a later. Understand?”

“Yes,” you promise, locking onto where you think his eyes are and speaking honestly.

“I wish I could… help you right now.” Din’s voice is raw and somewhat strained through the modulator, and his meaning is as clear as the cloudless sky above you both. Kriff. But despite the implication, the way he strokes your jaw and hesitantly drops his hand shows he’s not flirting; he’s expressing his regret.

“Well, I guess we both need to just… hang on until the time is right. I think I can manage that,” you assure him.

“Yeah. Me too.” He squeezes your fingers and then lets go abruptly. The decisive release of your physical contact dissipates the erotic energy, and it’s as if you’ve plummeted back to reality from a great height.

You step back a pace, roll your shoulders, and shake your arms – visual indications for him that you’ve pulled yourself together. For now, at least. He nods, and you see him straighten his body as well.

You suppose it’s good that you’re now in agreement about how things should proceed from here; that makes it easier to bear. Although you definitely need to start communicating more effectively. If you both continue stumbling around the issues and struggling for words, you’ll never move this ‘thing’ forward. Kriff, you’re even reluctant to label it when just thinking about it. You hope whatever he needs to tell you about his creed isn’t as difficult to discuss. What he just told you clearly took some monumental effort, even though much of it was either implied or euphemistic.

Stretching your neck from side to side, you refocus the conversation on your current task. “Okay, what’s the next step in finding the bounty?”

Din pulls the tracking fob from his belt, his bounty hunter guise resurfacing with ease. “We should be far enough from the compound now to get an idea of the direction he’s gone in.”

You step in closer again to observe, relieved to find you can be near him without that heat returning when the mission is your focus.

Free of its pouch, the fob blinks and emits a languid pulse, its speed increasing when he holds it up in the direction you’ve just come from. “Signals from the compound still register, but hopefully we can now verify which direction he’s travelling in too.”

He gradually rotates his body, and the tone begins to slow. When he’s pointing directly ahead on the trail, the pulse quickens a little. But when he faces the fork of the new path slightly off to the right, it speeds up to the same level.

“That’s not helpful – there are equally faint signals in both directions,” he complains.

“Ah, but now you have a local girl to help you,” you boast, smiling broadly at the idea you’re one step ahead of this hunter in tracking his quarry. You point along the main trail leading west. “This route leads to the secondary shield generator and an old Imperial landing platform. There’s a small crew stationed there, and I know one of them is Corellian and is probably registering on that thing. Also, if Nantoogen’s trying to lie low, it wouldn’t be his best bet for stashing a ship because he’d need clearance for that platform too.”

He grunts his agreement with a bob of the helmet. “My ship is at the edge of the shield’s range in that direction. I had to avoid the platform when I walked to the compound. I didn’t see any other ships in the area where I landed.”

You point along the narrower path that you recall leads north toward Lake Sui and the mountains. “Then this way is our best bet for sure. I did some long-term salvaging jobs out there. Once you get to the edge of the forest, there’s a massive chunk of wreckage in the Oniantae Hills. But we stripped it years ago, so few people go up that way anymore – the perfect place to hide a ship. It’s far, though, even by speeder. Like, two-nights-in-the-forest kind of far. They flew the salvage teams out in transport vessels.”

Din peers along the shaded trail. “Seems appropriate for a lowlife like Nantoogen to hole up in Imperial wreckage. And if nobody goes out that way much, it’s a lot more likely this signal is the target. Plus, it explains why he risked stealing transport instead of just walking for a day like I did.” He turns to you. “Good work.”

You beam back at him, oddly buoyed by his praise. “Glad I’m earning that reward you already gave me, Din.”

He chuckles, and you revel in the muffled sound of it through the modulator. “I’ll have to think of a different reward to give you when this is done.” His tone is light despite the suggestiveness of his words, and you can tell he’s trying to keep his flirting to a safe minimum for now. Apparently, he’s still more than willing to engage in it, as long as it’s not the distracting type.

Following his lead, you simply grin and raise an eyebrow. “Always good to have things to look forward to.”

The vehement nod of the helmet shows you just how strongly he agrees. “Do you wanna switch with me?” he points at the speeder.

“No, I promise I can behave myself.” You hope, anyway.

Your Mandalorian remounts the bike and once again holds out a flattened palm for you to use as leverage to jump on behind him. Wisely, however, he keeps his gloves away from your thighs this time. You find a comfortable grip on his belt slightly farther back at his sides, giving you more space between your bodies. The new position limits the risk of additional friction occurring – a sensible idea given how it almost undid you earlier.

Tapping his side to show you’re ready, you set off again with a looser grip and a sharper focus.

Chapter Text

The new trail is much narrower and full of natural obstacles, slowing your progress as Din puts the bike’s altitude controls to work manoeuvring over fallen trees and other detritus. But you’re relaxed. By now, you’re more than aware that his piloting skills are as good as your own, if not better. So you press ahead until both suns are past their apex, small clouds now drifting by to diffuse the bright afternoon light, obscuring the faint outline of the ever-present gas giant.

The seasonal variance is marginal on Endor. The complexities of lunar orbital mechanics mean each quadrant of the tide-locked moon exists in a somewhat uniform climate with minimal variation, pulled by its parent planet in an elliptical path around the binary suns. It’s one of nine well-behaved satellite children, dutifully sticking close to their giant guardian, which feeds them with sufficient atmospheric gases to render two of them habitable.

With one side of the moon always facing the planet, the glowing blue orb hangs fixed in the sky above the densely forested areas populated by the Ewoks. It makes a reliable nightlight for those who live among the trees. In addition, the fixed aspect means this area is mild and temperate year-round. It’s a welcome contrast to the snow and ice that blankets the mountain peaks and the great storms that gather over the small oceans before rolling across the sprawling plains on the other side of the moon.

Lucrative salvaging opportunities aside, the mild forest climate was one of several benefits that drew you to Endor when your former life fell apart. The jungles of Onderon had always made the air feel dense, even in the Highlands at the Partisans’ camp, and the humidity was sometimes unbearable. Here, the reliability of light and warmth has been a constant balm for your nerves since you arrived. You’re aware there’s a team at the compound researching the ecological effects of the Death Star’s orbital obliteration, but you haven’t noticed much variation in your years here.

Sitting on the back of the speeder and enjoying the coolness of the ever-spring breeze rushing past, offset by the warmth of Din’s body in your arms, you allow yourself a different kind of pleasure from that which consumed you when you first set off. You think this is closer to contentment, though it’s been so long since you felt such a thing that it’s hard to recognise with any certainty.

Eventually, you reach a clearing with numerous paths branching off – a convenient place for a second rest stop. Not that the first stop was particularly restful. Din loops around to bring the speeder to a swift yet smooth halt at the edge, almost with a flourish. Is he trying to impress you or just showing off? Both, probably.

Your stomach growls uncomfortably, demanding attention and nourishment. It’s been several hours since last night’s shared soup dinner, and neither of you even thought about eating before you left. You were far too preoccupied with all the flirting.

Hopping off the speeder and tugging off your goggles, you rummage in your shoulder bag and extract the first of Ari’s sweetcakes. Your companion still carries the other in his bag, but you now have your own since he divided your supplies evenly in the mess hall.

Unwrapping it hungrily, you tear off a chunk and stuff it in your mouth to satisfy your complaining gut. The burst of flavour on your tongue instantly invigorates you. Your eyes flutter closed for a few seconds as you let yourself fully enjoy the sugary zing, though they snap open the moment you hear that equally delicious modulated baritone.

“Looks like we’re keeping up with him. Let’s rest here for a spell.”

Din has disembarked to check the fob, and after completing his assessment, he proceeds to kick and then step on a nearby log. You assume he’s testing its sturdiness as a potential bench, but for a split-second, he exudes the innocence of a kid just having fun outdoors. It’s gone the moment he begins to scan the perimeter from his vantage point, ever the hunter.

What was he like as a child? Was there innocence in this armoured warrior once, or was he bred for this life?

A less invasive question comes to mind. “Are you hungry?” You step toward him and hold out a chunk of sweetcake, wondering how he can eat solid food with the helmet in the way.

But after glancing around, he descends from the log, slips off a glove and takes it from you gratefully.

“How can you—?”

Before you can finish uttering your question, he sits on the log with his back to you and tilts his chin down to his chest. You hear the faint hiss as he releases the helmet and lifts it fractionally, cramming the food into his mouth, then lowering the beskar back in place. From your position standing above and behind him, you don’t catch even the slightest glimpse of his face during the lightning-quick action.

“Okay, asked and answered,” you grin, handing him half of the cake when he rotates to face you again, which he accepts with a nod. Keen to allow him privacy to eat without the fear of an accidental reveal, you retreat to your previous position next to the speeder anyway. “I’ll just hang out over here, so there’s no pressure.”

Din hums, and it sounds… happy? That’s new. And very welcome to your ears. He’s been amused around you, satisfied, impressed, but this is something almost more… pure, profound.

An amiable silence between you contrasts harmoniously with the gentle rustle and thrum of the forest as you rest against the speeder and fondly observe your Mandalorian while he’s turned away. In the short time you’ve known him, he’s become the most significant person in your life. Yet you still can’t even begin to wrap your head around how or why that’s the case. You only know it has charged you with a zeal and fortitude you’ve never felt before.

You remember having a few crushes as a young woman slowly discovering the thrill of sexual awakening, though you’d never managed to get anywhere with those you’d chased. Later, you’d given in to a few men who had pursued you, your intent simply to discover what you’d been missing. You’d told yourself it was good to let in others, but it never felt right, and you had inevitably desired your own space soon enough.

Though you’re not inexperienced, if you had to choose two words to describe your sex life, you’d probably go with ‘sporadic’ and ‘unsatisfactory’. And given how long it’s been, you can surely now add ‘historical’ as a third.

With Din, it’s the first time you’ve ever felt a burning need for someone who seems to feel something similar. Perhaps even something more. And it’s intoxicating.

He glances over his pauldron at you as if he can feel the weight of your gaze on him. When he notices your dreamy expression, he pauses his breakfast and repositions himself to face you again. “You’re staring.”

You debate how honest to be about your thoughts, then decide to just open your mouth and see what comes out. You can’t always be so reticent to discuss this, or you’ll never make progress. Besides, it seems the more you just talk without thinking, the better you’re able to put words to your feelings, anyway.

“I was just thinking about the past. I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

When the helmet tilts inquisitively, you recognise it as his invitation to continue.

“I’m trying to figure out what it is about you that makes me feel… like this.” Shit, when are you going to be comfortable saying it out loud? “The best I can come up with is that it’s the whole ‘mysterious warrior’ vibe. Because I still don’t really know a lot about you. Although, I think I’ve got a decent idea of what sort of man you are.”

Reaching into your bag for the flask of tarine tea, you smile thinly as Din remains silent at your words, accustomed as you are to the sometimes one-sided nature of conversing with him. Despite growing ever closer, it’s going to be challenging to convince him to open up and have the discussion about himself that he’s insisting upon. The one that he deems to be a hurdle you need to overcome in your blossoming relationship.

Although this is only a brief rest stop, maybe it’s worth seeing if you can persuade him to start sharing right now. If only to show him you’re open to it. Surely, if he doesn’t want to talk yet, he can easily use the excuse of getting back on the trail to avoid it.

You swig the cold tea, the bitter flavour a satisfying contrast to the rich saccharine of the cake portion you’ve devoured, steeling yourself against any awkwardness.

“You know, the more you practice actually having conversations, the better you’ll get at it,” you tease. Wandering closer, you settle on the log beside him since he seems to have eaten his fill.

Din turns toward you as you sit, re-wrapping the remaining sweetcake but slipping it into his own bag. “I’m capable of conversation,” he contends. Instantly, you’re flooded with guilt as you recall how you insulted him with those very words when trying to keep your distance before the attack.

“I know you are; I never meant to suggest you weren’t,” you assure him contritely. “I’ve had to fight for most of what I’ve learned about you by asking you questions. Yeah, you gave me permission, but it can sometimes feel a bit… intrusive. So, just… you don’t have to be so hesitant about opening up to me. It’s like you wear armour on the inside too, and it’s a battle to get past it.” He looks at you pointedly, and you snort as a realisation hits. “Okay, I admit that’s like a Jawa calling an Ewok short. But I already told you that my protective walls are coming down.”

He hums in agreement, and you’re pleased he responded, even if it was nonverbally. Since he doesn’t sound too resistant, you press ahead, keeping your tone light. You won’t beg or guilt him into this, but you suspect he could benefit from a little supportive encouragement.

“You said earlier that if I wanted to tell you anything about myself, I would, without you needing to ask. And you were right. So I told you about my parents and my training even though you didn’t ask… because I wanted to.” You pause when the helmet looks off to the side as if he’s remembering your disclosure. “And, well… you’ve already admitted there’s stuff you want to tell me about yourself and your creed….”

Din’s gaze remains fixed on the thick bushes near the bench as he examines both the plant life and your words. You’re beginning to realise that when his silence extends to a total lack of response, it’s a sign he needs more reassurance. That first night you ate together, you learned more about him than you realised. You discovered he finds sharing anything about himself a considerable challenge, and he needs a clear goal in mind before he can summon the courage to open up. So you remind him and reassure him at the same time.

“Please don’t think I’m pushing; I never would. You let the decision to share details about myself be mine alone, so it’s completely up to you to decide what you want to tell me about yourself and when. But you said there are two reasons why we have to wait to… take the next step. The fact that you’re on a hunt, and that you need to tell me certain things first. Tracking will probably take a few more days at least, which makes this an ideal opportunity to start getting to know each other better.”

You pause for breath and then set out your justifications as logically as you can.

“It’s just the two of us, so there’s no risk of anyone overhearing, and it’s peaceful out here – a relaxing setting for it. And if we do the sharing thing en route, when we catch the bounty, we can finally… celebrate because I’ll already know everything you want me to know and vice versa. So it’s like killing two churis with one slingshot. And hopefully, just talking won’t distract you from the hunt?”

You see Din’s helmet nod fractionally, the gesture so tiny it would have gone unnoticed by most. Then his visor refocuses on you again. When he speaks, his voice is wary, almost anxious. “It’s not a distraction, I want to tell you. But… the Way of the Mand’alor is… very different from other cultures. The more I tell you, the less you might… like me.”

Oh, so that’s what’s giving him pause. He’s desperate for you to understand who he truly is, but he’s nervous you won’t like what you learn.

“Din…” you entreat, trying to coat your voice with understanding. You reach for his ungloved hand, and he immediately laces his fingers with your own, hand-holding now being an acknowledged ‘safe’ action. “Whatever differences you’re worried about, we can only move forward if you talk to me about them.” He doesn’t react, so you focus your reassurances on this new concern. “Not seeing your face hasn’t stopped me from wanting you. And I’m not about to judge you just because the way you live your life is different from most other guys I’ve met. If anything, it’s one of the reasons I like you so much.”

Well, there you go; you said some things. Finally, no more euphemisms. Admissions to ‘wanting him’ and ‘liking him so much’ – guilty as charged. But weirdly, it was easy to say when it was something you knew he needed to hear, and you feel better for the honesty.

Din squeezes your hand as he absorbs your words; it seems they were well-received too.

Your thoughts continue to spill out in a surprisingly coherent manner. “You saved my life and took care of me. You bring in bad guys and kill the evil ones. Those qualities in you mean more to me than eye contact. Your profession, your religion, your appearance – none of those has any bearing on my feelings for you. So I want to know more about you and your creed because I honestly don’t think anything you could tell me will change my opinion of who you are at your core.” You hesitate, then offer, “I’m attracted to your values just as much as… any physical aspects I may have inadvertently managed to grope so far.”

A small puff of amusement sounds through the vocoder at your jokingly serious admission of physical attraction. Then your companion stills, and the visor studies you carefully. “My creed is important to me. The way my tribe raised me – it shaped my life. It’s who I am.”

Okay, that makes sense. When you asked him about his appearance on that first evening together, he downplayed it – said it wasn’t important. This is what’s important to him, so talking about his creed and his tribe almost gives you an insight into his soul. You need to be serious now and show the appropriate respect.

“Last night, you chose to take care of me instead of chasing a million credit bounty out the door. If being raised following your creed has made you into that sort of a man, then that speaks volumes about how much respect it deserves. I would be honoured to hear anything you want to share with me about it.”

You feel him squeeze your hand again at your words. It was the right thing to say.

Perhaps you can make it simpler for him… “Would it help if I asked you questions again? Is it easier to respond to single points instead of wondering where to start?”

Din shakes his helmet slowly, lowering it to stare at your entwined fingers. “It is, but you don’t know what I need to tell you, so you wouldn’t know what to ask.”

“Then start with whatever feels easiest. It doesn’t have to make sense; just… talk.” You give his hand a squeeze in return and add a little shyly, “I… like the sound of your voice anyway.”

The visor comes up to align with your eyes. “Yeah?” He sounds a little shocked, a little flattered, a little nervous.

“Very much,” you assure him resolutely.

You can practically feel him thinking as he stares at you, an anxious stillness locking his body in place. You give him time, trying to keep your own body relaxed, willing him to let go of his reticence.

After a few moments, Din takes a deep breath, long and slow, then exhales in the same manner. His action is laboured, almost like he’s trying to gather the strength to disclose a great secret. And then he refocuses on your joined hands and begins to talk, his voice low and quiet and for your ears alone, almost afraid the forest itself is listening.

“Mandalorian children begin training as warriors when they turn eight. That’s when they first start wearing armour. Not all the time, and it’s only small pieces to help them get used to the weight of it. Especially the helmet, which can take a while to adapt to. And it’s durasteel, not beskar. Kids grow too fast for it to be worth forging beskar for them that young.”

He’s being oddly specific yet somewhat rambling. You get the feeling he’s taken your advice literally and is simply… talking a little nonsensically until he can build up to his main point. It’s sort of cute, not to mention unexpected given his usual economic use of words. However, perhaps he’s also latched on to your confession of liking how his voice sounds. You relax a little more and let yourself enjoy the deep baritone as much as the information you’re getting.

“Training usually takes five years. When they turn thirteen, they swear the Creed, become apprentices and are considered adults. Their families gift them beskar for their armour, or if they’re foundlings who weren’t adopted, the whole tribe sponsors them with whatever it can spare. At a minimum, they’re given a beskar helmet. From then on, the helmet stays on, and they follow the Resol’nare – the six actions of our faith. Wearing armour, speaking Mando’a, providing for the tribe, defending our families, raising children and foundlings, and rallying around our leader. This is the Way.”

He pauses, and it feels as if he’s giving you a turn to speak. You’d rather not interrupt his flow, but something about the way he’s saying ‘they’ rather than ‘we’ makes you want to confirm all of this was true for him too. “You’ve worn that since you were thirteen?”

“I was a few years older.” Din swallows before continuing with a bleak solemnity to his words. “I wasn’t born of Mandalore. I was a foundling. My parents were killed when I was a boy, and the Mandalorians rescued me and trained me to fight. Depending on how old we were when taken in as foundlings, certain things can be different from Mandalorian children. I was around fifteen when I swore the Creed.”

At his divulgence of his parents’ fate, you gently stroke your thumb across his knuckles, just as he’s been doing to you whenever you’ve needed comfort. With all your empathy, you gaze into the eyeline of his visor, knowing the confusing emptiness of such a loss yourself. He doesn’t look up to meet your eyes, but you hope he can feel your sentiment regardless.

“It was… a long time ago…” he says vaguely, and after a moment of silence, you realise what he’s doing. He’s giving you general information about Mandalorians, so you can ask him direct questions about how it relates to him. A way for him to respond to specific points instead of having to make a speech about himself. Clever boy.

Though his visor still points at your joined hands, you feel his eyes watching you through the side slit of the transparisteel, waiting for your reaction. The knowing smile you offer shows him you’ve caught on to his method. Your question just now was on the right topic, but it wasn’t precisely where he was leading you. Now that you’ve realised what he’s trying to convey, the question he needs you to ask forms easily. “How many years has it been since you swore the Creed?”

A deep breath. “I think… nearly… twenty-five.” The modulator does little to enhance his mumbled words, but you catch them anyway. And now you’ve got an answer to something you’ve been curious about yourself.

Grinning at his shyness about revealing his age, you reassure him. “I already guessed from seeing your hands that you were probably in your thirties or forties.”

He hesitates, then probes how that makes you feel via a nervous statement. “You don’t think I’m… too old. For you.”

“Do you think I’m too young for you?” you counter. It’s an excuse you’ve heard before, and you really hope Din doesn’t have a problem with an age gap. It’s not massive.

To your relief, he shakes his head but reveals, “My medisensor gave me an estimate, but I don’t know your exact age….” He’s still not asking a question, but he clearly shares your curiosity about your respective ages.

“Assuming we’re both counting on the Galactic Standard Calendar, I’ll be thirty at the end of this month.” You’d sort of forgotten, actually. Birthdays aren’t much fun when there’s nobody to celebrate with. “I should probably work out when that is. It’s not easy converting to Endor time.”

Your companion nods and lightly strokes his thumb across your knuckles. You take it to mean he’s satisfied that the decade between you isn’t an issue. Then he verbally confirms, “Okay.”

“Okay,” you agree, acknowledging that it’s not a problem for you either. Then you laugh warmly, “See, this is why sharing is good.”

He gives a short chuckle too, more subdued than your outright amusement, but he’s momentarily a little more relaxed.

“Is that what you were worried about telling me?” you ask.

Din brings up the hand you’re not holding, gloved palm facing downward, tilting it side to side in the universal indicator for ‘sort of’. You realise he’s started small and is building up to whatever else he wants to reveal, exactly as you told him to. You give him another sincere smile and a nod to indicate that he still has your full attention, allowing him whatever time he needs to find his next words.

When he finally begins again, it’s with greater hesitance, as if the next part is more difficult for him to confess.

“As warriors, Mandalorians don’t necessarily expect a long life. So we do a lot of things younger than in most cultures. That’s why we’re considered adults at thirteen. But there are certain things… things that some people might think are done much too young.” A pause. Then he says cautiously, “For example… once we turn sixteen, Mandalorians are encouraged to find partners and take marriage vows.”

Din stops again and glances away, awaiting your reaction and the inevitable follow-up question.

Huh. Well, you’re aware there are a few cultures throughout the galaxy who marry young. You’ve never met anyone brought up that way, though, so your initial response to learning something so unexpected is surprise. However, you manage to keep it from showing, and curiosity overtakes it in light of your earlier musings about Mandalorian dating practices.

Is he trying to tell you that he’s married? Or used to be? Surely he can’t still be married, right? That would make him a mudscuffing bastard, given what’s been developing between you both. Shit, is he widowed? But he said he’d never had a serious relationship…

There’s only one question you can ask.

“Did you…?” Your voice is gentle, no hint of the anxiety within, but fortunately, you don’t even need to say the whole sentence to prompt his answer.

“No,” The helmet shakes firmly. “No, I— I always….” He grasps for the right words. “I couldn’t… adapt to that tradition. Family is an important aspect of our culture, but marriage isn’t forced or even arranged. I was one of the best fighters, so they let me focus on providing for the tribe by earning credits. We were based on Mandalore’s moon, but to avoid the Empire, many of my tribe didn’t often leave our settlement. So, it fell to me and a few others to go on supply runs and look for jobs or trade opportunities. I did some mercenary work for a while, whatever I could find to make credits while the Empire was still in power.”

Din pauses again, perhaps to give you a chance to ask about anything he’s just said. But although you have numerous questions now, they’re all very general and not specifically related to him. The new information has left you suddenly fascinated by Mandalorian culture, but the goal of this conversation is to learn about your Mandalorian in particular.

Since he hasn’t yet given you anything you can ask a direct question about, you simply offer him a nod to show you’re still listening. Hopefully, it’ll encourage him to continue. After a second, he does, though his sentences are clipped, suggesting this is history he dislikes giving voice to.

“Our caution served us well. Few escaped when the Empire destroyed Mandalore. My tribe only survived because we were cloistered on Concordia. It gave us a chance to flee the system undetected. After that, the tribe became even more secretive. We split up and formed smaller hidden coverts on different planets. My status as a provider meant I became the only one able to come and go from ours. I realised a branch of the Bounty Guild was operating nearby, so I joined to get steady work.”

He takes a breath from his lengthy yet fragmentary explanation. Then, finally, he reaches what seems to be the point of this somewhat unhappy history lesson.

“All this means that I… never had much chance to think about relationships.”

It’s then that you start to figure out the probable reason for his reticence in telling you about his past. As you suspected, he lacks experience. But it’s one thing to confirm the abstract and quite another to give specifics. He clearly hasn’t ‘dated’, which doesn’t really surprise you. But the fact that he’s specifically put the brakes on anything carnal makes you want to find out exactly what physical experience he does and doesn’t have. Knowing that will help you gauge how to approach that aspect of your relationship when it reaches that stage. But you don’t feel comfortable asking him outright.

There’s a prolonged silence between you both. Your companion shifts nervously, almost beginning to pull back his hand, but you grip him firmly, rotating the angle so your thumb can press into his bare palm soothingly.

Unable to ask him directly, you urge, “Keep going.”

And to your surprise, Din takes a deep breath and addresses the issue head-on, albeit with his visor directed at the forest floor. “I’ve had some… encounters. I’m not—” The modulator buzzes as he clears his throat, though it does nothing to hide the waver in his voice. “I’ve been with women before. But nothing— serious. I’ve never worried about bad timing or thought I should get to know someone first. It’s….” He can’t find the word, so he simply gives up and ploughs ahead. “I’m not used to feeling like this, and I don’t know the rules of this game. I already upset you because I chose to run instead of facing this, so I’ll probably end up saying or doing something else… stupid. Or offensive. Or wrong.” The black slash of the visor swings back up to your face, his voice almost hoarse through the vocoder as he repeats his words from this morning. “I don’t wanna do this the wrong way.”

Empathy floods through you, filling your every cell with understanding. On top of that sensation, both joy and disbelief fog your mind with the massive implications of what Din has just told you. You have to take a second to really think about what you’ve just learned.

You find you’re pleased that he’s not entirely without experience. Your mind flashes momentarily with the images you’ve visualised over the past few days – thoughts about engaging in all sorts of explicit acts with this man. Ideas that were once hypothetical now becoming possible, even likely.

But beyond that, you turn over his confession that he’s never had feelings like this before. That he’s never worried about how carefully he might need to navigate the emotional aspects of a burgeoning relationship.

Your Mandalorian cares about your feelings. And, you realise, you care about his.

You’re heartened and excited by the sudden certainty that this isn’t just a sexual attraction on his part. He used the word ‘serious’. Instantly, you find yourself wanting to reassure him.

“Listen to me,” you say gently. “I’m in the same position as you. I’ve had some ‘encounters’ too, and I’ve… I guess you could say ‘dated’ a few people, but nothing that could be called serious. I’ve never cared what anyone thought about me before. Never felt this kind of… interest. Attraction. Believe me, I’m just as nervous as you are about karking this up.”

Din’s body language transforms at your response. The hunched uncertainty falls from his limbs, replaced by cautious optimism as his shoulders straighten in surprise. “Yeah?” he breathes.

You nod, beaming at the positive outcome of the somewhat strained interaction, mutual feelings at last put into actual words and confessed. Then you smirk before commenting, “I guess this explains why we’re both so confused. Sudden onset of unfamiliar emotion.”

He chuckles and nods his agreement, the tension now absent from his body.

It certainly feels as if a weight has been lifted. You’ve been ruminating over what to call your feelings ever since you realised you felt something. And although you still don’t have a name to use, simply acknowledging things aloud seems to have unburdened you both. Given what he’s just revealed, it appears you’ve been equally guilty of chewing over your feelings to excess.

You would never have guessed that simple verbal acknowledgement would solve the issue. He was absolutely right when he said you needed to get to know each other better. As surprising as it is that a man so inexperienced with relationships should be the one to identify the best way to move yours forward.

The issue now is finding ways to communicate that aren’t so fraught with hesitance. Despite your caution with this particular topic, you’re generally not uncomfortable with talking. Din, however, is clearly not used to it, so he’ll probably still require plenty of encouragement.

You offer him some of that now, mixed with a dose of your favourite thing: logic.

“I get how weird this is and that it’s all happening scarily fast.” You give his hand a soothing stroke. “But… well, it seems we’re on the same page, so I say screw the ‘rules’. Going on a hunt together is clearly nothing like going on a date. So why should we judge whatever this is by the rest of the galaxy’s standards? Why don’t we worry less about the ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ ways to do this and just see what works for us?”

Din laces your fingers together again and squeezes your hand, stroking along your thumb with his. “I’d like that,” he drawls, visor directly in your eyeline so you can be sure his brown eyes are gazing right into yours through the tint.

“Me too.” You stare back at him, lost for a moment in the dancing sunspots that filter through the leaves and reflect against the beskar, giving him a sense of animation contrary to his earlier stillness.

After a comfortable silence, he straightens up. “That’s a few things I’m glad are outta the way.”

“There are more?”

Your companion stands from the log, pulling you up with him, hands remaining linked. “Later,” he promises. “We should get moving. Don’t wanna let Nantoogen get too far ahead. The signal strength shows he already has a couple hours on us, and we can’t know for sure what his plans are.”

Reaching to your side for the flask of tea you’d balanced next to you on the log earlier, you’re surprised when he takes it from you. In response to your widened eyes, he makes a circular motion with his ungloved finger, requesting you spin around and look the other way. You comply and then hear the soft hiss of the helmet’s latch and the slosh of the liquid in the metal canister.

“Didn’t you bring the straw Ari gave you?”

“Forgot,” Din says from behind you between gulps, the single word sounding somehow richer without the distortion from the modulator, albeit muffled behind the flask. If you thought his voice was delicious through the vocoder, you suspect you’ll appreciate it even more unfiltered. You wish you could hear more.

“Don’t worry, I won’t look,” you assure him. “The more I learn about your creed, the more I can respect the importance of covering your face.”

You leave the hunter to hydrate and return to the speeder, resting your shoulder bag on the seat to rearrange the contents now that it’s one cake lighter. You startle slightly when he thrusts the flask into your eye-line, having approached silently behind you. It amazes you how he can be so stealthy in such heavy armour over the forest detritus that litters the ground.

You take the flask without turning, wanting to wait for his permission to look again, nestling the canister back in your bag. A second later, his arm returns with the remains of the sweetcake. You smile as you take that too, remembering how insistent he was about equitable packing. As you slip it back in with your supplies, you feel him gently rest his large hands on your hips in an echo of where he first touched you the night you met.

“You were right,” he breathes, his voice modulated once more. Glancing down, you see he’s put his glove back on too.

“I often am,” you tease. “But about what in particular?”

“Sharing,” Din says simply, pressing his fingers lightly against your hips. Then he expands, “It’s a… more appropriate focus while I’m hunting.”

Well, you guess that means he’s on board with more conversations, then. Thank the kriffing stars. Working past his reticence before every discussion would’ve been exhausting. You accept that he’ll need continued encouragement – he’s not exactly what you’d call a natural conversationalist. But it feels as if he’s now running right beside you in the race instead of hesitating at the start. Where the finish line is, you don’t yet know, but it’s exciting nonetheless.

Humming in delight at his acceptance, you chance your luck and lean back against the cool beskar of his cuirass, feeling him strong and steadfast behind you. You’ve had your arms around his waist all morning, after all, so you invite him to do the same to you without needing the excuse of a speeder journey.

He welcomes the proximity and slips his hands farther forward, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into a tighter embrace. You can feel his body is far less stiff and cautious, having unburdened himself with today’s revelations.

Stars, how perfect will it feel when you can finally do this without his armour between you? Without his vambraces preventing you from running your hands along his bare arms? A part of you yearns for that, and it’s both thrilling and frustrating. For now, you just soak in the new and unbridled affection he’s offering and revel in the knowledge that this is only the beginning of what’s to come.

Eventually, Din withdraws, albeit reluctantly, if his huffing is anything to go by. He plucks the tracking fob from his belt. “Which way is the wreckage you mentioned?” He gestures to the half dozen potential routes.

It takes you a minute to gather your bearings, having never travelled the route by speeder before. After glancing at the suns and considering your relative position in the forest, you point to a particular path, and the hunter approaches it with the fob. The device pulses with a frequency similar to earlier. He then checks the readings from the other branching trails for comparison.

“Looks like it’s our best bet,” he confirms, returning the fob to its pouch and approaching the speeder from the far side. “It’s probably my turn to cling on to you for a while….”

“If you’re more comfortable up front, I don’t mind,” you offer, though the eagerness in his last statement tells you exactly what he’s hoping for. He clearly enjoyed having his arms around you just now. You did too, but you don’t want him to suffer. “I mean, it looked like you got sore muscles on that first night I gave you a lift, and that was only a short trip.”

As expected, the helmet shakes, and he extends his hand to help you climb on, ever the chivalrous gentleman. You oblige him with a demure dip of your chin and let him assist, despite not needing it. His attentiveness feels nice to indulge in. Unfamiliar but definitely pleasing.

“The muscle aches were because I needed to keep my hold on you... polite.” Din slips on behind you, letting the bike adjust to his weight. Then, instead of grasping you at your hips like the first time he rode behind you, he wraps his arms entirely around your waist in a repeat of his embrace just moments ago. “This okay? It’s easier to balance if I hold you this way. And I can behave.”

“Absolutely,” you laugh, less embarrassed about your earlier state of arousal thanks to his gentle ribbing. “It’s like having my own personal Mando armour.”

His helmet is so close to your ear that when he echoes your laugh with his own, you think you can hear the dulcet sound both through the vocoder and from his mouth. It gives you yet another reason to grin.

You reset your goggles and manoeuvre the bike toward the correct trail, setting off once again. And as his body tightens around yours, you’re grateful for the refreshing breeze. It’s the only thing keeping you cool as the heat from his inner thighs bracketing your own makes your body tingle in anticipation.

You make good progress for the rest of the afternoon, stopping periodically to stretch your legs and hydrate. During each break, you check the tracking fob and find the signal remains the same distance ahead. You’re pleased you’re on the right path and are evidently keeping up with the bounty, even with the rest stops that Din insists upon to guard against fatigue. You couldn’t be more grateful for his insistence; you’ve crashed a speeder bike only once in your life, and it was due to your chronic fatigue.

You don’t press him to talk any further about serious matters for now. It seems more sensible to pace the revelations and not turn every break from travelling into something that requires just as much attention.

Instead, your third rest stop includes the brief but fascinating exploration of an AT-ST Imperial Walker, rusting away in the undergrowth where it fell during the Battle of Endor. As you gleefully investigate the wrecked cabin, your Mandalorian comments that he once disabled one on a far-off planet called Sorgan. Your eager response convinces him to elaborate, and you finally get to hear him speak at length about something other than the hunt. His story is not boastful; he mostly just praises the skill of the villagers he and an ex-Rebel shock trooper trained to defend their land. But it certainly gives you even more insight into this generous man’s nature. Strong, protective, kind.

On the fourth rest stop, you discover a small stream bordered by a grove of sunberry bushes. As a resident on Endor for almost six years now, it’s your turn to talk, so you teach Din the trick of picking the ripe orange fruits without causing them to burst and stain his gloves. You both enjoy the tasty treats sitting close together on the bank of the stream, turning away only when your companion needs to slip a berry beneath his helmet. While you rest, you relay one of the many tall tales you’ve heard from your Ewok friends – how they once had to make the berries invisible with magic to hide them from creatures out to steal them. It makes you both laugh, and you find yourself glowing happily, as bright as the succulent fruits you’re enjoying together.

It’s a strangely pleasant day in the wake of your attack last night. It recharges you immeasurably to be out in the forest with someone whose company you enjoy so much, alternating between travelling in one another’s arms and resting in each other’s comfortable presence.

Eventually, as the suns begin to sink behind the treeline and cast long mahogany shadows across the trail, you bring the speeder to a stop once more. You need to discuss plans for the night, but another thought comes to mind before you can broach the topic. “I doubt Nantoogen knows these trails, and he’s alone on a speeder. How will he manage when the suns go down?”

“He’ll just make camp,” Din rationalises. He turns away to take a swig from the water flask in his own bag, trusting now that you won’t race in front of him to catch a glimpse. You avert your eyes anyway, just as you’ve been doing all day, keen to prove you respect his loyalty to his creed.

“Not if he wants to avoid the dangers of boar-wolves and gurrecks. Plus, some types of spiders here can grow up to three kriffing metres.” You direct your critical words toward the forest, accusing it of hostility. “Sleeping out in the open without equipment and someone to watch your back is not advisable. And unless he’s somehow convinced some Ewoks to join his smuggling network, he’s on his own out here. Based on how fast he bolted from the compound, I doubt he has camping equipment with him.”

Din places a hand on his hip thoughtfully. “He hasn’t avoided capture for this long without survival skills. He must have a plan.” His helmet tilts as he seeks your opinion. “What are his options?”

“Do as the Ewoks do – take to the trees.”

“Is that our plan too?” His voice is low and sceptical, bordering on sarcasm.

Laughing, you grab the flask from him and take a swig. “Not up for climbing trees, huh?”

He fidgets, and you laugh harder, making the modulator emit an irritated huff, gloved fingers curling into his palms as if he’s imagining having to grasp tree branches.

“Surely you could just use your jetpack to get up there, no?”

He doesn’t appear to realise you’re joking, shaking his helmet with vigour. “Bad idea to use it in a dry forest; could set something alight. Same with my flamethrowers.”

Wait. Flamethrowers?

Oh, but of course this beskar warrior has flamethrowers. You’re actually a little jealous.

“Relax, I’m not about to make you shimmy up a tree and spend the night in the branches. Tomorrow night won’t be a problem if we carry on making good time – we should reach Lake Sui before nightfall. There’s an Ewok village by the lake that I traded with a few times when we were salvaging out that way, and I’m pretty sure they’ll put us up tomorrow night. It’s actually Suriee’s village; it’s where I first met her. The wreckage is about half a day beyond that up in the hills. Tonight’s a little more difficult, but we still have options that aren’t tree-based.”

Din crosses his arms, moody from his assumption of camping difficulties. But you can hear his hope for an easy solution as he queries, “Such as?”

“These trails have been here for hundreds of years – herd animals created them, so they were ideal routes to hunt along. The Ewoks built hunting hides to conceal themselves while they lay in wait. If we can find one, it’ll give us shelter for the night. It might be a bit cramped, but it’s safer than being out in the open.”

It’s a method you’ve used a few times when travelling to the more distant salvage sites. However, your experience tells you that ‘cramped’ doesn’t even begin to describe the reality of you and your broad-shouldered, fully armoured Mandalorian squeezing into a structure meant for Ewoks half his height.

Fortunately, your companion seems satisfied with the plan. He glances up at the suns as one chases the other ever closer to the horizon, painting the sky in their wake as a fiery canvas of pink clouds over a blood-red background. “How do we identify a hunting hide?”

Okay, that’s too many questions. He’s been seeking your opinion on everything since you stopped. What’s up with him?

But reflecting on it for a moment allows understanding to arrive in your brain. You recall your disappointment this morning when you realised you’d made a mistake by saying the target’s name aloud in the mess hall. Given his bounty-hunting experience, he’s probably fully aware of what to look for. However, he’s choosing to hand you the reins on any part of the hunt he thinks you can contribute to – no doubt so you can regain your confidence.

Kriff, that’s unexpectedly sweet.

Appreciation bubbling up inside you, you answer his question in a tone that shows you’re aware of his game, but you’re grateful nonetheless. “Ewoks weave flexible branches into a half dome against the base of a giant redwood, then cover it with foliage. We need to look for a massive tree with a large and suspiciously round bush growing against it.”

“Got it.” Din continues to play along and accepts your instructions as well as the flask you hold out, and you punctuate your offerings with a knowing smile.

Then, in the crimson glow of the setting suns, the two of you re-mount the speeder and set off at a crawling pace, his visor and your goggles both searching for shelter for the night ahead.

Chapter Text

After agreeing to each observe one side of the trail for signs of a hide, progress is slow for the next ten minutes or so. Finally, Din draws your attention to the right, and you bring the bike to a stop as he indicates a particular area of undergrowth. For a second, you think he’s just pointing out the bioluminescent insects flitting through the foliage… until you focus beyond them.

A construction similar to what you described earlier juts out from the base of a giant redwood several metres off the main path. It’s well-disguised and covered by living vines, and if you hadn’t known what to look for, you wouldn’t have spotted it.

“Good timing, the light’s almost gone.” The relief in your statement is palpable, and your hunting partner echoes it with a grunt as you both dismount. He then pushes the bike through the foliage, concealing it from view behind the colossal tree.

As he stashes the speeder, you examine the hide. The glowing insects depart en masse as you gently agitate the leaves and vines to identify the entrance, and you eventually locate it on the right side near the trunk. Lifting aside the woven branch panel concealing it, you crouch down to get a better look inside.

Yup, cramped as expected. It’s built for Ewoks and barely exceeds a metre in height at the half-dome’s apex. But as you shuffle into the gloomy interior, you’re pleased to find just enough space for you and your broad-shouldered warrior to rest here for the night.

Of course, you’ll have to cosy up close together, but the thought sends a tiny thrill vibrating through your body. Even though you have to hold off on anything overtly sexual for now, you hope an affectionate night in his arms won’t be too distracting. You’ve already slept next to him, and physical contact clearly isn’t prohibited as long as it’s the innocent type. Hopefully, this is a chance to get closer physically, as well as perhaps discover more about your Mandalorian’s personality and background.

The darkness inside the hide gets even darker as Din approaches the entrance and blocks the last of the weak rays of sunlight. You’re about to admonish him when he activates a small lamp that he’s mounted on the side of his helmet, briefly blinding you.

“Sorry,” he mutters as you squeak and cover your eyes from the glare, realigning the lamp away from you. He is careful with the angle of the beam as he checks out your lodgings for the night.

Overall, it’s not too bad for anyone camping without equipment. The Ewok builders of this particular hide were clearly skilled, and the woven structure is a masterful example of durability. There are barely any gaps between the thin and flexible branches staked solidly into the ground to prevent smaller critters from entering from below, and the top edges are flush with the trunk. Vines, grasses and plants have been tied to the boughs and encouraged to grow over it, concealing it well and creating a space wholly enclosed from the outside. The enormous tree is so vast that the wall it provides is pretty much flat on the vertical plane from left to right, its bark rubbed smooth. At its widest part, the radius of the semicircular structure is roughly a metre plus spare to match the height. Thankfully, that’s sufficient space for you both to rest in relative comfort, leaning against the gentle upward curve of the tree with your legs outstretched. As is usual for an Ewok hunting hide, the last occupants cleared the floor after use, leaving dry and solidly packed soil between the large roots that cradle the half-dome’s edges. All you need is something soft beneath you.

“Looks decent,” you comment. “You okay with this?”

The helmet cocks, deadpan. “Compared to some places I’ve slept, this is luxury.”

“Good,” you grin. “Ewoks use savanna grass and tree palm leaves to soften the ground, and it’s traditional to clear it out when you’re done. We’d better get moving if we want to make it comfortable. We’ve got maybe ten minutes before we lose the last of the sunlight.”

Din seems to possess sufficient botanical knowledge to identify the two plants you mentioned. He makes haste in uprooting large fistfuls of savanna grass from where it grows under gaps in the canopy and passing them to you. Then he strips a nearby tree palm of the lower section of its sizeable fronds, leaving the upper half to continue growing. Clearly, he’s familiar with this sort of ecosystem, and you make a note to ask him about his survival skills and expertise.

Creating a soft place to rest requires plenty of shuffling on your knees, but it’s easier with his help. Soon, you’ve spread out a thick layer of cushiony grass, covered it with broad leaves, and then topped off the makeshift mattress with your waterproof travel blanket. Your companion passes you his jetpack and your lyaer’tsa, and you set them at the edges to weigh down the blanket and keep it flat. The weapon barely fits in the small space, and you have to angle its blade into the soil to prevent any accidents.

As the last of the light fades, he uses the remaining tree palm leaves to further disguise the speeder in the undergrowth, then joins you in the practically pitch-black shelter. You’ve removed the small panel at the front that serves as a hunting window, hoping it will allow the faint light from the blue gas giant in the sky above to filter through. However, it barely helps due to the thick vines that curtain the opening to conceal the hunters. You can only see the faintest outline of Din on his knees as he pulls closed the door panel behind him.

“Well, we can’t light a fire. And your helmet lamp is so bright that it’d practically be like saying ‘Hey predators, we’re over here!’, even if you detached it,” you grumble. “If I accidentally whack you, I swear it’s not on purpose. Lack of sight, lack of coordination.” You ignore the balancing bubble of excitement that swells in your chest at being alone in such a small space together in the dark.

He gives a low chuckle. “If you hit my beskar, it’ll hurt you more than me.”

You hear him begin to fumble with something. His… belt? Is he taking off his armour? And his… clothes? Is there even room in here to undress? Surely, removing any layers would be too distracting on a hunt, though. He insisted such distractions need to be avoided….

Suddenly, you’re recalling those dangerous thoughts from the first leg of your speeder ride. The fantasies that left you all worked up and led to him imposing certain boundaries. He wouldn’t be testing those boundaries now… not after being so adamant about respecting them… would he?

Then there’s a crack as something snaps close by in the small space, startling you a little. Slowly, the hide fills with a subdued yellow glow, scattering your nerves and naughty thoughts along with the shadows. Well okay. Din remains fully clothed and armoured, but he now holds a glowrod. Perhaps you got a little carried away with your fantasies there.

He winds a large blade of grass around the glowing tube, diffusing the light and giving it a greenish hue, then wedges it between the woven branches above you. Then he falls back on his heels, fixing his visor on you with that aura of innocent pride you’ve become acquainted with, awaiting your approval.

You’ve already learned not to fall for the innocence he exudes. This hunter can pretend all he wants to have used his smarts to find a novel solution, but you’re beginning to realise he’s incredibly well-versed in multiple areas of survival. He’s probably done this thousands of times, but he’s clearly keen to impress you. The pride is perfectly valid, though, and he tempers it with that air of innocence, resulting in an irresistible boyish charm. Even through the barrier of his helmet, you find it cute.

So you play along and let him believe he’s wowed you, which isn’t really a lie since this is a much better option than his helmet lamp. Staring back at him with raised eyebrows, you curve your lips into an admiring smile, following it up with a grateful chin dip.

You get the feeling he’s pleased by your reaction, though he simply shrugs as if he didn’t just bring light to the blackness of the night. “This’ll last a couple hours. Should look like bioluminescence from outside. There are plants here that glow, right?”

“Yeah, aura blossoms. They’re bluer than this, though, and not as bright. But from out there, it probably looks like those glowing insects we saw earlier have colonised this ‘bush’. Ewoks believe they’re sentient… maybe we stole their shelter for the night,” you smirk sceptically. “But either way, it should work perfectly.”

He’s radiating satisfaction now, and it puts you at ease too. You grin at him, relaxed enough to say what’s on your mind.

“You’ve got a lot of experience out in the wild, huh? Is that a Mandalorian thing or a bounty hunter thing?”

Din grabs your pack and shifts his back against the tree, and you settle down next to him as he starts rummaging through it. “Both. The former trained me; the latter gave me the experience. As did the freelance jobs I did before I joined the Guild. I’ve been hunting for many years – tracked targets and bounties in many different environments. I picked up a few tricks.”

“You’ve been all over the galaxy?”

“Name a sector,” he challenges, a playfulness in his voice behind the modulator. He abandons digging through your bag in favour of a wager and a further chance to impress you with how well-travelled he is. “I bet you I’ve been to at least one planet in one of the systems there.”

You hum in delight, and the sound transmutes into something resembling curious mischief. “What do I get if I win the bet? If I can name one you haven’t been to?”

The helmet turns to face you along his pauldron, visor fixing you with its cold stare. But his confident response warms you to your core. “My arms around you while you sleep tonight.”

Kriff. It seems he’s been having the same thoughts as you about getting closer tonight. Sure, you enjoyed last night’s ‘proximity only’ sleeping position and the thrill of waking up to entwined fingers and hair stroking (as innocent as it was). But the idea of snuggling right up against him with his arms holding you close? That makes the cramped Ewok hide feel like the most luxuriously blissful sleeping place imaginable.

You beam at him and try your hardest to recall sectors far from the main hyperspace routes. “Kastolar sector?”

He chuckles. “Starting Mid Rim, huh? I had to visit Durkteel hunting a Trandoshan who thought he could lie low among his Saurin cousins. Didn’t turn out well for him. They’ve evolved far enough from their common ancestor that he stuck out like a Wookiee among Ewoks.” As you echo his chuckle, he prompts, “Try again,” clearly enjoying this game.

“Okay,” you rack your brain, grasping at your limited knowledge of the galaxy’s political divisions. “But I think I should point out that as an Inner Rim girl without a formal education, there’s a limit to the number of sectors I can name.” Your flippancy makes Din’s shoulders and chest move in a silent laugh. “I know there are hundreds, and you can’t have been to them all. So this game really comes down to whether I can remember stuff I overheard as a kid. It’s not the best way to get me into your arms, you know.”

“Try harder for me.”

Stars. His low vocal pitch and the personalisation of his command make you instantly acquiesce. You perform a frantic sift of your memory to recall Outer Rim locations. “Sujimis sector?”

That makes him shift uncomfortably, and you think you’ve caught him until he reveals, “Been to Pantora and Alzoc III. Neither was nice.” He doesn’t elaborate, and his somewhat bitter tone convinces you not to inquire further.

“Err… okay.” Since your mind has gone blank, you chance a joke to buy time. “Well, I guess we can rule out whatever sector Mandalore is in.”

The helmet bobs, but he tells you, “That would be the Mandalore sector, which contains a dozen systems and hundreds of planets. Why do you think your Volpai friend was surprised when you said you’d never heard of a Mandalorian? A civilisation that’s existed for thousands of years – we’re kind of a big deal in the Outer Rim,” the warrior boasts. Then his mirth sobers. “At least, we were before the surviving clans ended up scattered across the galaxy in hiding. It’s partly why the Empire wanted us outta the way.”

“Sorry…” You bite your lip, not knowing whether you’re apologising for bringing it up or for the atrocities his people had to endure. “No formal education, remember? I’ve done dozens of apprenticeships, but they were mostly practical skills – mechanics, engineering, hypernautics, some basic programming. I had lessons in logical reasoning, but nobody taught me any history or astrography. If a planet wasn’t on the Partisans’ radar or actively fighting the Empire in the last decade, I probably haven’t heard of it. And if your people have been hiding for much of my adult life, I wouldn’t have met any on Onderon. Everything else I learned from books. I’ve read a lot of stuff – I love learning from books – but I never read anything on species and cultures in the galaxy. It was just a bunch of science and tech, plus a shitload of fiction. That leaves campfire stories and legends, but I rarely recall the names of whatever people and planets I heard about in those. I remembered the word ‘beskar’, but not the name of the people who wear it.”

Din hums amicably and dismisses your apology with a gentle shake of his helmet, then instructs you to try again.

Suddenly, a childhood memory creeps up on you. Your grandfather’s croaky voice echoes in your mind, helping you pronounce the longest word you’d seen written down when you’d asked where your parents had gone this time. “The Illisurevimurasi sector!” you exclaim, gleefully triumphant.

There’s a beat before he responds, “Now I feel bad telling you I’ve been to Mirial.”

“Argh,” you grouse, frustrated yet unable to give up the possibility of cuddling up to your companion. You just need to remember more remote system names.

“It might help you to know Mandalore is in the Outer Rim, so I grew up there. And bounties tend to hole up on the quieter planets near the far edge, so I’ve been to many of those sectors. Try going Coreward instead. Nearer your own galactic neighbourhood.”

“Oh, that’s much easier. I heard the names of most of the nearby sectors from traders who came through Iziz.” You’re overjoyed that he’s helping you. He clearly wants you in his arms tonight too.

It takes a minute, but you think you finally have it. A sector near your own that contains only one system with a single habitable world… and it exports little other than insecticides. Why would a bounty go there?

With a mix of confidence and reticence, you offer, “Eislomi sector?”

“Well done,” Din praises, sounding genuinely pleased. As you grin at him, he reaches for your shoulder bag and extracts the almost empty flask of tea. Then he circles his finger at you, requesting that you turn away so he can drink.

You spin to face the other side of the hide, and as you listen to him unseal and tip up his helmet, a question pops into your mind. “Given how well-travelled you are, can I assume you’ve been to Onderon?”

After taking a few gulps and resetting the beskar, he taps your arm to indicate you can turn around, handing you the flask. “Several times, mostly Iziz. Although for my first job there, I spent a week in the Highlands tracking an Abednedo arms dealer who’d failed to pay his investors their due profits.”

You almost choke on the tea as you hear his words mid-swig. “Seriously? I’m from the Highlands! I spent my childhood there! How long ago was this?”

He hums as if calculating. “Must be about… sixteen, maybe seventeen years or so.”

“Kriff, we lived out there until my parents left the Partisans. The altitude means it’s the only place outside the walled cities where you don’t risk getting eaten by a hragscythe. Sixteen or seventeen years ago, I’d just entered my teens and was fixing broken tech for fun. There were a few other kids in the camp, but the only girl I was friends with was three years older than me, and she was going on missions by then. So I mostly just made a nuisance of myself while I got gradually angrier at my parents not being around.”

Din’s grunt of agreement suggests he relates to your story somehow, and he generously provides context. “I was an angry hothead running with the wrong kind of people, just to make enough credits to provide for those who rescued me.” He discloses it casually, but you hear the element of self-reproach in his tone, similar to when you mentioned the Sujimis sector earlier.

You look at him sharply. “Wow, was that voluntarily revealed information about your past?” Your shock is only partly for show.

He gives a one-shouldered shrug as he returns to digging in your pack, but his uncertainty makes it through the modulator. “You said sharing is good.” He produces and offers two ration bars along with his justification.

Beaming at his efforts to open up, you accept a portion of the tasteless protein and turn away again so he can eat his own share. You munch through the meagre dinner in comfortable silence, listening to the munyips beginning their nightly chorus. After a while, you feel him tap your arm when it’s safe to turn around again. Still without saying a word, you both lean back against the tree, your shoulder and his pauldron gently pressed together now.

Although you’ve satisfied your gut, you remain hungry for more details about him. You crave them. The silence is easy and agreeable, but it doesn’t seem sacred, so you cautiously inquire, “Can I ask you more questions, Din?”

“Sure,” he affirms lightly. “You don’t have to ask for my permission anymore. You understand why I was cautious about answering initially, right?”

“We’d only just met. We weren’t friends then.”

“Yes, but also for my safety. I have to ensure no information about me falls into the hands of enemies, and anyone can turn out to be an enemy. I shouldn’t have ignored the risks, but I liked you. That’s why I answered. But… where we are now… whatever we’re calling this…” Din gestures between you both and sighs. “I want you to ask.” He reaches over and lifts your hand into his lap, resting it palm-down on his cuisse and covering it with his gloved one from above.

Leaning closer to him to adjust to the new angle, you speak without much thought. “You liked me even though I almost ran you over and then yelled at you when we met? What’s wrong with you?”

“That’s the question you’re going with…?” he deadpans, making you snicker. His sense of humour borders on the sarcastic, and you love it.

But before you can respond, your Mandalorian surprises you with a valiant attempt to answer you anyway. He chooses a stream-of-consciousness approach, not unlike how you speak to him when you’re unsure how to vocalise a specific topic. It’s actually what you asked him to do during your sharing session earlier, except now he doesn’t meander around topics or agonise over his word choices. He just… says what he’s thinking.

“I should’ve moved aside when I heard your speeder. But I’d been walking for around twelve hours, and it didn’t occur to me that there wasn’t enough space for you to pass by. I held you up, refused to talk to you, almost pulled my blaster on you, yelled back at you… and despite that, you gave me a ride, got me a pass, and offered your help with the bounty. And the next night, you bought me dinner and still wanted to help. And… you never seemed scared of me, even when I actively tried to intimidate you. Flustered, maybe, but never scared. Only very brave or very foolish people aren’t scared by a Mandalorian bounty hunter in full beskar, and it didn’t take me long to figure out how smart you are. Your arguments about identity – I’ve struggled with those concepts over the years, but you saw all the issues instantly and said things aloud that I’d only ever thought about. So, of course I liked you. You impressed me. You intrigued me. You still do.”

Din’s praise sets off a chain reaction inside you. An unfamiliar feeling blooms within your chest and travels up your spine to flood your brain with serotonin. The corners of your eyes fill with joyous tears that you blink back as you try to swallow the lump in your throat. How can he so effortlessly make your body misbehave in this way? If he’s not making your skin tingle, he’s making your heart thump.

It’s borderline funny that he’s so reticent to converse. When he sets aside his nerves and gets going, he’s pretty damn good at it.

You free your thumb from beneath his large palm and lift it to caress his glove. Then, in a single sentence, you continue his story and sum up the short-term madness and denial you both suffered through when you started feeling things. “And then I overstepped and stroked your hand, and you ran away.”

He exhales heavily, and you can tell it’s in regret. “You didn’t overstep. I— I overreacted.” Before he continues, he lifts his hand from yours on his thigh, removes his right glove, and returns to make a warmer connection atop the cool beskar. “I’ve taken my gloves off with others, but not in situations where they could see my skin or— or touch me in return. I wasn’t ready for that kind of… intimacy. But it was more than just finding what you did….” He trails off, searching for the correct word, then rasps, “…erotic.”

It sounds awkward and foreign in his mouth – the first time either of you has mentioned your mutual sexual attraction aloud without using euphemisms. You hadn’t realised your touches had actually turned him on in addition to overwhelming him emotionally. Although, it makes sense if his gloves have only ever come off around others for carnal exploits in the past. But before you can analyse it further, he clears his throat and focuses on his main point.

“The one thing about the Creed I struggled with for a long time was the lack of… soft touch. One minute, I was a kid with loving parents. Then suddenly, I was living with people who wore armour, never showed their faces, wanted me to learn how to fight.”

Din pauses, so you flip over your hand and lace your bare fingers together, providing soft touch in the only location you can access. He welcomes the warm contact that overwhelmed him the first time, giving a gentle squeeze of gratitude.

When he begins again, his voice is unsteady. “I was glad they took me in. They gave me plenty of support and encouragement, but it was slaps on the back, punches on the arm. For years, I felt… a little lost without a closer physical bond.”

“I can understand that,” you whisper. “After my parents were killed, I wondered if I’d ever feel close to anyone again. Especially because it took us so long to build a good relationship.”

As the words leave your lips, you realise this is the first time you’ve confirmed that they died. You’d decided against revealing the fact outside the mess hall this morning, and had only vaguely mentioned you’d ‘lost’ them when he was caring for you after your attack. The disclosure of your most painful memory now seems effortless after spending a single day in the forest with him becoming progressively closer.

“No other family?” With a rare personal question, your companion deftly diverts the conversational focus to you, clearly needing a moment as listener instead of speaker, yet carefully avoiding dwelling on the fact that you, like he, lost your parents. He must be very uncomfortable if he’s posing a question for once. Even so, he still phrased it as a statement; he just finally voiced a question mark.

Given his direct curiosity is so scarce, you have to answer, of course. So you reward him with a full and frank response.

“My grandfather looked after me when I was a kid, but he died when I was ten. He was the only other family I remember. My mother was from Taanab; I never met my maternal grandparents, but what little she spoke of them was in the past tense. Not long after we left the Highlands, the cell relocated, so anyone else who’d looked after me moved off-world. But my happiest memories are from my late teens in Iziz after I finally settled there – apprenticing in different roles, learning to fight in the courtyard, getting closer to my parents. I finally stopped feeling like the useless kid always in the way.”

You sigh wistfully, and Din wisely doesn’t interrupt your thoughts, giving you ample leeway to decide how to speak them.

“I know they cared about me when I was younger. Why else would they convince my grandfather to move to the camp and look after me there, instead of just shipping me off to live with him? I think they just had no idea how to raise a child alongside being insurgents. Maybe they thought ignoring me was protecting me. So, our relationship got better as I got older. Before they decided to train me, we didn’t have much in common. But then the missions stopped, and they finally had a good reason to share that part of their lives with me. When protecting me meant showing me how to fight instead of hiding me from it. And we had… time together. Until we didn’t anymore.”

You wonder if he’ll ask. You don’t need him to, but your last statement was an unmistakable invitation, so you pause to see if he’ll voice the question.

And surprisingly, he does. As an actual question this time too. The second personal thing he’s asked you in the space of a few minutes. Simply, directly, yet ever so tenderly. “How did they die?”

“They were in Jedha City.”

You hear the quiet modulated hitch in his exhale as his breath catches at the revelation. He knows what you mean, of course. Everyone knows what happened there.

Din’s tone is gentle, a soothing balm for the heartache. “I’m sorry.” He tightens his grip on your hand, and it feels as if he’s pouring his empathy into you.

You swallow nervously and dismiss the urge to say nothing more, inexplicably wanting to give him a fuller picture. It’s an odd sensation, revisiting heartache that you’ve avoided dwelling on for so long yet finding an unexpected peace in sharing it with the only living soul you’ve ever met who seems like they might understand.

“I’m sketchy on the details, but… it was a Partisan mission. I know they made a deal so we could use the safehouse, but it was just passing intel from the city. When they left for Jedha, it was their first time going off-world since they broke away from the faction, so I figured it must be for something important. I was twenty and considering joining the Rebellion, but my parents wouldn’t let me. They taught me to defend myself but told me never to run toward violence. Then they ran right into it themselves.”

The hunter nods as if that means something to him.

“I don’t know exactly why they went, and I guess I never will, but after that, I wanted nothing to do with the Empire or the Rebellion. I was just angry with the entire galaxy. I wanted to escape my grief, so in the end, I left Iziz and moved to Kayuin – a small town on the other side of the planet where my grandfather grew up. But I took my anger with me. I found a job at a tech reclamation factory; it was far enough from Iziz to remain neutral. We stripped the tech from the wrecks brought in by contractors on both sides, then sold the empty shells to the local chop fields. It’s where I learned my salvaging techniques.”

You pause to wet your lips and take a breath. Here’s where you let your life crumble even further. But he doesn’t need the details.

“Then at night, I would do my training drills, then go to a bar and get drunk, which of course led to fights. Adrenaline and alcohol are not a good mix for someone so angry. I suppose that was my own version of running toward violence. But after the Battle of Endor, I wanted to do something to… honour my parents, I think, since I couldn’t bury them. The first Death Star took them from me, so I decided to ransack the wreckage of the second one, claim any weapons I found as my own, and send anything useful to be re-purposed for the Alderaan Flotilla. So I gave up my anger – gave up drinking and cursing and fighting – and I came here and befriended some Ewoks.”

Din is silent for a moment, digesting the conclusion of your story. Then, in a soothing, low tone, he offers, “I’m sorry you had to go through that. I’m… glad you survived it and made it here.”

It’s the most perfectly succinct sympathy you’ve ever received. Coupled with the feel of his bare palm against yours, you feel as if his touch and words contain the combined energy of all the stars in the galaxy, and it infuses you with unfamiliar yet infinite hope.

Hope... that’s what you sought when you moved here. Little did you know you’d have to wait six years and then endure an assault to find it. To find him. And consequently, yourself.

You look up at his helmet, the beskar tinted chartreuse beneath the dim light of the glowrod. “Only through hardship can one find one’s true self.”

He hums in agreement and tilts the visor toward you, and you feel his eyes on you even though you can’t see them behind the darkened transparisteel. “Who taught you that?”

“My mother. She used to say it before they went on missions – when I would beg them not to leave. It was a good lesson, I think; one of the few I got from her as a younger kid. And she taught me this.” You gently press your thumb into the soft centre of his palm again. “I was a nervous child. Growing up around freedom fighters, seeing the aftermath of battles and getting no answers when I asked why people I knew were bleeding… it’ll have that effect. So she used to calm me with this. It links to the solar plexus, makes you release tension from there, so it calms the whole body.”

“I didn’t know about this before you showed me. It’s… good to know,” Din adds quietly.

You agree and continue to massage his pressure point, and he inhales and exhales heavily. You can tell he’s working up the courage to match your raw disclosure with some of his own, so you stay silent and offer him your patience. This isn’t something he’s nervous about your reaction to; you’ve gone first with the vulnerability this time, and you’ve suffered the same sort of loss, so you can empathise. Nonetheless, it’s challenging for him to put it into more detailed words than he already has because of its vast impact on his life.

After several more deep breaths, he continues what he started speaking about earlier, helmet seemingly heavier than usual as it pulls his gaze downward, staring at the circles your thumb traces in his warm palm. “I had just turned ten when battle droids killed my parents. Separatists attacked our town, and the droids just… fucking slaughtered everyone.”

You’ve never heard him curse so savagely before. Still, the language seems justified for such a harrowing confession, and you conceal your surprise with a quick blink of your eyelashes.

He’s breathing slightly heavier; this subject is clearly painful. You suddenly realise that he might never have spoken these details aloud before. Would the Mandalorians who rescued him have made a ten-year-old kid talk it through? Doubtful if they were present for the carnage and saw his trauma unfolding with their own eyes. Slowly, you move the large hand you’re massaging into your lap, hoping to give him a greater sense of support and connection with you.

When Din continues, it’s with an odd tone, somewhat flat and detached. He must be fighting to keep the emotion from his voice. Through the vocoder, it sounds almost droid-like, a most unsettling resemblance given this particular topic.

“I remember my father carrying me, running outside, seeing the droids shooting the townsfolk – people I knew. My parents ran, but there were so many… too many. So they hid me in a storage cellar.” He pauses to swallow, clearly struggling to keep the memory from consuming him. “I… knew they were gonna die when they told me they loved me. I saw the droids killing our neighbours as we ran, so when my mother said that—” His voice cracks and he’s forced to swallow the anguish that threatens to escape, urgently seeking unwavering words to describe his emotional turmoil.

Outside, the sounds of the forest seem suddenly muted when a munyip’s mournful song ends and nothing else takes its place. But your Mandalorian continues to bravely fill the silence, forcing the steeliness to return to his tone.

“They closed the cellar doors, so I didn’t see it happen, but I felt the blast. The battle droid found me, and it was gonna shoot me too, and I— shit, I knew I was about to die.” He sounds closer to angry now, but that emotion vanishes when he speaks again. “Then the Mandalorians arrived. They rescued me and trained me. Gave me a home, a creed, something to live for.”

You sense he’s finished the story, but you wait a few moments before you react. He’s still staring at your joined hands, but you suspect his mind’s eye is recalling far more harrowing images. A twitch of his fingers tells you when he’s returned from his memories.

“You were so young,” you murmur. “I’m so sorry they were taken from you.”

Din looks up at you then. Just stares. The motionless visor fixed on you now is so different from how it was when you first met. Intimidating back then; now, just an echo of a boy who saw things no child ever should. So you return his stare, your eyes open and honest, full of warm affection for this boy who hid his grief behind armour and became a warrior.

And you know what he wants. What he desperately craves. What he won’t ask for.

Soft touch.

You pull up your legs and shuffle around until you’re facing him, releasing his hand and using both arms to draw him toward you. And as you embrace him, he sinks into you with all the inevitability of time’s forward motion, of erosion, of ageing, of the expansion of the universe – as if he’s been waiting for this moment ever since his loss. He wraps his arms around you and inhales you through his helmet’s filter, resting the beskar gently on your shoulder, boneless like you were against him last night. Only now, the comfort is meant for him too.

Has he ever had the chance to grieve in someone’s arms before?

This wordless exchange is unlike anything you’ve experienced. Din’s need for connection doesn’t feel like a weakness. Instead, it carries a sense of purpose, of strength. An absolute certainty. Giving each other access to the rawest parts of yourselves feels like fortifying a powerful force inside, letting your energies combine to spark an impenetrable shield around you. The galaxy can send its mightiest agents against you, but together, you’ll overcome any threat.

You try to dig into his cloak to soothe him, but the material is too thick. So you slowly walk your fingers closer to his neck, gently pushing past the bulk of the cloak. You realise it’s risky, but he doesn’t stop you. He seems to understand you’re not angling to remove his helmet, that you’re simply seeking skin-to-skin contact. Your risk pays off when you reach the fabric of his flight suit at his neck, and he tilts his head to expose it further. He wants the same.

Still, you’re hesitant, not wanting to overwhelm him, just stroking him through the material. Until he draws a hand away from your back and slides it along your arm to cup your elbow, the motion slow and smooth. Then, with a slight flex of his fingers, he urges you to continue your quest.

Permission granted, you slowly ascend his high collar until you reach the top, now partially beneath the beskar. Then you press past the fabric and brush your fingers against his neck, just beneath and behind his ear.

The sound Din makes is beautiful. Not a moan, not a sigh, not a growl. Nothing sexual in the slightest, nor vulnerable. It’s indescribable in your limited experience with this sort of intimacy, but you wonder if this is what contentment sounds like, modulated though it is by the vocoder.

You graze your fingers lightly against his skin a few more times before gently increasing the pressure and reverently stroking the small patch of his neck you’ve gained access to. His body heat permeates through the featherlight connection, the warmth infusing your entire being with a calm joy. And that feeling only increases when you slide fractionally higher, and soft curls of his hair tickle your fingertips.

It’s a while before either of you move, save for your gentle stroking and the rise and fall of your chests, breathing synced as one. Din moves first, slowly lifting his helmet from your shoulder to give you ample time to extract your fingers. As you withdraw, you take care to straighten up the fabric you pulled down so he doesn’t feel too exposed.

He raises his ungloved hand to brush back your hair from your face and rests his warm palm against your cheek, darkened visor aligned with your eyes. You realise he’s thanking you for giving him what was probably his first genuine experience of soft touch since he lost his family. So you offer a subtle nod, replying in helmetese, wordlessly telling him he’s welcome. And he smiles. You can tell.

You separate naturally, no desperate need to maintain direct contact now that you’ve bared your souls to one another. The connection between you is unbroken by the lack of touch.

It’s so strange yet so normal. Almost as if you’ve formalised the relationship in some way. Is that what this is now? An actual real relationship? Is he your… boyfriend? It doesn’t sound correct, but you haven’t reached the stage of being lovers, and no other word comes to mind. Perhaps there’s no need for a label. But whatever the status is, officially or otherwise, your feelings are certainly evolving faster than you could ever have imagined. Into what, you’re still not sure, but it’s becoming… meaningful.

You sit cross-legged with your back toward the dome of the hide, having shuffled away until you’re level with his knees, now facing him instead of how you started side-by-side. Your companion reaches for the flask of tea, and you begin to shift around for his privacy, but he stops you with a touch to your bent knee. “Just close your eyes. I trust you.”

As you seal your eyes as tight as possible, you’re confident that as much as you wish you could see him, you will never betray his trust.

Once you’ve both quenched your thirst with the last of the tea, the two of you sit in relaxed silence for a few minutes, just drinking in the sight of one other. After a while, your serotonin levels return to normal, and your brain starts constructing more questions to ask. But given the close connection you just forged, you’re suddenly wondering things that are a whole lot more intimate in nature.

Is now an appropriate moment for such queries? Probably not. You just exchanged a lot of information and feelings, so perhaps you should draw the line here for one night.

“I can practically hear you thinking over there,” Din admonishes lightly, amused and clearly curious.

Caught out by him, you shuffle forward a little, stretching your neck and shoulders from your hunched position by the curve of the hide, in closer proximity once more. Then you bite your bottom lip and sheepishly apologise. “Sorry. My brain keeps coming up with more and more things to ask you, but I think we’ve probably shared enough for today. All the heavy stuff.”

“Some of it,” he corrects, somewhat regretfully. So there’s more. What else could he possibly need to tell you? Although you suppose he hasn’t really talked much about his creed yet. Does that count as ‘heavy’?

Keen to avoid any undue pressure, you assure him, “I’m in no hurry. I want you to share at your own pace.”

“I’ll tell you more tomorrow,” he promises. “We have at least another day of travelling, so plenty of time.”

“Just to reassure you, everything you’ve told me so far has only made me like you more. So there’s nothing to worry about.” You pat his thigh stretched out next to you, careful to only touch the beskar and not the flight suit beneath.

The hunter scoffs lightly as if you were joking, but you need him to understand it’s the truth. So you curl your fingers under the edge of his cuisse, just as you did after your attack last night, brushing against his thigh for a moment before returning to safety. The more direct touch prompts him to accept your assertion, and he concedes with a nod, seemingly grateful.

Then, unexpectedly, he admits, “I do wanna know what you were just wondering about, though.”

Ah. You didn’t expect him to call you on your thoughts. “What if it’s a question you’d rather not answer right now?” you worry aloud, playing for time while you mentally identify the least invasive item on your list. “I promised I wouldn’t push. You get all quiet and intimidatey when you don’t want to answer questions.”

And apparently, you forget how to pronounce words when you’re nervous. Kark, that’s embarrassing.

Din laughs, rich and sonorous even through the modulator, though it’s not at your expense. “I’ve never been called ‘intimidatey’ before. Had ‘intimidating’ a few times, but this is new.” As you poke out your tongue at him, he reassures you, “I promise I won’t do the ‘silent and scary bringer of death’ thing.”

You’re surprised he remembers your description of him from that initial evening of interrogation. Did he analyse those interactions in his head just as thoroughly as you did?

He continues, “I think we’re at a place where I can tell you it’s a topic for another day without staring you down first. I wouldn’t do that to you now.”

“Okay,” you concede soberly, as one particular question repeatedly leaps ahead of the rest in your brain. Perhaps a caveat will help. “I’m not expecting you to answer, though. It’s… personal.”

That doesn’t seem to bother him, and he insists, “Go ahead.”

Should you? You fill your lungs with forest air, unsure if it’s appropriate to ask this. But now that he’s directly requested you speak your question, you suppose you can’t avoid it.

You remove your hand from his leg. Although you can’t give him space in the cramped structure, if he wants to withdraw rather than answer, this will make it easier. You force out the query but can’t conceal the nervous waver in your words as you twist your fingers together. “You said you’ve been with women… but if you don’t take your helmet off, h-have you ever… kissed anyone?”

You carefully watch for Din’s reaction but notice nothing in particular. He doesn’t freeze, but he doesn’t flinch or otherwise shy away. Perhaps he was expecting this sort of inquiry. And it doesn’t take him long to reply, his tone gracious yet otherwise as reserved as his body language. “I haven’t.”

You’re not surprised at all, and you’re able to keep your body language just as subdued as his. His experience of intimacy seems to be an odd mix of extremes; you suspected it might not include kissing. And if you’re honest, it’s probably not something you’ll get to do with him either, as much as you’d like to. You’re unaware of the helmet rule’s scope, but you’d rather not let yourself imagine there could be workarounds or exceptions that would allow it. It’s better to not get your hopes up.

You offer him a slight nod and a restrained half smile – gratitude for answering honestly and reassurance that there’s no judgment from you about his response.

Until he speaks six clearly articulated words that utterly blindside you.

“But I want to kiss you.”

Holy shit.

Your eyes widen a little, and you simply stare at him as legions of thoughts and emotions swarm through your mind. Shock, happiness, disbelief, arousal, nervousness – the initial reactions are raw, yet they rapidly morph into more complex assessments and considerations. Can he? Will he? How? When? He sounded earnest; was he expressing a wish or an intention? Is this hypothetical or something to work toward? He gave you nothing with his tone… you need to find out more.

Din seems to understand it’s a surprise for you to hear, and he patiently waits for you to find your voice. By the time you finally regain it, you’ve come up with a suitable response free of the excessive cogitations you’ve just worked through.

“I want that too, but I didn’t want to assume it would be possible… or suggest anything that might conflict with your creed.” You’re careful to word your reply as openly as possible, still unsure if he’s simply wishing out loud for an intimacy he can never have.

He offers his ungloved hand to you, and when you place yours in his outstretched palm, he wraps it up safe and warm.

Then, in a soothingly husky modulation, your Mandalorian explains what you’re longing to hear. “The Creed makes it difficult. But it’s not impossible. Now isn’t the time, but there are some loopholes we could try later… if you want?” You nod eagerly, and he chuckles. “Okay then.”

You take a moment to imagine the promised kiss. It’s not easy to picture since you have no idea what his lips and mouth are like. At least in your sexual fantasies, you can visualise his body since the armour doesn’t obscure his overall shape and build. But, kriff, the thought of kissing him is somehow even more exciting.

It must be clear what you’re musing about because he taps your wrist, and as you refocus on his helmet, he tilts it and lets out an amused hum. “We’ll get there,” he assures.

“Sorry, it’s not… I’m not impatient; I’m just….” You consider how to word it. “The anticipation is amazing but also kind of agonising. I’m trying to focus on the amazing side.”

Din hums again, though it sounds a little regretful. “For now, we should both focus on the hunt, tempting though it is to imagine… other things.” He squeezes your hand, then symbolically lays it between you both. However, he brushes his fingertips slowly across your knuckles before withdrawing, revealing just how tough he’s finding it to keep himself in check.

Nodding, you give him another half-smile and attempt to show him you agree by moving on to a more practical topic. “It’s about five and a half hours until sunrise. Let’s get some rest?”

“You sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

You frown at him. “I rested this morning; you didn’t. I can take first watch. When did you last sleep?”

“I already told you: I slept while you were working. I found somewhere quiet and grabbed a few hours – more than you got this morning.” At your bemused look, the hunter assures you, “I can go a hell of a lot longer than this without rest. Plus, you’re still healing, so you need it more. Take a couple hours, then I’ll wake you and we’ll switch.”

The insistence in his command leaves you no room to argue. Although, now that you think about it, you can feel the familiar tendrils of fatigue worming their way through your brain, so you concede. Plus, you won the bet earlier. That’s an excellent reason to turn in now. You glance around the narrow confines of your shelter, trying to work out the best position to rest in while his arms embrace you.

Seeing your deliberation, Din shifts his body farther down against the tree until his boots touch the branches of the hide. His lower body is flat against the ground, with the curved base of the tree cradling his upper back, shoulders and head. He remains semi-vertical since there’s no room to lie flat, but he doesn’t complain. Instead, he lifts his arm, beckoning you to snuggle up next to him with a gentle-toned instruction. “Come here.”

You uncross your legs and shift around, then shed your jacket and match his angle and position against the tree, stretching out alongside. Bunching up your outer layer, you stuff it in the crook of his armpit – a crude pillow to soften the hard beskar of his pauldron and cuirass. Then you roll into him and lay your head on the cushioning, snaking your other arm across his thick armourweave stomach padding, delighting in the feeling of being so close. It’s surprisingly comfortable.

Your companion fumbles with something for a second, and you glance up to see him fitting his bare fingers into his glove. Once sorted, he lays his arm along your back, fully clasping you against his side with his re-gloved hand at your waist. His other hand reaches over, brushes some more errant strands of your hair from your face, and then moves down to cover your arm across his stomach. Fingers indulgently knead the soft skin at your waist through your tank top a few times, and he shudders. Then you feel him switch to gentle stroking, taking long breaths, clearly guiding himself away from arousal and toward relaxation.

Once the tension has dissolved, he rumbles, “Sweet dreams, cyar’ika.”

Through a yawn, you mumble yet more questions, unable to help yourself. “Is that your language? What does ‘sharry-kah’ mean?”

“It’s Mando’a,” Din whispers. “An endearment. Similar to… sweetheart.”

You hum in sleepy delight at his choice to assign you a pet name from his language. It feels delightfully personal. “I don’t know any endearments in Ewokese.”

“It’s okay. I like hearing you say my name.”

You smile into the fabric of his flight suit, eyes closed, grip on consciousness fading fast. “Goodnight… Din,” you murmur.

Sleep greets you swiftly, and in mere moments, you’re almost out. So you can’t tell if you’re already dreaming when a whispered addition to his previous statement makes its way to your ears, barely audible yet striking enough to imprint across your brain. “Gonna like hearing you moan it too, when this hunt is done.”

Oh, stars… your sleepy mind can’t determine if it’s real or just wishful thinking. But whatever the case, your subsequent dreams are delicious.

Chapter Text

The forest is still dark when Din wakes you. The light from the glowrod is almost gone, the weak radiance casting your surroundings in monochrome. But what your shelter lacks in brightness, it makes up for in warmth, two bodies pressed close together in the cramped space causing the temperature to rise.

As you awaken in this tiny bubble of contentment, you feel safe and happy amidst the challenge of the hunt.

Sleeping in your Mandalorian’s arms was blissful. Sure, the awkward angle coupled with the hard press of the ground and his solid beskar will leave you with a few aching muscles. But knowing he was holding you had a sedative effect that soothed you into a reassured and restful slumber. And the dreams you had… stars. You really hope you didn’t talk in your sleep. Or make any other sounds.

With gentle squeezes to your arms, he coaxes you fully awake and urges you to sit up, shifting with you into a more upright position. He doesn’t break contact, however, continuing to smooth his gloves up and down your arms.

“Was it enough?” he husks. You assume he’s checking the quantity of time asleep was sufficient rather than the quality of his embrace.

Twisting slightly to flex your sore back muscles, you nod. Then you repeat the move several more times when you realise how much you need to stretch your neck too. “It was great. How long was I asleep?”

“Almost three hours.” His hands fall away to give you more space, and you indulge in the opportunity, rolling your shoulders and fully stretching your dorsal muscles. He’s hesitant as he asks, “Still okay to switch?”

The poor guy is doubtless exhausted; this is the second time he’s stayed up while you’ve slept.

“Of course. I’ll wake you when the suns come up.” You pat his cuisse to assure him it’s his turn to get some shut-eye.

Din snaps a second glowrod to give you adequate light for your stint as watcher (or, more accurately, listener) while he recharges. Then he settles down again, arms folded, chin against his chest.

Okay, so he’s not as cuddly when he wants to sleep. But that’s fine.

He’s quick to nod off, and you’re pleased he’s finally getting some rest. You can tell he’s asleep because his breathing is now more audible through the vocoder. It’s certainly not snoring, but it’s louder than when he’s awake. Does the helmet muffle the sound of him sleeping? Would what you’re hearing now sound closer to snores without the beskar in the way? Or is the vocoder broadcasting the sound louder than its natural volume? It picks up his heavier breaths and delivers them clearly or sometimes as static, but it also seems to obscure quieter noises. Unless he genuinely never yawns (or manages to do so silently).

But wait. There are more exciting things to muse about for the next few hours…

Like the prospect of kissing him.

It’s such a thrilling concept. Even though he’s never done it before, you can’t help but imagine it’ll be breathtaking.

You’re perfectly aware of why it’s so alluring. It’s because it’s ‘forbidden’, both by his creed and the fact that you’re on a hunt. And also because you didn’t think it would be possible. So when it finally happens, it’s going to feel like winning an illegal game of sabacc. Lots of luck and plenty of patience, gaining you a reward you never dreamed you’d win. A mind-blowing victory against the odds, regardless of his inexperience.

You suppose, under normal circumstances, a simple kiss shouldn’t seem like such a big deal. But neither he nor your relationship comes anywhere close to the word ‘normal’. And that’s good. Normal is not something you want. You’ve tried it, and it’s never entirely suited you. It’s always felt like pretending, fitting in for the sake of it. But what you’re creating with this hunter is bespoke, distinct, unique. The two of you are forging something that fits like his tailor-made armour, both comfortable and protective.

You’re also stupidly excited that you got to feel his hair. Sure, you only brushed against the ends, but it was so soft and wavy. And that’s brand new data.

Sitting in the shadowy warmth of the hide, you try to consolidate your mental picture of his appearance beneath the beskar, taking stock of what you’ve learned so far.

Brown hair, shade unconfirmed. Light? Dark? Cut fairly short by Din himself. Messy – perhaps due to either the self-trimming or the helmet forever flattening and mussing it. Maybe both. Based on his age (and stressful profession), he could have some greys – a prospect you find both cute and distinguished.

Happily, you can now add some more conclusive descriptions on the hair front. Wavy, very soft, just long enough to stick out a little behind his ears. He said he cuts it rather than shaves it, and based on its current length, you doubt he ever razors it all off with his groomer. This is good. You enjoy having something to run your fingers through and tug on when things get intimate.

Then again, you’re unsure whether that will be possible when you finally reach that stage. What if he’s not able to remove the helmet during sex? He said there were loopholes for kissing, but what if he meant just tilting up the helmet slightly while you keep your eyes closed? That won’t be sustainable for a whole session.

You really want more details on those loopholes.

But at least there’s enough space to get your fingers under the edge. If you have to make do with stroking the soft ends that curl at the nape of his neck, you will. And you’ll be grateful for the privilege.

Din has confirmed he has some facial hair that he ‘keeps tidy’, except on hunts when he doesn’t get a chance to. During your initial discussion about his appearance, he said the helmet hadn’t come off for around three days, and you can now add two more. You doubt he has his groomer with him, which could mean his facial hair has grown longer than his preferred length by now. That’s assuming he ‘tidied’ it the last time he was helmetless five days ago.

Since you have no idea how thick it grows, nor how short he takes it when he ‘keeps it tidy’, you simply can’t imagine it. Does it cover his whole lower face? Are there greys in there too? What shape is his jaw? For now, you just add a short beard and moustache to your mental image, brown like his hair, but the exact shade unknown.

Brown eyes too. But again, he didn’t indicate what shade of brown, and there are multiple possibilities. Chocolate? Hazel? Amber? For some reason, you imagine his eyes are kind, although you have no evidence. You also get the feeling they’re expressive in a way nobody would realise due to the visor hiding them. With his penchant for sarcasm, you imagine he often raises an eyebrow, and the limited helmet movement suggests he gives substantial side-eye.

What else?

Age-wise, he has revealed he’s somewhere close to forty. But whenever he provides figures, they sound like estimates, as if he’s not even sure himself. He confirmed he was ten when his parents died but claimed he was around fifteen when he swore the Creed almost twenty-five years ago. If he lost his parents that young and his rescuers took him to live on a different planet, he might not know his exact age in Galactic Standard years.

For now, you resolve to think of him as thirty-nine, so at least he’s no more than a decade older than you. If it’s flexible, you’ll allow him to be forty once you’ve turned thirty. Yeah, that seems fair.

One thing you know for sure is that he has tan skin – you’ve seen his hands. His recent admission that those gloves have only ever come off for you (and a few past conquests) confirms they’re not that way from sunlight. That means the rest of his body must be a similar warm shade.

He also has a few scars on his fingers. Given his line of work, he must have sustained numerous injuries, so he must have plenty elsewhere too. No doubt wherever the beskar doesn’t fully cover. You’ve never considered scars attractive before, but on Din, they’re almost badges of honour… which is somehow very sexy.

Speaking of sexy, he’s clearly broad and muscular. It’s tough to tell how much his pauldrons increase his shoulder width, but you can see the strength in the biceps below them. His thighs are sturdy too – you’re more acquainted with those. You’ve had your fingers beneath his cuisse, and you’ve sat between his legs on the speeder, so you’ve got plenty of data there. You’re unsure how all his armour fits together, but you’re aware there’s padding over his stomach, which probably means he’s slimmer around the waist. And when he was bending to pull up handfuls of savanna grass earlier, you may or may not have checked out his ass. Well, alright, of course you did. You weren’t going to pass up that chance. But it was downright sexy, just like the rest of him.

What else? You’ve run out of confirmed data. But you can make some further assumptions…

Given his age, he probably has a few lines on his face, although you have no idea what and where. Does he smile much? You think he does when he’s with you. But who knows if that’s normal enough behaviour for him to develop crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. Does he frown a lot? That seems plausible, given his profession and his brusqueness when you met.

At first, you assumed the helmet must protect him from injury. But how well is it padded? Thinking about it further, if he gets hammered by something, the metal could impact his face. It may even contain or worsen injuries from anything ballistic or explosive that gets under the edge. So your battle-hardened warrior could have a few scars on his face too. A broken nose? He also told you kids don’t get beskar helmets until they’ve trained for five years, so who knows what injuries he sustained while honing his skills as a child. It’s foolish to speculate.

Tragically, you have a complete absence of detail about his mouth. The one thing you can’t stop wondering about in light of the promised kisses to come.

Racking your brain, you can’t come up with anything else. That’s the full extent of your knowledge, and a fair amount of it is deduction and inference. Still, it’s probably more than anyone else knows, and that makes you feel warm and fuzzy.

Over an hour passes while you muse about such things, watching the object of your affections rest next to you, absorbing the enticing glimpses of the man behind the hunter. As you consider the strength of your feelings, you become ever more certain that something… meaningful is growing between you.

He overwhelms you, but it’s so welcome.

When you hear the quiet growl from outside, your instincts abruptly return your attention to your surroundings. You freeze and listen intently for any movement nearby. The forest is more tranquil at night since most birds and reptavians are diurnal and sleep when the suns go down. After that, it’s mostly down to the nocturnal insects to maintain the constant hum of life.

However, there are certain mammals that hunt day and night… and many of those mammals are large.

After a few moments, you hear it. The snap of twigs, the crunch of leaves. Something big is pacing nearby.

You don’t wake Din, not before you’ve assessed the danger. If the animal moves on, there’ll be no reason to interrupt his much-needed rest.

Listening for it is better than peering through the vine-covered hunting window; disturbing the foliage could draw its attention. Plus, it’s too dark to see much anyway. So, you continue to listen and try to pinpoint the location of the danger. After a few more rustles, you’re able to place it somewhere in the undergrowth between the main trail and the hide.

It’s not a boar-wolf as they’re far louder, being such large and heavy creatures. And whilst plenty of less dangerous beasts in the forest hunt at night, the fact that this one growled leaves only one other candidate. It’s a gurreck.

Kark. That’s… unlucky. And really fucking alarming.

Ewoks sometimes hunt the juveniles, but the fully grown creatures can be as tall as you, and they’re apex predators. Like a cross between a large cat and a hog, gurrecks are fast, strong and sinewy. They’re all teeth, tusks and claws, with an acute sense of smell and hunting instincts that let them track their game for days. Killing them is challenging due to the thick skin beneath their woolly fur, so tough that it’s almost armour. And as coursing predators, they enjoy it when their prey tries to run, using their stamina to wear down their victim until it’s an easy meal.

Another quiet growl sounds from somewhere outside, interspersed with snuffling, and you’re now certain it’s caught your scent. Karking hell. Though you’re reluctant to take an animal’s life, once these brutes have chosen their target, nothing can stop them. They’ll track you for days and won’t hesitate to tear you limb from limb the moment you slow down. It’s a terrible way to die. It’s now either you or the gurreck.

Putting your finger over your lips in advance, you turn to Din. Carefully, you lay your other hand on the knee not covered by his poleyn and squeeze, firm enough to rouse him but gentle enough not to startle him. His visor angles upward to look at you, and he instantly catches your gesture to stay quiet, nodding once and sitting up silently, seeking more details.

You mouth the word ‘sorry’, but he shakes his head, so you waste no more time. First, you mime with your fingers a creature walking, then you point outside so he knows the type and location of the threat.

He reacts as only a warrior would – fully awake, alert and combat-ready in mere seconds. His whole body seems to prime itself for danger, muscles tensing as he angles himself defensively.

Pressing a button on his left vambrace, he sweeps his gaze along the hide’s curved walls, settling on a spot just past where you sit. Huh, it seems he’s got some tech in there you weren’t aware of. He raises his hand, gloved palm vertical, all five fingers spread wide, and then points over your shoulder. You surmise he means it’s about five metres in that direction, which means it’s not blocking the exit. For now, at least.

He reaches for his blaster, but you touch his elbow and shake your head. Silently punching your tightened fist into your open palm, you mime that the skin beneath its bristly fur is too thick for a blaster to penetrate.

After a second’s pause, Din points to your lyaer’tsa. Yes, the vibro weapon is a better option. You nod and reach for the shaft, gently extracting the blade from where it’s buried in the dirt and turning to pass it to him. But he pushes it away, shaking his head and pointing at you.

Oh… he wants you to use it? You’re a little unsure since you haven’t trained with it. But after he shortened it for you yesterday, it’s now staff-length, and you’ve had plenty of practice with those. It just has a deadly blade on one end too. You suppose if you’re going to help with this task, it’s a more effective weapon than your shock baton, which would just irritate the animal. And you’d prefer not to get as close as you’d need to if you were relying on your vamblade, petar or shiv.

You brought it along; you should use it. Otherwise, what was the point of him adjusting and carrying it for you? You can do this.

You find a balanced grip on the shaft slightly north of the centre, then nod to show you’re ready. Nodding in return, your partner unclips the strange metal hilt that hangs from his belt. You guess you’re about to find out what that is, then. Maybe it has a spring-loaded knife similar to your vamblade?

Both on your knees, you shuffle slowly and silently toward the exit panel. Before opening it, your companion presses his fist against his chest and points right, then gives your collarbone a gentler tap and indicates left. You willingly accept his instructions, deferring to his combat expertise. So agreed, he carefully removes the panel, knowing the rustling is unavoidable and will reveal your exact location to your foe. Then, you both swiftly scurry out and take up your positions.

The louder growl of the gurreck indicates it remains on your right, and you realise Din purposely placed himself between you and the danger. You’re mildly offended that he feels he needs to protect you when you know more about these animals than he does. Then again, you’re pretty sure taking a life comes much easier to him than it does you. Plus, he’s trusting you to back him up with the lyaer’tsa without having seen proof of your skills, and you’re a little unnerved yourself about using it. Based on this, your indignation is somewhat cancelled out.

In the dim luminescence of the glowrod-lit hide and the canopy-filtered rays from the massive planet you’re orbiting, the beast stalks closer with a low snarl. The sheer size of the approaching black shadow indicates that it’s fully grown, standing almost as tall as you are. You can just about discern the mane that crests its head and runs along its back, confirming it’s a male, the larger gender.

This will be a daunting battle. But you’re up for the challenge.

Now that it has a vague visual on you and you on it, there’s no longer any need to keep quiet. Taking advantage, Din shares the more accurate data he gets via his helmet (a thermal overlay, perhaps, since he used it from inside the shelter). “It’s four metres in front of me but looping around to my left, heading in your direction. I need you to keep at least a metre away from me.” His voice is every bit the battlefield commander as he raises the metal hilt and insists, “I do not wanna injure you with this.”

“Understood.” You still have no idea what the weapon is, but you carefully move left a few steps regardless, giving him the requested space. If it has a retractable blade or something, you’ll want to stay well clear.

You can hear the creature creeping ever closer, its growls becoming more menacing as it closes the distance into striking range. It’s being cautious because it expects its prey to run, yet you’re standing your ground. You smell like food, but you’re not acting like it, so it’s assessing you.

While its caution lasts, the hunter sets out a vague plan. “This is a laser sword. When I activate it, I’ll be the more visible target, and that thing will probably charge me. Stay clear and do not engage unless it comes at you.”

The words ‘laser sword’ are acknowledged by your brain, but you don’t dwell on how odd they sound. Instead, your logical mind reviews his strategy and rapidly devises a better one. “No. It’s deadly at the front. A gurreck’s flank is its weakest spot, and its night vision is poor. If it’s charging you, that gives me an opening to attack it from the side.”

He’s silent for a beat, then hisses, “No. It’ll hear you move around.”

“Then keep it distracted.” A bitter mix of annoyance and resolve pervades your tone. “Trust me, Din. I can do this.”

The next growl you hear comes from him, not the beast shifting in the foliage ahead of you. “Fine.” He doesn’t sound fine, but you know he’s just worried. “I’ll draw it right; you stay still until it follows me. Don’t move until you see my weapon, then move fast.”

He delivers his instructions in the same voice he used when you met him: pissed-off hunter. He’s profoundly distressed that you’re taking an active role in this, but that’s tough shit. He can’t just give you a blade for protection and ask you to stand on the sidelines for your own safety. That was your parents’ philosophy, and although they had good intentions, it’s a flawed approach. Some situations require an offensive strategy, and this is one of them. With his combat expertise, Din knows it, but he’s not happy about it.

“Understood,” you confirm, and then you lay out some instructions of your own. “Do not stay in front of it. It’ll pin you and gore you, and there are enough gaps in your armour that it might succeed.”

He grunts his accord, then begins to weave to the right, stepping in front of the hide. As agreed, you stay motionless by the side of the giant tree. His steps are loud and determined, trying to draw the creature’s focus. It works. You can just make out the massive black shadow drifting back to the right, its attention caught by the closer target now backlit by the faint glow from your shelter.

A full-bodied and menacing roar reverberates from the gurreck’s throat and licks at your nerves. You recognise it as its final attempt to scare its intended meal into a chase. And your partner knows it too.

You hear a soft beep as he touches his vambrace to deactivate his helmet tech, and then there’s a strange, low whine. And, holy shit… he’s ignited a weapon unlike anything you’ve seen before! It’s… crackling white energy surrounding a fearsome black blade, almost a void in the universe. A beautiful sort of deadly.

But adrenaline focuses you, and you manage to avoid gawking, taking your cue and activating the vibroblade at the end of your lyaer’tsa. The beast lunges forward, its target made more visible by the weapon’s glow, and you move at the same moment. Rushing out and around to approach it from the side, you take determined steps to avoid tripping on the thick foliage.

Din skids to his right, acting on your advice and knowing any damage he does with the sword won’t curb the massive creature’s velocity anyway. He narrowly evades a sharp tusk as it crashes past him straight into the hide, snapping the branches and rendering it shelter no more.

You reach the gurreck just as it roars and tries to withdraw from the ruined structure, and you dip your blade to catch its flank as you thrust forward. From its other side, your battle partner mirrors your move with his laser sword. Both weapons pierce the beast’s flanks in unison, and it howls – a sickening bellow of anger and pain. But it instantly thrashes and rears backward to escape, and your blades don’t penetrate as deep as you’d hoped. You both retreat several steps for safety.

With its head now fully out of the hide, it sweeps it to both sides, trying to decide which of its attackers to confront. Din shouts, and it chooses him, his glowing weapon giving it a better visual of his location once again. It turns its body toward him with its head low, tusks aimed at his stomach.

As it adjusts, it gives you the perfect opening. You strike forward again with your lyaer’tsa, landing another gouge near its hindquarters, but there’s no time to thrust deeper as it springs ahead. Once again, your blade doesn’t cut deep enough into the thick skin, and the animal doesn’t even react to your second blow.

The hunter shields himself with the laser sword as the gurreck’s tusks descend, twisting away and carving upward to try and catch its throat as it passes. He manages to land a deep burn through the thick fur and into the tough skin of its shoulder, but it’s still not enough to disable it. Instead, it simply enrages the brute further.

It turns with a frustrated roar and prepares to charge again… and now you’re both in its path.

“Stay behind me!” Din yells, a desperate plea invading his command, and you obey without even debating it.

The beast starts forward, and your companion readies his weapon again, but in a split second, your brain catches up and registers the consequences of his order. This time, he won’t dodge out of the way because he’ll expose you if he does. Fear grips your stomach, and suddenly, everything seems to happen in slow motion.

You see the animal advance toward him, lit by the cracking glow of the laser sword. But it’s learned its lesson from the previous strike; now it knows it needs to pin its prey to stop it fighting back. This time, it leaps at your partner with its massive front paws aimed at his chest, deadly sharp claws glinting.

Beskar chimes as the claws impact his cuirass, sending him sprawling down to the ground, and fear grips your heart. But as he goes down, he swings up the weapon, striking the beast’s right side and burning another severe wound, the acrid smell of singed fur invading your throat. The angle is wrong, however, and simply pressing the glowing edge against the creature’s flank doesn’t wound it deep enough to stop its attack.

With your knowledge of blades, you start to question how much mastery Din has with swords – at least those of the laser variety. He keeps slashing, relying on its heat, and it’s doing little more than the plasma from his blaster would. But a sword is a sword, no matter what it’s made of, and a long blade’s purpose is to cut deep. He needs to thrust.

Luckily, his strike is at least painful enough to thwart the animal’s murderous intentions. It yelps and leaps off your Mandalorian with another frustrated howl…

…and heads toward you.

Din instantly rolls to his feet and bellows, “Move!”

The gurreck’s stuttering pace tells you it’s starting to weaken. Nonetheless, it’s on you within seconds, leaping up to try and pin you. The adrenaline pounds through your body as the dark shadow filled with snarling teeth launches toward you.

With no time to dodge sideways, you react on instinct, sliding forward feet-first, controlling your skid so you land on your bruised spine in the foliage. Your quick evasion of the animal’s athletic pounce sends it completely over your body, and you thrust up the sharpened edge of your lyaer’tsa with all your strength as it leaps over you. This time, the vibroblade gouges a deep cut directly into its soft belly, spraying its blood on you and causing it to scream the most spine-chilling sound you’ve ever heard. And you grew up in Imperial-controlled territory where closed doors didn’t muffle the sound of the torture occurring behind them.

The gurreck lands heavily beyond you, scrambling in a futile attempt to regain its footing as its blood rushes from the deep wound you just opened in its vulnerable underbelly.

Din is there, grabbing your arm and hauling you up as you try to catch your breath. Without even conferring, you both approach the beast from behind, flanking it as you did earlier.

Panting, you advise, “Thrust, don’t slash,” and the hunter adjusts the angle at which he holds his weapon. And then together, you deliver dual strikes deep into its flesh as low down as you can get, now aware its skin is softer on its underside. With the animal no longer mobile, your blades cut deep and reach its organs, and the resulting rapid blood loss finally subdues its thrashing.

It continues to howl in anger as its life ebbs away, hostile to the end, struggling to raise its head but unable to do so. Your partner carefully approaches its front, and when he sees his opponent can no longer turn its deadly tusks toward him, he acts again on your advice. With impressive strength and precision, he impales the tip of the laser sword through its eye and into its brain, ending any needless suffering. He may be a killer, but he has no desire to witness pain in a creature simply acting on its instincts alone. This animal doesn’t deserve the torture of a slow death.

Your heart pounds an almighty rhythm against your chest, and it’s all you can hear in the sudden silence. But the instant you’re sure it’s safe, you switch off your vibroblade and move to rescue your supplies from the destroyed shelter. Digging out your blanket from beneath the branches and vines, you bundle it around your jacket, the flasks, and your backpack so you can carry everything. Din retracts the laser sword and assists, retrieving his jetpack and both your shoulder bags. You leave him rummaging through the hide’s ruins while you choose to wade out through the tangled undergrowth until you reach the trail.

The open canopy above the path allows more light from the gas giant to reach you here, and you look down at yourself. Absently, you note the beast’s blood seems to have stained only your shirt and not your trousers, which a slightly hazy part of your mind labels as a good thing. Then again, it’s difficult to see in the weak light. Your top is pale, so you can make out the dark bloodstain, but you can’t tell if it’s on your black pants. Plus, you’re unsure whether your face and hair caught any spray.

The adrenaline still courses through you, and you breathe heavily as you stand and watch your companion trudge out to the path, recovered glowrod in hand. He doesn’t seem out of breath, but he’s probably used to killing stuff with his cool laser sword.

Where the hell did he get that?

Your brain dismisses the question. You don’t care right now. You feel… oddly powerful. Connected. In sync. Unleashing those rusty fighting skills was… rewarding. Killing a living creature certainly isn’t something you enjoy – far from it. You love any animal that’ll return your love and respect the ones that won’t. At the Partisans’ camp, the chore you most despised was dispatching livestock for meals. However, that gurreck was genuinely capable of killing you and would’ve chased you for many kilometres had you not killed it first in defence. So, in a life-and-death battle such as this, you allow yourself to take pride in your victory.

If your Ewok friends knew what you just did, they would throw a feast in your honour.

But it’s more than just winning the battle. Last night at Nantoogen’s mercy, you felt weak. Tonight, you bested your attacker, and it wasn’t just through luck. You’re proud of yourself for keeping it together and finding the winning strategy. And for proving to both yourself and your partner that you could do it.

Approaching you, Din drops your bags and his jetpack on the side of the trail. Then he gently coaxes the blanket from your grip and piles it with the other items, tossing the rescued glowrod on top. He doesn’t attempt to take your lyaer’tsa from you, content that you’re in control of the blade, which you’ve flipped to rest against the soil by your feet.

Though it’s still too dark to see much, the weak light from the giant planet high above you reflects off his helmet, and the glowrod illuminates him from below. Combined, it’s enough for you to notice his visor studying you. You realise he’s assessing you for injuries, and checking the blood on your shirt is not your own.

It suddenly hits you that while you were busy savouring your success, he may have mistaken your introspection for shock or trauma. Or even catatonia. A second later, the soft leather press of his fingers encircling your bicep confirms your theory as he carefully asks, “Are you okay? Did it injure you?”

“I’m fine,” you answer honestly. You didn’t do your bruised spine any favours by falling on it again, but you can chastise yourself later for your unskilled skid. And anyway, it allowed you to win the battle.

Your partner continues to stare, tilting his head as if he’s not entirely convinced. He needs more, so you expand your answer.

“I feel… good.”

He inhales a deep breath, tightening his grip on your arm, and it’s almost painful. That’s a bit of an odd reaction.

“Are you okay?” you ask in kind.

He nods, the reflection of the planet in the night sky gently bobbing in the beskar, but he doesn’t release you.

“Talk to me, Din.”

A slightly strangled noise emerges from the vocoder, as if he wants to find words but has no kriffing clue how to form them. Then he simply mutters, “Dank farrik…” and shakes his head, dropping his iron grip on your arm and stepping away. He touches the controls of his vambrace again, then rotates his body to scan the surrounding forest.

You wedge the blade of your lyaer’tsa into the soil next to the rest of the kit, its handle readily available to you if Din detects any more danger. Then, you cross your arms over your blood-stained shirt and wait for him to complete his sweep.

When he’s evidently found nothing of concern, you step back into his space and copy the move he made with you, gripping his bicep firmly with one hand. You don’t understand his inability to respond. Just a few hours earlier, he assured you that he wouldn’t respond to any questions with the silent treatment anymore. A simple ‘are you okay’ shouldn’t stump him unless something is wrong, so you’re willing to try other ways to communicate. Mirroring him seems to be an excellent place to start.

He looks down at where you grasp his upper arm, and you tighten your hold as he did to you, causing him to inhale audibly again. He isn’t injured, as far as you can tell. And you’re not hurting him; his biceps are huge, and you don’t have the strength for that. So… is he…? Oh. He’s turned on?

Okay. That makes sense.

Hunter. Adrenaline. Successful kill. He watched you wield a deadly vibroblade. You insisted on your own plan. You advised him how best to use his own weapon. You struck the blow that brought his enemy to its knees. And you said it made you feel good.

It makes perfect sense.

And it also explains why he’s not talking to you. He already expressed his fear that you’ll like him less when you discover certain things about him. He has no idea how you’ll react to finding out this sort of thing turns him on.

But, as you analyse it, you find you have no judgment in that regard. You already know your Mandalorian thinks you’re sexy wearing weapons, so him finding you sexy using them is simply a logical extension of that. Plus, this is the first time he’s seen you in action… and your handling of this situation contrasted starkly with the last time you needed to fight.

So yeah, as long as it’s the strength and victory aspect and not the idea of drawing blood and taking a life, you’re fine with it. You think you know enough about him to be pretty confident it’s the former.

Din’s visor has returned to your face, but he’s otherwise still and silent, watching you work out what’s going on while he tamps down the urges coursing through him. You can feel the restrained need beneath your palm in the way his muscles twitch. He wants you.

You give his bicep another firm squeeze and step even closer. Then, you tilt your head and speak toward the helmet’s audio sensors as if whispering in his ear, drawing out his name. “The more I learn about you, Din… the more I like you.”

You continue to press your fingertips into his flight suit sleeve, feeling the shape of the muscle below. He inhales raggedly again, bringing up his own hand to grasp your arm and mirror the movement on the other side.

Your tone isn’t suggestive, but it’s low and confident as you emphasise how much you accept and condone this side of him, making him a promise. “When we’re done hunting the bounty – after we take him down – we’ll celebrate our victory properly.”

Aaand straight to hell you go. You know you shouldn’t be tempting or goading him – he’s already insisted that now isn’t the time or place for anything physical to happen. But you carefully keep the lust from your voice and lock your arm so you can’t get any closer. You just need him to recognise that this latest admission doesn’t make you yearn for him any less.

Din lets out a low groan that morphs into a sigh. “Fuck… ni copaani gar jii.”

And despite your carefully locked arm, he surges forward to embrace you fully. His large hands are all over your back and waist, grabbing and kneading your flesh, carefully pulling them higher when they dip too close to your ass. His breathing is heavy, stuttered, a mixture of relish and frustration as he indulges and denies himself at once. He just needs to work through his arousal, as you tried to do on the bike yesterday morning, bringing himself down by degrees.

Under other circumstances, you would be in a puddle of desire on the floor by now too. His crude curses, his whispered foreign words, his lustful caresses… it’s a plethora of sensory stimuli. But it seems you’re currently in possession of the one brain cell the two of you share when it comes to controlling this attraction. You’d feel deeply guilty if this went too far too fast because you tempted him, so you’re able to bridle yourself with surprising ease.

Honestly, it’s kind of empowering to be the one in control for once. You hold fast and let the sparks generated by his electric touches flow through your body, relishing the sensations but not getting lost in them. And with your palms now pressed against the top of his cuirass, you’re not pushing him away, but you are reminding him that you’ll sure as hell try if he takes this too far. With that caveat in place, you let him touch his fill, trusting that he’ll restrain himself.

And restrain himself he does, not once straying anywhere improper. His frenzied grabs slow by degrees to more sensual caresses until, at last, he’s just stroking your back gently.

Finally, he loosens his hold and pulls away with a sigh, fixing his gaze on you intently. With a slight shake of his head, he breathes, “Ner mesh’la verd’ika. Gar… mandokar’la.”

It doesn’t seem right to ask him what that means, but his slightly awed tone suggests it’s a compliment or declaration. So you simply take a deep breath in and out, absorbing the unknown words. Then you give him a shy smile, hoping he can see your reaction in the dim light.

Din nods in return, and you’re pleased your nonverbal response was suitable. “I really don’t deserve you,” he rasps, finally reverting to Basic.

“Debatable. You just took a kriffing gurreck to the chest for me,” you quip in return, eager to transform the atmosphere into safe banter instead of risky flirtation.

And he laughs. Perfect.

With the intense mood now lifted, he seems to find it easier to speak about the topic, although he struggles to find a fitting euphemism. “So… you don’t think I’m some kind of… deviant for getting so… uh… because I thought you looked so beautiful using that blade by my side?”

Yes, thank the stars – he likes the idea of you as a fighter, not the feeling of slaying animals. You were right to trust both him and what you’ve surmised about him.

You shrug, glowing at his description of you as beautiful, the first direct compliment he’s offered on your appearance. “You may be the only Mandalorian I’ve met, but you’re not the only fighter. I know what warrior cultures see as attractive, so it doesn’t surprise me.” Since your confidence is peaking, you address what you think he started to say. “Besides, this whole laser sword-carrying warrior version of you totally turns me on. So, no. You getting aroused by a lyaer’tsa-wielding gurreck-slaying version of me does not make you a deviant.”

Well. It’s certainly getting easier to acknowledge this attraction verbally, that’s for sure.

Din hums happily at your comment, and you imagine he has the biggest smile on his lips. He gathers you loosely into his arms again, hands at your waist but staying chaste now.

Tracing the leather strap of his bandolier, you offer, “Thank you for believing I could help.” You need him to know that you recognise how difficult he found it to let you participate. He wanted you to stay out of harm’s way, yet you advocated a plan wherein you would strike the first blow. And despite having no hard proof you could handle yourself (or the lyaer’tsa, for that matter), he trusted you when you assured him you could do it.

He squeezes your waist and dips his helmet closer to you, and you expect a profound remark about having each other’s backs or something. But he ignores your gratitude, seemingly fixating on your admission that you find him just as sexy during combat as he finds you. His words are light, almost mischievous, as they fall through the vocoder, and he draws out the end of each clause playfully.

“What are the odds… of someone so perfect for me, almost running me down with a speeder, in the middle of a forest, on a distant moon in the Outer Rim, while I’m on the most lucrative hunt of my career?”

“Given your usual avoidance of direct questions, I’ll assume that’s rhetorical,” you retort with a grin, and he chuckles lightly. Returning your focus to the ongoing issues, you lay out some thoughts. “It must be about an hour before the first sun comes up. I’m sorry I had to wake you. Do you need more rest? You got barely half the sleep I did….”

“I’m used to recharging on short naps,” Din assures, ignoring your apology. “We can’t stay put; the carcass will attract other predators soon. How’s your navigation at night?” He releases your waist, leans over and begins to stuff the supplies into your backpack, not seeming to care much about dividing things equally for once.

“Fine on trails that I know, but I’ve never been this way by bike before. It’ll be slower out here. Does that thing have a HUD?” You point to his helmet, and he nods. “You can link to the speeder’s sensors then. And you’ve got an extra headlamp.”

He extracts the lamp attachment from his belt and remounts it beside his visor in readiness. “Alright. We can stop for breakfast when the suns come up.” He takes the tracking fob from his belt and checks the signal, grunting his approval. It remains strong in the direction you’re headed. Nantoogen must have also stopped for the night since the frequency sounds the same as yesterday.

At least you didn’t lose ground in the dark, and perhaps you can close the distance a little if you set off before daybreak. Unless the bounty has the same idea. Either way, you’re somewhat glad to be getting back to the hunt sooner than expected.

You both focus on retrieving the speeder from the undergrowth and strapping your equipment to it, Din’s helmet lamp assisting. You feel a pang of guilt looking at the destroyed Ewok hide, but at least you weren’t inside when the gurreck crashed through.

Your companion gives you a once-over with his headlamp when you ask him to check that there’s no blood on your face or hair. The latter is thankfully unblemished except for some leaves that he plucks out for you. However, your cheek and neck caught a few spattered crimson drops, so you utilise your hygiene kit to clean it off. You landed at a slight angle, so your pale top now sports a dark red stripe from belly button to shoulder, although, luckily, your pants remain untainted. You decide to deal with the bloody shirt when you can see better.

As you wipe down the blade of your lyaer’tsa, your thoughts return to the stunning laser weapon of darkened light. A puzzling paradox, the likes of which you’ve never seen. But… vague memories tickle in the recesses of your mind – stories you’ve heard over the years. Fictional flights of fancy, no doubt, although some aspects are oddly similar.

“So,” you throw out as casually as you can manage. “Where’d you get the awesome laser sword?”

It’s a few moments before he responds, as if he’s trying to decide exactly how to answer. “It’s… a long story. And it’s linked to some other things I should tell you about. If I explain things in the wrong order, you’ll just have even more questions. So… later, okay?”

Hmm, that’s a little disappointing, but you can wait. Din is calm, not evasive, so you trust he’s not purposely hiding things, just trying to disclose what he needs to in the most logical sequence. You can respect that.

“Okay,” you agree. Then something else occurs to you. “I’m sorry for correcting your technique.”

He barks a quick laugh through the vocoder as he fixes his jetpack to the speeder, which lifts your worries. This warrior’s ego doesn’t appear to bruise easily, and he doesn’t seem to mind pointers. “To be honest, I’ve barely practised with it. And training for Mandalorians is lifelong, so we welcome any chance to improve our combat skills.” He pauses and turns his whole body toward you, the weight of his visor’s dark stare pinning you in place. Then, in a low tone, he boasts, “You should see me with a blaster, though.”

With your updated mental picture of his face, it’s not hard to imagine the rakish wink you suspect he gives you. It matches the self-assured grin you can hear in his brag, and you can’t help but respond with a smile of your own. He’s always trying to impress you. But you’re learning that he never exaggerates, so you believe his bravado. You saw him punching the shit out of Nantoogen, but you’re convinced that watching your Mandalorian shoot would be quite the sight.

Within a few minutes, you’re ready to go. Din takes the controls with the benefit of two lamps and a sensor display inside his helmet to show him the confines of the trail. Once your hands securely grasp his belt, he sets off at a languid pace, carefully avoiding the numerous natural obstacles that litter the path between you and your target.

And you’re back on the hunt for a much more dangerous beast.

Chapter Text

As the first sun breaches the horizon, the sky slowly transmutes by degrees from deep black through navy and purple. Soon, it acquires a shimmering hue of golden teal, before finally fading into the fresh pale azure of the forest moon’s early morning firmament.

You notice the oddity before Din does. The clearing up ahead offers two different exits on the far side, so he reduces speed on approach. But as you enter the space, something shiny catches your eye off to your left, so you urgently whack his side. He stops abruptly, mere metres beyond the entrance. Leaping off the speeder, you pull your shock baton from your belt the second your feet are on the ground, keeping your stance light.

Ever the warrior, he reacts to your warning by jumping off the other side and drawing his blaster in kind. Both of you instinctively move toward each other until you’re back-to-back by the rear of the bike.

You feel him start to shift around, so you follow suit. He must be using his helmet gizmo again. Glad of his tech, you keep your back to his so he can scan your surroundings while you watch the rear. But he soon relaxes and reholsters his blaster, squeezing your arm to indicate it’s safe to stow your baton. He must not have detected anything concerning.

You both approach the pile of metal at the side of the clearing. Up close, it’s obvious it was a speeder in its former life, and you recognise the model. “Kriff, this is the one he stole,” you confirm, glancing around worriedly again.

Your companion crouches down to examine it closer. “Can you tell what happened here?”

Your chest swells as he once again looks to you for answers, your salvaging skills making you the expert in this situation. It doesn’t take you long to make your assessment.

“Well, he made a poor choice stealing this model, though I see his thought process. It’s an overracer, so it’s fast; it has a sensor baffler, so it can distort tracking signals. We should count ourselves lucky your fob is for him, not the bike. But it’s old, and it’s had its stabilisers stripped, so it’s basically an engine with a seat on it. It’d be okay on open plains, but it’s a terrible idea to ride it in the forest.”

Din grunts, sounding mildly amused.

You inspect the damaged areas, putting your expertise to good use and confirming the most likely reason for the crash. “See the bent steering vanes? Smaller swoops need flat ground for the repulsorlift to keep a steady base altitude. This one has no stabilisers to compensate for uneven ground, so he must have gone over a hole without adjusting his altitude first. The vanes would’ve clipped the far edge and flipped the whole bike – he was probably thrown clear off.” Now it’s your turn to sound amused. “Frankly, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner. He must have been using the manual controls to travel higher than base altitude to avoid it, which would severely tax the repulsorlift. It’s almost flying it.”

The hunter begins scanning the clearing with his helmet tech again. Soon, he points to a scuff of dirt roughly midway between the wreckage and the trail you entered from. “He came off here.” As you predicted, there’s a shallow basin just behind where he points – perhaps an old Ewok trap. The pit is now filled in but has settled lower than its surroundings.

“How are you doing that? Heat vision? Criminal detector?”

He huffs a laugh. “You’re closest with ‘heat vision’ – I have a thermal overlay. It picks up residual heat signatures for a couple of hours.”

“Huh, so the bucket has some uses. I’ll partially forgive it for keeping your lips away from mine.” You say it jokingly, but note how his body angles toward yours as if your mutual attraction magnetises you together. Mindful of distractions, you swiftly refocus. “Can you tell how long ago he crashed and which route he took?”

Din continues scanning, following an invisible path around the clearing and toward the exit trails, narrating his findings as you shadow him. “Tracks are fading already; they’re about an hour old. It was still dark an hour ago – could be why he crashed.” He continues skirting the edge of the glade, finally gesturing at the rightmost of the two potential onward paths. “Footprints lead to both trails, but the heat signature goes that way. Looks like he limped around a lot first, probably getting his bearings.”

A nasty taste rises in your throat as you recall Nantoogen pacing the room while he had you bound. You’ve kept the memories at bay so far, but only by focusing on the thrill of your connection with your Mandalorian. Now, the direct reference to your former captor’s demeanour during your ordeal makes your eye twitch. “He paces when he’s frustrated. I hope it fucking hurt when he crashed.”

Reacting to your tone and strong language, your companion turns to you and focuses on the injury site on your temple. It’s almost fully healed now, but his fingers brush it softly all the same. “Is it still painful?” He’s not just asking about the visible injuries.

“There’s no more physical pain, no. And the emotional stuff is… mostly dealt with. Y-you helped.” Cursing the unwitting stammer, you hope he doesn’t mistake your poor attempt at describing the extent of your recovery for avoidance or deception. Thanks to him, you genuinely believe you’ve turned a corner since that night.

Din hums, taking you at your word and sounding pleased, a sentiment reflected in the mild glee coating his next statement. “The tracks show Nantoogen is still limping heavily from the stab wound you gave him. And if the crash didn’t injure him more, I bet his pride is hurting from going ass over face and losing his transport.”

“Ooh, that does make me happy,” you grin wickedly. Then you catch yourself, a fleeting pang of confused guilt that you could derive pleasure from someone’s pain. Especially pain that you inflicted. You recognise that you were simply defending yourself, but you shouldn’t revel in the result. You narrow your eyes in playful suspicion. “I think you’re a bad influence on me.”

As close as he is already, the broad-shouldered warrior somehow gets even closer. Hovering next to your ear, he husks through the modulator, “Pretty sure there’s already a bad girl in there somewhere.”

He withdraws and steps past you as soon as he’s said it, and your previous thoughts vanish. Holy stars, did you hear that right? You’re utterly stunned, but in the very best way. A wave of arousal shoots down your spine, and you simply can’t form a coherent reply as a stupid grin overtakes your face. After a few seconds, you manage to summon a noise of agreement, something between a squeak and a sigh leaving your lips.

Din releases a modulated snort in response, revelling in his power to fluster you so entirely with fewer than a dozen words.

You trot after him as he strides toward your speeder at the clearing’s entrance, pouting at your lack of composure and attempting to pull yourself together. Thankfully, a sudden thought snaps you out of your reverie, dousing the flames with ease.

“Hey, you said he went down that trail?” You point to the route he flagged earlier, and he stops and turns, confirming your gesture with a nod. “That makes no sense. I’m pretty sure the Death Star wreckage is this way.” You adjust your pointing finger toward the leftmost trail.

The hunter checks the position of the suns, the second fiery orb just cresting the tops of the trees in pursuit of its sibling. “What would make him travel East of here on foot?”

Conjuring mental images of maps you’ve used for salvage missions over the past few years, you struggle to recall what’s in that direction. It takes a few moments, but your eyes widen when you begin to understand. “He’s heading for the river.”

“Is that bad?” He sounds sceptical.

“I don’t know, but… thinking about it, it does make sense.” Revising your opinion, you illustrate why. “Not counting the time it takes to walk east of here until you hit water, the river is probably the fastest route through the forest. I didn’t consider it before because it doesn’t flow near the compound. The forest trails weave all over the place, but the river cuts straight through to the lake at the base of the mountains. Switching to a more direct path is his best option if he’s on foot and limping. And maybe he’d rather just float there and save his strength.”

“Can he get a boat?”

“I have no kriffing idea. Ewoks use boats, but they don’t open convenient boat hire huts for fleeing criminals to utilise,” you quip, earning you a chuckle from beneath the beskar. “If he’s got survival skills, I suppose he could carve a canoe, although it’d take him a while. But even if he doesn’t use the water, it’s still quicker to limp alongside it than stay on this trail – it’d save him a few days.” Another thought occurs. “If he’s meeting someone there, it can’t be his contact at the compound. Nobody could make it out here this fast without a speeder, and the base logs all vehicles. Suriee confirmed a full hangar aside from ours and Nantoogen’s.”

Din thinks for a minute, hands on his hips, then appears to come to a decision. “We have two options. One: continue through the forest but beat him to the wreckage on the bike, then capture him when he finally arrives. Two: track him to the river and try and work out his next move.”

You consider each trail, squinting against the sunlight glistening through the trees in the breeze. “What are the pros and cons?”

He presents a flattened palm, weighing the options in gesture as well as words. “Forest trail. Pros: if we overtake, we’ll have the element of surprise. In theory, we can access his ship before he arrives and take him down as soon as he boards. Cons: we’ll have to stake it out for several days, depending on how long he takes to limp or float there. We also can’t be sure what kind of security he has on his ship. I can bypass most protocols, but it’s not guaranteed we’ll be able to break in.”

You assume he’s done, but after a pause, he keeps going.

“He’ll be on ground that he knows, either on or near his ship, so he has a greater chance of escape. If that happens, it’ll take days to return to my ship to chase him off-world. I also haven’t ruled out the possibility that this is a ploy to throw trackers off his scent. If he has a backup vehicle stashed at the river and beats us there because we chose the longer route, we lose our advantage. He’s been avoiding hunters for decades, so he knows a few tricks.”

At last, Din appears to have finished his list of cons, and you crinkle your nose, disliking the length of it.

He raises his other palm, holding it parallel to the first and slightly higher. “River trail. Pros: if he hasn’t found transport there, we could capture him today. And getting up close should reveal if he’s playing us. Cons: if we take him today, we’ll have a long way to escort an injured prisoner. We’re now so far from where I landed that our only choice is to take him to his own ship and then fly it out to mine. So we’d need to go to the wreckage regardless, and our speeder doesn’t seat three, so we’d have to walk him there. It’d be several days of slow limping, and he’d seize every chance to escape. Trust me, escorting prisoners on foot over long distances is not ideal in bounty hunting.”

You consider the options open to you, disliking the negatives of both plans, and your logical brain devises a more promising strategy. “We could just get eyes on him at the river and then track him until he’s nearer to his ship. Do some recon on his situation and resources so we’re better prepared to make our move.”

Your companion nods in agreement. “That would let us choose when we attack. Tactically, we’d have more control.” As if a thought has just occurred to him, he spins so you’re shoulder to shoulder, both looking along the path to the river. “Does the trail run close to the water?”

With a shrug, you confess, “I assume so. I’ve only been to it farther along where it empties into the lake, but the path ran pretty near it up there. It’s logical to assume it tracks alongside for fishing and stuff.”

Another grunt. “Good. We won’t fall behind if he somehow has a speedboat. River, then?”

“If you think it’s the best option. You’re the expert hunter here, and this is your hunt. I’m just assisting.” The glance you throw him along your shoulder illustrates your complete trust in his skills and your willingness to follow his lead.

“River it is. But just so we’re clear, this is our hunt now. You just proved yet again that you can think like a hunter.” Din drops his large hand briefly on your nearest shoulder, a gentle clap as if he were offering any colleague some comradely support. It’s distinctly different from the soft yet sensual touches he’s been carefully permitting in small doses so as not to distract himself.

But his gesture isn’t hard to interpret. He’s confirming you’re as much his partner and equal in this hunt as you are in this new and unlabelled relationship. You may still be struggling to define your romantic bond, but you both have a stake in hunting Nantoogen now, and this, at least, he’s crystal clear on.

Okay, well, if you’re hunting too, you can commit to the role.

You reach for your partner’s belt and slide out the tracking fob, striding toward the riverward trail and noting the briskness of the pulse. He walks beside you as you confirm the signal is strongest in the direction you surmised, and you glance at him with a raised eyebrow. “We’re a lot closer to him now. If he’s been limping on foot for the past hour, we can easily catch up to him on the bike.”

“If we’re tracking not attacking, we should hold tight for a while, or we’ll risk giving ourselves away too soon. How far is the river? Will he have reached it yet?”

“I honestly don’t know.” Wryly, you justify, “Unless you can provide accurate figures for limping speed and distance limped, even a droid couldn’t calculate an arrival time.”

Din grunts, and you suspect he’s trying to calculate the probable speed of a man of Nantoogen’s height and weight traversing the forest with a leg injury. Not wanting to explode his brain, you attempt to provide more details and the conclusion he seeks.

“I can estimate based on holomaps I’ve seen. I’d say it’s maybe close to a two-hour walk from here for someone not limping. If his leg is slowing him down, it’ll be more. I doubt he’s there yet.”

“Good. Then we’ve got time for breakfast,” he announces. He turns and resumes his course toward your own transport again, then decrees over his shoulder, “And you gotta take your shirt off.”

Your eyes go wide. “I— what?!”

Your Mandalorian spins to face you again, and his body language radiates that cocksure ego he dons when he’s confident he has control of a situation. Thumbs hooked in his belt, visor angled high, voice lower than the forbidden levels of Coruscant. “It has blood on it. Get changed.” Then he turns and strides the remaining distance to the speeder, unstrapping your backpack from the cargo rail as you drift after him in a daze.

Arousal and enjoyment have rendered you somewhat speechless, your features frozen somewhere between jaw-dropped surprise and a grin of delight. You’re utterly living for his flirting, but you’re not quite past the initial shock and thrill of receiving such a command from him. And it was very command-like, which very much appeals to you. The throbbing ache between your thighs confirms that.

Din gives you your bag when you arrive next to him, closely followed by a deep and hearty laugh as he sees your expression. His reaction prompts you to close your mouth at last. Resting his hip against the bike, he watches as you regather your wits, clearly revelling in his success.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He insisted you both steer away from the sexual, so why is he such a flirt this morning? Not that you’re not enjoying it… you’re elated about it. And if he doesn’t deem this level of suggestion a distraction, then who are you to argue?

You consider ripping off your shirt to fluster him as much as he’s flustered you, but a balancing inner voice insists this isn’t a contest.

Let’s just call it a game instead. Okay, buddy, hold onto your helmet….

The tracking fob continues its constant pulse in your hand, providing a suitably rhythmic metronome, so you lay it on the speeder’s control panel. Shrugging off your jacket, you sling it over the bike’s seat and lock your eyes onto the midnight black transparisteel before you. Then you reach for your hem and slowly lift your top, feeling oh so brazen as you tempt your companion with an appetiser he’s been struggling to avoid tasting.

But he only has himself to blame.

His visor whips down to focus on your midriff, lingering there as you languidly expose your naked flesh. With each pulse of the tracking fob, his breaths become more ragged, and his fingers twitch as you lift the fabric higher. The tone counts down to your grand reveal, throbbing like your heart and other regions. And soon you’re mere seconds away from revealing the swell of your breasts…

…but Din’s confidence suddenly breaks, escaping him in a pained growl as he whirls around and shows you his back. With lightning speed, he hammers his fist into the padded seat of the bike beside him, making the repulsorlift bounce to compensate.

Well, that was fun. It serves him right for starting it.

Without his attention, you abandon the strip show and shrug off your shirt, pleased that the gurreck’s blood spatter didn’t reach your bandeau underneath. You glance up at his back as you extract a fresh top, noting how his shoulders heave and his breathing remains audible. Snickering under your breath, you tease, “So now you’re suddenly shy?”

The hunter releases the most frustrated sound you’ve heard from him to date and huffs over his shoulder at you. “Dank farrik, that’s not fair. You know why I can’t look.”

“Uh-huh, because seeing a woman’s underwear would embarrass you,” you taunt, feeling divinely wicked as you pull on your clean clothing.

You’re not sure if he means for you to hear his response, quietly growled through gritted teeth and the modulator, but you get the feeling he hopes you do. “No. Because I’d probably end up fucking you against a tree, and that is not how I wanna start this.”

Holy fucking fires of Mustafar.

The heady thrill of the flirting has helped fortify you against any shock now, but you’re bowled over by his words nonetheless. The vulgar language… the raw desire… the feral need.

The same fantasy as you had when you left the compound of fucking against a tree.

It takes mere moments to push past your awe and eagerly embrace that very same ache for him. So you respond in an equally hushed voice, as if whispering such filthy thoughts to each other with averted eyes makes it okay. “So, where do you wanna fuck me for our first time?”

And Din groans, a sinfully dark and desperate expression of his frustrated need. You watch as he moves his arm to press against his crotch, clearly struggling to control the physical reaction your words have given rise to. With clear effort, he tenses and locks every muscle in his body to prevent himself from turning to face you, and he pointedly doesn’t answer your question.

Hah! That’s a dirty but decent fifty points to you, not that you’re keeping score or anything. It’s not a contest, you remind yourself.

Yeah right.

Well, if it is, your partner is also racking up the points this morning, although you feel slightly guilty about leaving him in such discomfort. The tiny devil in your mind floats the idea of offering him a quick release so he can focus, but you’re certain he would refuse. He’s already made it clear there’s an order to how things should proceed. Even if you sank to your knees before him, you suspect he would just flee into the forest and take care of himself.

Now there’s a thought….

Oh, stars, no – that’s not the best way to relieve the tension. But if you reframe the notion, you do both need to calm down somehow, and doing so privately is sensible. Just not by rubbing one out behind a tree.

Still talking to his back, you sheepishly suggest, “We should probably call a truce for now, yeah?”

“Uh-huh,” is all you get out of him. He remains tense as he stares across the clearing, doubtless working to bring himself down from the cliff’s edge of desire he’s teetering on. That was you during your first rest stop yesterday, so you can empathise. Perhaps you got too carried away.

“Um, well, I’m dressed, and… maybe now’s a good time for me to, uh… go and find somewhere to pee. Hopefully, we’ll both be calmer when I get back.”

You loop around the rear of the speeder, and Din finally rotates left to observe you, the vehicle you’ve placed between you allowing him greater privacy. He gives you a shaky nod that somehow exudes relief, and his clear frustration now seems to carry a hint of regret too.

Grabbing your travel hygiene kit, you wade into the undergrowth, hoping he’ll do whatever it takes to calm down while alone. You don’t assume he’ll jerk himself off in the short time you’re apart, since peeing will take mere minutes. In fact, you don’t even need to go. The plan is simply to clean yourself up before your underwear gets too soaked by your arousal to remain comfortable. But at least if you’re out of sight for a few minutes, he won’t have to worry about being subtle with his gestures of discomfort.

Putting a short distance between you is oddly similar to coming up for air. Not that you’ve felt oxygen-starved, more that you’ve been existing solely on your Mandalorian. You’ve filled your lungs with him and been richly nourished, but now you remember how that other stuff you used to breathe feels too.

You stay out of sight for a few minutes more than you need to, wanting to ensure he has adequate time to calm down. When you re-enter the clearing, things have returned to normal.

No, hang on. Normal isn’t the word. You weren’t expecting to find this.

In your absence, Din has laid out your waterproof blanket next to the speeder, and he’s sitting cross-legged on one side. In the centre before him, he has arranged some ration bars, the remaining sweetcake, and a water flask. It’s… an impromptu al fresco breakfast picnic.

What the kriff? Frankly, you would’ve been less surprised to find him jacking off upon your return. In fewer than ten minutes, he’s gone from subtly flirting, to spewing outright filth, to being a flustered puddle of teenage horniness. And now he’s set up what almost feels like a date, patiently awaiting your return so you can eat together. There’s that curious chivalry again – so at odds with his fierce bounty hunter façade.

The helmet rises as you approach and jerks up in a cautious yet casual greeting. There’s no trace of the palpable awkwardness you left behind a few minutes ago; stepping away was a good idea. It appears he found it helpful too, though you detect he remains slightly tense as you approach.

“What’s all this?” you query through a bewildered grin as you drop down to the blanket opposite him with crossed legs.

The last of his tension seems to vanish at your smile. He stretches out a leg, propping up the other and resting his arm on his knee. “That – before – that was my fault. I started it, and I should not be inviting it. I gotta control myself better, and we both gotta eat, so….” He gestures to the spread before you.

An amused sigh escapes you. “Well, I shouldn’t be so quick to jump on the bordok wagon and tease you in return, so I deserve some blame too.”

He grunts and shrugs. “This is hard for us both. I’m… sorry we have to wait.”

“Better to wait than to rush. In the long run, at least.” You snag a ration bar and greedily tear it open. “Plus, a bit of suspense might make it more rewarding when we can finally have what we want.”

Din hums his agreement and scoops up the other bar, spinning around to show you his back again. You rotate in kind, keen to limit the chance of glimpsing anything you shouldn’t during breakfast, even if it’s by accident.

Overhead, a flock of reptavians casts sweeping shadows across the clearing, drawing your attention. Thankfully, they’re only geejaws hunting small mammals in the treetops, not giant condor dragons. Nonetheless, their leathery wings are broad enough for their flapping to create eddies in the air, whipping up leaf litter. They present little danger to you, so you ignore them until they pass, wolfing down bland rations to reach the more flavourful second course.

With a rustle behind you, your companion permits you to look again. Spinning to face him, you leap on the sweetcake with glee while he rotates to swig from the water flask.

Once you’ve sated your stomach, the low pulse of the tracking fob on the bike’s control panel draws your attention.

“If it starts slowing down, he’s found transport. We can leave fast,” the hunter explains, noting your scrutiny as he turns to face you again.

“So… can we rest here a bit longer?” you query eagerly.

“I don’t see why not.”

He seems just as happy about that as you, and you wonder if it’s too early for some ‘getting to know you’ chat. You’re also starting to feel selfish asking all the questions – as if you’re always demanding disclosure. Perhaps some requital is in order.

“Din…?” you drawl, controlled but curious.

He exhales, loud but not perturbed. “You have questions.”

He’s way ahead of you. Smart boy.

“I thought you might like to ask me some.”

His reaction is slow, considered. “I wanna learn more about you, but… it’s easier when you just tell me what you want me to know. You’re good at talking about personal things. Better than me.”

“Well,” you consider, flattered but thrown. You weren’t expecting that response. “That’s… not true. You’re a lot better at discussing personal stuff than you think you are. I assume you just don’t get many chances to practice.”

“One does not speak unless one knows,” he declares, and it carries the formal quality of a quote.

You parse it aloud. “I’m guessing that’s from your creed, and it’s just a fancy way of saying you shouldn’t speculate?”

The helmet offers that impressed little bob, and you’re elated that you figured it out on the first try.

“Asking questions is the opposite of speculation, Din; it allows you to gather data from the source. But I understand if your creed advocates listening over questioning and you’re not used to asking.” His helmet tilts, not confirming but not denying either. “Why don’t you just suggest a topic you want me to tell you about, and I will.”

“Bar fights,” he announces, not even pausing to consider before stating his choice with confidence. Aha, so he does have a list; he just shies away from asking directly. You wonder why that is. Based on his reaction, you get the impression it goes deeper than what you just deduced about his creed. Whatever the reason, you’re reluctant to question his conduct, so you’ll have to trust he’ll explain it when he’s ready.

Pondering what to tell him, you take a swig of water to buy time. Is he hoping for blow-by-blow descriptions of your antics? Your reasons for inciting trouble? There’s nothing you deem vital to disclose about that phase of your life. And you’d rather avoid explaining how it all ended.

You decide to copy what you asked him to do yesterday when speaking about his tribe and his creed. A casual overview is the best option, and you hope he’ll ask you to expand on anything he wants more details on. Stream of consciousness has yielded good results so far.

“There was a tavern halfway between the factory I worked at and the boarding house. My room was too small to do my drills in, so my supervisor let me train on the factory floor after hours. I would get all fired up and then stop into the tavern on the way home to cool down. It was a shitty place. People only went there to either avoid or complain about things they hated. In my case, I would start by drinking loads of bahkahta to numb the grief I was trying to process. Then it’d develop into annoyance when I stopped feeling anything at all, and so the idea of an actual fight sounded good and I—”

“You went looking for pain,” Din interrupts. It’s not phrased as a question, but he’s clearly seeking your acceptance or denial, and you suspect he relates to what you’re saying. Perhaps not the drinking part, but the grief part.

“Kind of, yeah, but not because I enjoyed it. Pain isn’t… it’s not something I’m ‘into’. I had a tolerance for it back then, partly because I was in regular training and partly because I’d be too drunk to feel it. My reaction the other night shows exactly how I cope these days. I guess I’m more fragile since I’ve—”

“You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for,” he interjects again, beskar helmet shaking firmly at your statement. “You already told me your reaction the other night wasn’t about your physical injuries, and you’ve dealt with that now. But you handle discomfort well. You slept on the ground last night and fought an animal twice your size after you were badly injured the night before. And you didn’t complain once.”

Huh, you hadn’t looked at it that way. Accepting his compliment with a graceful chin dip, you can’t help but turn it into a question for him. “I’m guessing you have a complex relationship with pain, doing what you do?”

As your partner considers how to respond, he removes a glove and reaches for the sweetcake, tearing off a chunk and spinning around. It feels right to copy his movement, so you do. With your backs now toward each other, he answers your question. “When there’s an excess of it, you stop noticing after a while. I’ve taken so many bolts and blades to my arms that I barely feel it if I’m shot or stabbed there now. But I’m not… ‘into’ pain either.” He uses your own emphasis. “It’s just… part of life.”

You get the feeling he’s not just talking about the physical sort. Something clenches in your chest, and you wish you could carve out his agony and bandage him in abundant softness and happiness. You’re about to say so when he carries on.

“How you handle it is more important. My nerves may have gotten used to physical damage, but every injury reminds me to fight harder.” Din punctuates his sentence with the hiss of his helmet seal. It tells you he’s finally eating his chunk of sweetcake, so you take your turn to speak.

“I think that’s why I kept looking for fights, you know? My emotional pain hurt so much that I ran to the other side of my planet to escape it. I thought leaving the safe house and all my memories behind would help, but it just hurt more. But when I replaced that feeling with physical pain, I knew how to handle it. My parents had trained me for that type. If I lost a fight, I would patch myself up and train harder to give myself a better chance of winning the next one. It was a much simpler equation.”

You hear him reset the helmet, but he stays where he is and doesn’t confirm it’s safe to look. Perhaps he finds personal matters easier to discuss when turned away. He seems to struggle less with his words when you’re not in his direct line of sight. Honestly, it makes it a little less challenging for you too, so you decide to persevere with an innocent overview of how it ended.

“Then, after the Alliance destroyed the second Death Star, I realised I wasn’t doing myself any favours by inviting physical pain to cover the emotional. Plus, I was drinking far too much bahkahta and doing all kinds of other risky shit, which I—”

“Risky.”

Ah, of course. He’s a hunter. He would leap on that bit. It’s odd how he can be so skilled at interrogation, yet rarely does a question mark leave his mouth. He’s cut you off three times now, but never with an actual question.

The reptavians circle above again, finally snatching their breakfast from a tree, perhaps an unlucky rugger. When their shadows pass, you continue, hoping to divert him from the topic since it’s too late to avoid it entirely.

“Not to sound like I’m hiding anything, but maybe you’d rather not hear about that. I don’t want you to think badly of me.”

“I deal with the lowest scum of the criminal underworld,” Din tells you bluntly. “However bad it seems to you, I promise you I’ve seen worse.”

It’s really not the supportive response you were hoping for. But despite his uninspired assurance, you resolve to summarise the end but not what led you there. “Okay, so there was this Twi’lek guy, and we were—”

“You’re right. I don’t wanna know.” It’s growled and forceful, which you didn’t expect. His interruptions are frustrating you now. It’s good that he’s actively engaging, but you’re becoming flustered by it, unprepared for such intense and intrusive verbal input on his part.

A second later, it dawns on you what premature conclusion he’s reached. “No, it’s not like that,” you scramble. “I mean, yes, I slept with him once, but we’d had a lot to drink, and it was awful, and it never happened again. And this isn’t about that, so please don’t get all… jealous.” Perhaps you shouldn’t have admitted that, but you weren’t going to lie to him, and his assumption was obvious. It rankles you that he’s getting worked up by something entirely different from what you’re trying to avoid mentioning.

He offers no verbal response, but you hear him spin around, so you do too. He’s staring directly at you, but his complete lack of body language makes him hard to read. All you feel is tension: yours, his, maybe both.

Your frustration builds, made worse because you can’t determine what he’s thinking, so you simply plough ahead. “He… gave me some spice, and—”

With a snort, Din reproaches, “You think I care that you tried spice? Sweet girl, I’m more upset about you fucking some ge’hutuun drug dealer scum.”

Kriffing hell. His rebuke shatters the limits of your patience, and you falter, struggling to sift through the many different feelings this is bringing up. You’re dejected, despondent, utterly dumbfounded.

He’s clearly jealous, which you weren’t expecting, although you find you’re not that surprised. Given his intense warrior demeanour, he strikes you as the type. But he’s also cutting you off, staring you down, and dismissing the shame you carry as trivial. That shame stems from what you consider to be your ultimate rock bottom behaviour, and it made you who you are today.

It takes you another moment to decide how to respond, and he continues to stare at you almost accusingly. Where has your kind and sensitive companion gone? The change was so sudden.

Wait. Did he just call you ‘sweet girl’? What the kriff? It’s the first time he’s called you by an endearment in Basic. Why did he have to bury it in a stinking pile of selfish male envy? You can’t keep up.

At the end of your tether now, you decide to lay it all out for him.

Ignoring the new pet name, you level your gaze at the pitch-black visor staring you down, readying yourself to fight. You allow a measure of annoyance to infuse your tone and frostily reach for his own nickname. “Stop interrupting me, Mando. Just let me say what I want to say, alright? What you asked me to talk about. If you’re jealous, you really needn’t be, but in any case, I’m sorry I mentioned that bit. But you have no right to be such an ass about it.”

Finally, Din redirects his focus, studying the opposite side of the clearing. You saw him bristle slightly at your use of his pseudonym; it upset him. When he returns his visor to your face, it’s dipped at an angle you recognise as contrite, confirming your censure hit the mark. Regardless, his tone remains low and tense. “Go ahead.”

That’s a bit better, although your desire to share your past with him has waned as his sour attitude has increased. Conversely, his churlish conduct combines with your annoyance, dissolving your misgivings about mentioning the thing you hadn’t wanted to discuss.

So you say it.

“Okay, do you wanna know what I’m really ashamed of? The reason I took that spice? Here it is. Things were getting worse for me with the fighting. I was pushing too hard, getting too desperate, chasing a short-term solution because I had no idea what would end my pain for good. The night we found out the Alliance had won the Battle of Endor, I picked a fight with someone I shouldn’t have. Someone who was totally out of my league. I think I needed some kind of… release after hearing the second Death Star was gone. And when I realised I couldn’t win a fair fight, I… made it dirty.” You inhale the crisp forest air and admit, “Nantoogen… he’s not the first person I’ve buried a blade in.”

The hunter doesn’t react at all to your confession. You can see the tension in his muscles, but you’re unsure if it’s from the argument or your disclosure. Now that it’s out there, you persevere, wanting to reach the end of your sorry tale.

“The medic said it was… critical – that the guy was lucky to have survived. I only avoided arrest because he was too drunk to remember who’d stabbed him. He was a mudscuffer, but he didn’t deserve to die. And all around us, the whole town was celebrating the Alliance victory, but I just felt sick. And spice seemed like a good way to forget what had happened, so I said yes to the offer. And then I spent the next four fucking days and nights fighting a nightmare trip. When I came to, I was starving, dehydrated, in total agony, jobless because I’d missed a whole week of work, and the pain I was trying to bury was worse than ever. Almost killing an innocent person and thinking drugs would relieve the guilt I felt was my all-time low for both behaviour and decision-making. And it was a catalyst. So, Endor happened.”

With words already snowballing from your mouth, you find yourself shifting seamlessly into a rebuke of Din’s odd demeanour.

“So, the ethics of spice dealing are not the issue here, nor is the kind of connection I had with the person who gave it to me. I’m trying to illustrate how traumatic that ordeal was, the reasons I sank to that level, and why it led to me moving halfway across the galaxy. Not to mention why using that shiv two nights ago was a fucking big deal for me. But what do I get for sharing details about my life? I get you dismissing things that profoundly impacted me and being shitty with me about things that don’t matter. So maybe we should switch back to talking about you. Or just not talk at all.”

As you conclude with a mild threat, your Mandalorian shakes his head rapidly, helmet swinging in sudden panic. “No! I didn’t mean— it’s….” He suddenly sounds genuinely upset, which calms your inflamed mood to a degree. He sighs heavily, curls his legs beneath him and leans toward you on his knees. “I told you I’m bad at this – that I’ll probably upset you. I don’t intend to.”

Well, okay, you do remember him saying that, only yesterday, in fact. You’re not quite sure how you expected it to happen, although you certainly hadn’t imagined it would be while laying bare your past sins. At his request, no less.

But perhaps instead of getting worked up, you ought to allow for his inexperience. At least you called him on it. That was a good move.

Din remains contrite, looking for all the galaxy like a little boy on his knees begging for mercy. “I see many spice users in my line of work, so it doesn’t affect me as much as it should. Neither does stabbing someone. You’re fully aware of what bounty hunting involves… you know that I’ve killed. But I realise it’s different for you. I may not remember what that’s like, but I can recognise the impact it must’ve had on your life. I’m sorry you had to deal with all that back then. And… I’m sorry you had to use a blade again two nights ago because I wasn’t there to protect you. I should’ve realised what you were trying to say when we agreed to work together. You told me you could fight yet insisted I handle the ‘violent stuff’. But… now that I understand, I’ll try to be more respectful. Thank you for explaining.”

Your annoyance diffuses as you nod along to his apology, accepting his mitigation. A short silence settles between you, undercut by the regular pulse of the tracking fob and the rustling of small creatures in the surrounding undergrowth.

“And…” he adds in a less confident tone. “I can’t help the jealousy. I… want you too much to ignore it. Knowing someone like him got his hands on you when I can’t… and hearing about it right after I had to hold myself back earlier… it’s— it’s fucking frustrating. I’m sorry, cyar’ika.”

Ooh, kriff, that’s annoying yet oddly pleasing. Your innate reaction to jealousy in any man is adverse. But Din’s behaviour stems from the same yearning you’re working to stifle within yourself, so maybe you can forgive him for it just this once. Plus, a tiny part of you kind of likes that he’s possessive (when he’s not being an ass about it).

“Okay, we clearly need to work on our communication, but thanks for trying to explain and apologising.” Your feedback gets you a nod. “I know making progress requires raw honesty about ourselves, but if I say something that upsets you, please just tell me why before you turn on the attitude, okay? And I’ll do the same.”

Your partner nods and suddenly perks up – another oddly childlike reaction. “We should get moving soon, but… ask me something first. Whatever you want. I think I owe you.”

A smile slips onto your face again. He certainly knows how to turn things around; it’s dizzying.

You rack your brains for something suitable. After what just happened, you should keep the tone light, but equally, there are certain pivotal matters you’re dying to address. “Can I have two questions?”

He grants his permission with a resolute nod.

“Great. So, this morning, you’ve learned that I used to drink a bantha’s weight in booze every night and spent several days on a spice trip. And, although you didn’t ask, I’ll add that alongside the drinking, I sometimes smoked tabac too.” You pause to see if he reacts, but it’s merely a slight tilt of the helmet to show he’s listening. It seems your former sins don’t faze him unless they involve other men. “So my first question is: do you have any addictions or bad habits, and if not, have you ever had any in the past?”

Din rocks on his knees slightly as he considers your query, glancing up to scan the treetops as if he might find a fitting response somewhere in the branches. The suns continue their ascent, and the morning shadows cast by the leaves high above pattern his armour like filigree.

“No,” he finally offers with an uncertain shrug. Somehow, he looks sheepish, as if he regrets that he can’t match your iniquitous exploits.

“Really? You’ve never done anything bad? You’ve lived a life of virtue? Aside from killing people for a living – that doesn’t count since you’re paid to do that.”

His laugh is drier than Tatooine’s ancient oceans. “Cyar’ika, I’ve done some very bad things in my life, and I’ll tell you about them sometime. But they were separate acts, not really habits, and definitely not addictions. That was what you asked about.”

“Hmm…” You narrow an eye and arch the opposite eyebrow, giving him some sass. “You, Dinnn… are cleverer than that shiny shell of yours makes you look.”

“Djarin.”

“Huh?” Sass turns to confusion.

“You wanted to call me by my full name just then. Djarin is my last name.”

Kriff…

It takes you a shamefully long time to react. He said it so blithely – as if it wasn’t a precious piece of his identity that you spent days bargaining for when you met. Calling him Mando just now seems to have reaped extra rewards.

Stars, this breakfast picnic has been as chaotic as travelling on a ship with a damaged artificial gravity drive. One minute your feet are firmly on the floor… the next minute you’re floating weightless and being pummelled by cargo… then suddenly your ass is hitting the deck.

Djarin. Din Djarin. It’s somehow perfect for him. You’re somewhat perplexed about why you didn’t think to ask for the rest of his name before now, to be honest. When you introduced yourself to him, you gave your full name. But for some reason, it didn’t occur to you that his earlier disclosure was only partial.

At last, the surprise wanes, and your eyebrows return to their usual height. Leaning toward him, you soften your expression. “Din Djarin…” you purr in deep and smooth satisfaction, just to see his reaction to his full name on your lips.

You watch as he draws in a profoundly deep breath, inhaling your words, filling his chest with the sound. He seems just as overwhelmed to hear you speak his full name as you were when he revealed it.

“Well, Din Djarin, you clever boy, you can distract me all you want with delicious details like that, but I’m not convinced you don’t have any bad habits or addictions.” You gently steer him back to your question and offer some prompts, intent on provoking a proper answer. “What if you got paid for a job with alcohol or… cake? Something that was yours for the taking without any cost. Wouldn’t you indulge?”

The pulse of the tracking fob up on the speeder bike ticks away the seconds he takes to consider this. “Indulgence isn’t the same thing as addiction,” he finally asserts, but then he addresses your query anyway. “I’d trade most of the alcohol; I don’t often drink, but I might keep a bit. Same with the cake.”

“Then what if you rescued a group of sexy young women, and they wanted to pleasure you out of sheer gratitude for their freedom?” He stays quiet, so you carry on, keen to provoke a verbal response to your substitute suggestion, aware that it’s a total tangent but too intrigued to resist asking. “And they’re gorgeous, and there’s no downside?”

Your companion looks to the side and then shrugs. “Not if I had rescued them. That would be too… transactional. I couldn’t be sure they weren’t doing it because they thought they owed me. It would feel like taking advantage, and I don’t do that.”

You laugh at his earnest statement and promptly contradict his claim. “Barely two days ago, you were sitting in my quarters insisting you’re used to deals and bargains and debating which of us was more indebted to the other.”

“Not for sex,” he insists. “That’s not a bargaining tool.”

Huh, curious. Din’s moral stance is far nobler than most men you’ve met, which you find surprising yet refreshing. You can’t resist pressing your hypothetical one last time, though. “So there are stunningly beautiful women begging to give you mind-blowing sexual favours, but you’d rather hurry them off your ship and then go and touch yourself instead?”

His sigh suggests his discomfort with your query, but he calmly closes the debate. “This question is off-topic because you’re still talking about indulgence, not addiction – they’re totally different things.” Then he adds, “And I’ve managed like that until now.”

“Aha! So that’s the habitual thing!” You preen at your apparent win.

The beskar helmet tilts as if you’ve claimed a false victory. “You said bad habits. That’s… necessary.”

Deflated by his logic, you pout but nod in agreement, and only the pulsing fob and the breeze rustling through the leaves fill the silence that follows.

Then the hunter finally takes pity on you and cautiously confesses, “Cyar’ika… the only thing I’m addicted to is you. I met you less than five days ago; addiction is the best label I’ve got for this right now because the alternative is….” He trails off with a deep sigh and then reaffirms his main sentiment. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted this much.”

Warmth blossoms outward from your chest, and you reward him with a soft smile. “Good answer.” Perhaps he’s right. The craving you once felt for alcohol doesn’t compare to the desperate desire you now feel for him. And you’re not sure you’re ready to consider another (more serious) label yet, either.

That said, you’re not sure how much longer you can avoid considering it.

Still sounding a little flustered at almost straying into ‘serious’ talk, Din lets out a soft grunt of apparent relief and presses ahead. “Second question?”

“Oh yeah.” You gather your thoughts again. You know what you want to ask, but this inquiry is closer to home, and his changeable attitude this morning has made you nervous. “I’m asking this in theory, okay? No pressure.”

He pauses a moment before nodding, seemingly uneasy at your caveat.

The forest breeze gusts strongly for a moment, kicking up eddies of leaf litter and carrying them across the clearing in tiny spirals. You inhale a deep lungful of the cool air to steel your nerves. “You mentioned loopholes with the helmet for kissing. Can you tell me how they work?”

When he doesn’t respond (doesn’t even twitch), you worry you’ve broached a topic you should’ve waited for him to cover on his own. After several moments of your heart thumping double-time against the tracking fob’s pulse, he angles the visor downward and fidgets on his knees.

“You don’t have to answer,” you backtrack, now doubly worried his awkward fidgeting means you’ve overstepped. “I’m just curious, that’s all.”

“I’ll answer,” he assures you instantly, but it sounds resigned. It gives you the distinct impression that he’s not keen on doing so, but he’ll make the effort to because it’s you asking.

The breeze continues to stir the trees around you, managing to both cool your sweaty palms and create an eerie atmosphere. The hiss of the fluttering leaves eclipses the usual bustle of small forest creatures, and it’s loud enough to cover your partner’s sigh.

“When we reaffirm the Creed, we must answer no to two questions. The first is whether we have ever removed our helmet; the second is whether it has ever been removed by others. If either occurs, it is a breach of the Creed.”

Your Mandalorian pauses in his lesson, so you offer a supportive nod, enjoying how formal and respectful his diction becomes whenever he describes his creed.

“Which loophole I choose will depend on how literally I interpret those questions, and… that is a complex issue I need to give a lot more thought. It also relates to some things I still have to tell you. So… I can’t say exactly how it will work with us yet. All I can say is that, at a minimum, I should be able to lift it a little if you cover your eyes. Like when I eat or drink. That isn’t removing it.”

Insight settles before you like the dust and detritus spiralling down from the treetops in the shafts of sunlight. Removing his helmet entirely when you’re present would be a technical breach of his creed, even if you couldn’t see him. Though he hasn’t described the penalty for such a breach, it’s clear deciding to do so would be risky and a huge deal.

It surprises you that he hasn’t completely ruled it out and wants to give it more thought. Once again, you find yourself musing on just how serious this is becoming, and you’re more intrigued than ever to learn what he wants to share with you.

“But we still can’t try it, not yet.” Regret drips from Din’s words. “This morning has proved that. You saw what happened to my focus, and I wasn’t even touching you. Then I upset you because I was trying too hard to rein myself in.”

Oh, so that’s why he turned into a stubborn bastard earlier! No doubt inflamed by the jealousy you so carelessly triggered in him. Memories surface of you insulting him before escaping to the cantina, desperate to keep him at arm’s length when things began to feel confusing and real.

An impulsive giggle escapes you, and he tilts his helmet at you, perplexed by your mirth. “I just realised we both turn into moody bitches when we’re trying to keep our distance to deal with all this confusion,” you clarify.

Your companion accepts your overall theory with a reluctant grunt of concession, although you can tell he dislikes your label.

“Listen, though,” you continue. “I understand that we have to limit the physical stuff during the hunt to non-sexual contact, and I’m okay with that. I think it’s good we can work on the ‘getting to know you’ stuff without it becoming a distraction for you.”

“That’s the opposite of a distraction,” he blurts before you can continue. At your distinctly baffled glance, he struggles to explain. “When it was only about the credits, this hunt was just another job. But after what that asshole did to you, I have a… deeper motive to catch him. And the closer we get to each other, the more… in sync we become with the hunt. So, the more I learn about you, the more I develop the right type of focus. Understand?”

You don’t follow his logic at all. In fact, you’re now doubly confused, but he seems anxious for you to comprehend what he’s saying. “Sort of… maybe?”

Din glances down at the remnants of breakfast and hastily re-wraps the remaining sweetcake portion, moving it and the water flask to the edge of the blanket. Once the space between you is clear, he beckons you forward with a soft command. “Come here.”

Given his insistence that anything carnal is off the cards, you accept this isn’t a come-on, yet you’re suddenly nervous. As instructed, you tuck your legs beneath you and shuffle forward on your knees, stopping directly before him and falling back on your heels to mirror his position. “Like this?”

“Yes.” Your partner reaches out and cradles your hands in his, one gloved, one bare, and it almost feels like some kind of pledge is about to occur.

You assume he has no idea this is how Onderonian binding ceremonies begin, or he probably wouldn’t kneel with you this way. Your cheeks warm slightly when you realise the connection your mind has made. Then you wonder why you so readily adopted the position despite knowing what it signifies within certain circles on your homeworld. Playing out a childhood fantasy? There’s no way you’re ready for that, either of you.

Catching your lower lip between your teeth, you gaze into the endless blackness of his visor with all the trust in your heart, so new yet so tangible.

Din begins his attempt to clarify, adopting his usual piecemeal approach until he can zero in on his point. “There’s a word in Mando’a – keldab. It means ‘stronghold’. According to the songs, they named Mandalore’s first capital city ‘Keldabe’ because it was so well fortified. We adapted the word in Basic for something we call a ‘Keldabe kiss’.” As you raise your eyebrows, he shakes his head. “It’s not what you think.”

“Oh…kay.” You try to curb the confusion in your voice. He’s trying his best to explain whatever this is, so you need to be patient while he finds the correct words.

“There are two types of Keldabe kiss. The first is a battlefield move called a kov’nyn, which means ‘head strike’, where we use our helmets to headbutt an enemy. The beskar can crack a skull.”

“Not your own, I hope,” you worry, though the instant it leaves your mouth, you realise your concern is redundant and regret giving it voice. Of course Mandalorians wouldn’t do that if it were likely to cause them harm.

You can hear the warrior’s grin in his response. “No, it’s padded inside. It doesn’t hurt the wearer if it’s done correctly. But that’s exactly why we give the technique that name. The helmet is the most fortified part of our armour, it’s always made of beskar, so it’s our stronghold – our keldab. Calling it a kiss is just an example of our humour.”

You love that his blatant penchant for dry sarcasm is cultural. Curling your lips into a half smile, you dip your chin to show you’re following, not wanting to verbally interrupt this compelling flow of facts again. You’ve heard him speak only snippets of Mando’a so far, and any insight into the beautiful language is welcome.

“The other type of Keldabe kiss is to show affection during courtship. What started as humour ended up giving the words a more literal meaning. As I said, our helmets make kissing difficult, and the loopholes aren’t supposed to exist. So this… is our substitute.”

Din’s ungloved hand releases yours and steadies your chin. Then he slowly leans forward until the ridge on his helmet just above his visor makes gentle contact with your forehead, so softly that it’s almost a caress. Your eyes flutter closed, and you feel them moisten at the tenderness in his gesture.

“This is a mirshmureyca. It means ‘brain kiss’. It means we know each other.” His voice is soft yet insistent, confident yet innocent. It resonates through the vocoder beautifully when he’s this close.

You release his other hand and reach for his cuirass, palms against the metal, fingers in the fabric above. Though you’re unsure of the expected response to this Mandalorian gesture of emotion and affection, you can recognise what he’s offering.

It feels like a promise.

The closest you’ve come to doing the same for him was when you held him last night, offering the soft touches he yearned for. So you slide your hands to his neck and dig beneath his cloak, a physical recall of what you’ve already offered. He instantly readjusts his own hands to the same location on you, and you become a true mirror of one another.

“The body is a distraction,” he intones. “But knowing each other’s heart and mind creates a keldab, a stronghold, a fortified connection. The Way of the Mand’alor endorses strong and loyal connections because they give us something to fight for. The right type of focus. Do you understand now, mesh’la?”

“Completely.” And you do.

This hunter has spent most of his life on the battlefield, and though you have no doubt his technique is masterful, he seeks a higher purpose for fighting. His feelings give him purpose, his purpose gives him focus, and his focus helps him fight better. It makes perfect sense for such a close mental or emotional bond to fortify him.

By contrast, sexual desire leaves the body ill-prepared for battle. It sends signals to muscles not used for fighting to tense and ready themselves. It diverts blood from the brain when it’s needed for careful planning and strategy. And even after sating the desire, the body remains flooded with blissful chemicals not conducive to successful tactics and combat.

You’re laid out flat by how obvious it is, embarrassed it’s taken you so long to truly comprehend how correct Din is. You need to complete the hunt before you can have sex; strengthen the bond that will help him fight, not the one that will distract him. For the next few days, any touches should nurture your emotional connection, not tease the carnal delights you’ll enjoy at the mission’s end.

Now that you truly understand, you suspect you can control yourself better too. Flirting should only be hypothetical, maintaining a respectful distance. Promises, not temptations. It’s a careful line you both must walk, but knowing the limits should make it easier to maintain the proper restraint.

It’s clear your companion is still learning to manage this too, since he’s caused some of the hiccups himself. He’s displayed how much his desire for you escalates when he sees you fighting, and you’re on a kriffing bounty hunt together. You’re sure there’ll be more combat before you bring in the quarry, so it’s crucial that he learns to control his primal urges and focuses on the emotional and intellectual. Maybe even spiritual, if this is something his creed teaches.

Appreciation flows through you, and your eyes flutter open again. You don’t know if they’re watering because of the breeze that agitates the forest or the meaningful exchange you’re engaging in. You grasp his cloak tighter and murmur, “The right type of focus.”

“This is the Way,” he whispers back instantly. His fingers massage the soft skin above your clavicles, and he breaks contact with your forehead but stays close. You can almost feel him staring into your eyes, and you gaze into his visor with all the affection that swells inside you.

Din draws his ungloved hand along your arm until he reaches where your hand digs beneath his cloak at his neck, and he extracts it. Then, to your surprise, he moves it to the front of his neck and guides your fingers beneath the base of his helmet. Slowly, he slides them up the fabric of the high collar that covers his neck almost to his chin, ascending until you detect stubble beneath your fingertips.

Your breath catches in a gasp. Is this really happening?

“Din?”

Instead of answering, he raises his other hand to tilt up the beskar a fraction. Not enough to expose any of his skin to your widened eyes, but just enough space for him to bring your index and middle fingers to his lips…

…and he gently kisses the pads.

Kriff.

Something thrilling and complex shoots through you – a feeling that leaves you so dizzy with affection that you question whether you’re fully cognisant of what’s happening.

Your mouth falls open at the feeling of your partner’s lips against your fingers. He holds and kisses only two digits, letting your remaining fingers splay outward against the lower part of his face. You try to imagine in your mind’s eye what you’re touching.

His lips are soft, guarded against wind damage by the beskar, the lower one slightly fuller than the upper one. He has whiskers along his jawline and a moustache, not a full beard. The stubble on his jaw feels sparse but grows thicker on his upper lip. The incomplete picture in your head of what this man hides beneath his helmet is suddenly a shade clearer.

You don’t move your hand of your own accord, careful to let Din control what parts of his face he reveals to your touch. The first press of his lips lingers for a few seconds, and then you feel his mouth gently curve into a small smile, making your heart flutter.

You’re literally feeling his happiness.

He kisses your fingertips a few more times before attempting to repeat the action lower on your digits, but they’ll only fit so far through the small gap he’s made. So he carefully slides out your hand, resetting his helmet before returning to grip your shoulders, smoothing his thumbs along your clavicles. The whole action took seconds, but it felt like hours.

You move your lucky hand to his cloak, fisting it there to keep the euphoric quiver at bay, drunk on the secret he’s shared. And you angle your head to give him another Keldabe kiss in thanks for that small but meaningful disclosure. You know more about him now.

His fingers knead your trapezius muscles along your shoulders in response. You’re both becoming so skilled at nonverbal exchanges; it’s astounding how easily you’ve established this gesture-based language.

After a while, a shiver runs through you that has nothing to do with the emotive exchange, and it causes both of you to pull away slightly. You realise the breeze is gusting harder now, chilling you since you didn’t put your jacket back on after changing.

The hunter looks over your shoulder, the angle of the visor flicking upward, and he tenses. Then he pulls you to your feet with some urgency. “We gotta move fast.”

“Has the fob slowed down?” You don’t think it has. The pulses continue at the regular intervals you noted when you arrived here.

“No. Look.” Din points behind you at a high angle, so you follow his gesture and instantly comprehend why he’s so desperate to get underway.

An enormous bank of storm clouds crests the treetops in the distance. Roiling dark grey and menacing on the horizon, flashes of lightning ripple through them with the ominous threat of chaos. They’re moving in from the opposite direction to the suns, meaning the beams of light that stream through the fluttering foliage are false promises of calm. This stillness will vanish as soon as that storm reaches you.

“Kark,” you curse, knowing what this means. “Storms this massive normally dissipate over the ocean, but when they reach the coast on this side, they pick up momentum. They get nasty.”

“It looks big,” he agrees, “But it’s moving fast. It could pass within a few hours.”

“Some can be over in hours, but some last days,” you reveal. “I heard they only started becoming a problem after the Death Star’s destruction – freak ecological effects or something. The ecologists at the compound are still gathering data, so I bet they’re kriffing thrilled about this. The river runs straight into Lake Sui, so if tracking Nantoogen doesn’t slow us down too much, we can still dry off at the Ewok village there.”

Din grunts, pulling his glove back on. “Even if he has transport and gets that far today, he’ll probably avoid the village, so if we go there, he’ll regain his lead. We’ll have to see what his plan is and make adjustments… we might have to camp near wherever he ends up.”

“Great, so we get soaked, then spend another night in the dangerous forest in damp clothes. Bounty hunting is starting to seem less exciting.”

“Focus on the outcome,” he counsels. “We capture him, you kick him in the head to settle the score, we turn him in for more credits than we’ve ever seen, and then we… celebrate.”

Oh. Oh yes. Now that’s an uplifting concept. The outcome that both of you have in mind is well worth the discomfort of a rainstorm. You wish you had the time to muse on how to celebrate, but the clouds are rolling in fast. For now, you tuck the idea safely in the back of your mind, resolving to revel in it later.

Hurriedly repacking your supplies, you and your Mandalorian ready yourselves to leave. As you don your jacket, you ask, “How waterproof is all your gear?”

He raps his fist against the padding over his stomach. “Water can’t penetrate the armourweave, and it rolls off the beskar. My flight suit has a thermal lining – it regulates my body temperature in any climate. It’ll absorb the rain but won’t feel cold or damp, just heavy. And it dries fast. But my cloak, not so much.” He looks you over as he reaches under the edge of his cuirass to unclip the fastening where his cloak attaches. “You’re not dressed for rain.”

No shit. But luckily, you’ve dealt with inclement weather many times before.

Reaching down to snag the blanket from the ground, the only thing not yet packed, you thoroughly shake off any forest floor detritus. “This is waterproof. You’re taking a cloak off; I’m putting one on.”

Satisfied you’ve removed the leaf litter, you rotate the coated fabric until you locate the modified corner sewn back on itself, a button and a matching hole on either side. Aiming for graceful but falling just short, you manage to drape the blanket over your shoulders at the correct angle and fasten the button beneath your jaw. It’s crude, but it’s large enough to form a hood, and it falls almost to your ankles at the back and your knees at the front. To complete the look, you tie up your hair, don your goggles, and then pull up the hood. You feel distinctly alien as you peer out through the Plastex.

Din has removed his cloak, but he’s frozen midway through folding it, staring at you as if you’ve sprouted lekku or montrals. Until now, you’ve been the one gaping in disbelief, so you copy the move he always gives you in these situations: you tilt your head and offer a nonchalant shrug. Yeah, I’m awesome, and you love it. After a second, he responds with an approving bob of his helmet.

As much as you enjoy your verbal exchanges, conversing via body language is often far simpler.

He finishes folding his cloak and passes it to you, and you tuck it inside your backpack, which you secure to the rear of the speeder. You’ve jammed as much as possible into the waterproof pack to keep your clothes and supplies dry, transferring the flasks to your respective shoulder bags.

“Your HUD helps you react quicker, so we can travel faster, right?” He nods. “It might be best if we try and outrun the rain for as long as possible,” you advise. A deep and ominous rumble rolls across the valleys as if to goad you into trying.

Your companion nods again, climbing onto the bike at the front and offering his palm as leverage to help you hop on behind him. He picks up the tracking fob from where it rests on the control panel before him and smoothly returns it to the pouch. When you’ve secured your grip on his belt, he taps a few controls on his vambrace to link up his HUD, then sets off rapidly toward the river.

The menacing crack of thunder is a sinister harbinger at your back.

Chapter Text

By your own (inexpert) reckoning, you must be about halfway to the river when the storm catches up with you.

Its arrival is first signified by louder and more frequent rumbles of thunder booming through the forest, sending creatures scampering and fluttering for safety.

Then, as the sky darkens, the rumbles evolve in both volume and length, and the lightning begins without warning. The charcoal sky strobes with intent to blind, dazzlingly bright when reflected in Din’s helmet and backplate. With nowhere to look that doesn’t hurt your eyes, you clamp them shut and start counting seconds, awaiting the almighty crack of thunder to follow. Perhaps if you can determine a pattern, you can predict when it’s safe to look.

Your Mandalorian slows the speeder. “Can’t see my HUD when it flashes. Slower is safer,” he explains, his caution a welcome comfort against your nerves. You figured he’d have tech to compensate, but it seems he’s cursing the lightning just as much as you are.

He guides the bike ahead at about twice walking speed now. The slow pace allows for the risk of obstacles blown in your path by the gusting wind and any short-term blindness from the lightning. Your adrenaline keeps you focused, a second pair of eyes checking for danger between the dazzling flashes.

“Will you attract lightning in all this metal?” You raise your voice against the gale and speak close to his helmet’s audio sensors.

“No,” he calls back, his modulated reply faint and almost whipped away by the wind, barely audible. “Beskar has high electrical resistivity and low thermal conductivity to prevent absorbing energy weapons fire. It directs it away from me – saved me from dying a few times. I get hammered by the electrostatic force, but I’m protected from the other effects. The speeder might attract it, though – it’s basic durasteel. Let’s hope the river isn’t much farther.”

When the rain begins, it’s a sudden and brutal deluge. Fat splashes of water hammer down as if the sky is punishing the land. Despite Endor’s lighter-than-normal gravity, the downpour beats fiercely against you, and Din reduces the bike’s speed even further to walking pace.

You have to almost shout to make yourself heard over the storm. “Should we shelter?”

“At the river,” he yells. The heavens rumble again, and you only catch a few words from the rest of his response. It’s something about lightning taking the fastest route to the ground, the giant redwoods, and the river basin’s elevation. Whatever he said, you trust him.

You’ve dealt with rain on Endor before, but never a storm of this magnitude. This is something else. You’ve always been safe in the compound when these monsters have descended. Growing up on Onderon, there were frequent downpours – it’s a planet of rainforests, after all. But they were seasonal, predictable, and didn’t come with high winds and dangerous lightning. You can cope with rain, but the related perils teased by this sinister squall put you on high alert. These are hazards you’ve never had to handle, and they fry your nerves.

After two near misses from flying branches, the tempest demonstrates its dominion over the landscape to a frightening degree. With a horrendous crack, lightning strikes a tree just ahead of you, rending a bough at the top and sending it crashing into your path. Your pilot slams hard on the brakes, and the heavy branch misses you by mere metres.

Shit, that was fucking close!

Din leaps off the bike, darting behind you, and confusion joins your anxiety… until you feel his large hands slide beneath your ass. The storm’s howl eclipses your squeal as his gloved fingers press into your backside and shift you forward on the seat. It’s the very definition of manhandling. But you understand his intent as soon as he climbs on behind you and wraps his body around yours.

“My HUD is useless at this speed,” he calls, as close to your ear as possible with the beskar between you. “But I can shield you from branches.”

You acknowledge with a nod and power the bike past the fallen branch, pressing ahead at the same walking pace. Your anxiety over the dangerous conditions utterly eclipses any enjoyment from having this hunter grab your ass and manhandle you to where he wants you. Instead, you clear space in your mind and lock away the memory of his fingers on your flesh, intending to savour it later.

It’s a further twenty minutes before the trees start to shrink in height. The undergrowth here is just as dense, but since the canopy is lower, it shields you more from the gusting wind. You flinch with every cacophonous clap of thunder, but the supportive arms surrounding you tighten each time.

Pressing ahead for more tense minutes, you’re starting to wonder where the kriff the river is. This is maddening; surely you should’ve reached it by now. But wait. There! At last, you glimpse it through the washed-out trees up ahead.

Deferring to your partner’s eminent hunting expertise, you halt the speeder and point out the glinting expanse.

Din acknowledges what you’ve spotted by calling clear instructions beside your ear. “The storm covers the sound of the speeder, so we’re safe. Go slow and stop just before the tree line. I gotta get a look at the area.”

As ordered, you cruise the bike carefully to the tree line, where you both dismount and crouch at the edge of the undergrowth. Peering through the torrential downpour while the sky cracks and rends above you, you try to assess your situation.

The river is vastly swollen from the excessive rainfall, and the velocity of the gushing water unnerves you as it roars past like a monstrous silver snake. Peering through the veil of rain, you can just about see to the other side, and… kark. It’s already broken its banks in a few places on the far shore where the parallel path alongside runs lowest. If the storm continues all day, this location could become dangerous for anyone trapped here. Luckily, the banks are somewhat steeper on this side, at least in this stretch of the river. Who knows what you’ll find up ahead.

The toxic torment of anxiety begins to work its way up from your stomach. The idea that you’re now totally unprepared for the bounty’s next move causes mild nausea and dizziness to overcome you. The vicious storm has directly interfered with a plan you’ve already had to adjust once today – it’s not kriffing fair!

Turning away from the torrent, you retreat to the other side of the speeder and huddle down on your haunches on the muddy ground. Dejected and discouraged, you stare at the sheets of water from the heavens as they blur the trees into obscure outlines.

Din’s large hand on your shoulder startles you, and you refocus on him as he steps around and crouches in front of you. He leans forward until his helmet is near enough to shield you somewhat, the raindrops beating down on the beskar and streaming along his back.

“There’s nothing to suggest he’s got transport. Not here, at least,” he announces loudly, full of confidence. Then he seems to sense something is amiss from your lack of response and squeezes your shoulder. “Are you okay?”

What you wouldn’t give to see your Mandalorian’s eyes right now. The hood and goggles you wear add an extra barrier between you, already kept so far removed by his darkened visor. What you want – what you need – is a warm-blooded assurance that you’re safe and that there’s still a plan. The rapid and chaotic descent of the weather into this nightmarish cataclysm has engulfed and buried your positivity from mere hours ago. Just this morning, this man made you feel more connected to life than ever. Now you feel adrift, battered and blown by the vicious wind, rattled by every clap of thunder, fearful of surrounding danger.

“I don’t like this!” you all but shriek, pushing up your goggles with no regard for the rain. “Check the fob.”

He obliges your request instantly, either because it’s a wise move or because he wants to calm you down. Probably both. The pulse of the tracker isn’t audible against the storm, but the light on the front flashes at the fastest speed you’ve seen.

Nantoogen is closer than ever. Your heart hammers harder, and your uneven breathing falters further.

Din sees your terror despite the downpour, and he stashes the fob and takes your cloaked head in his hands, hovering even closer. “Look at me,” he commands, and when you do, he continues, “Great, now listen to me. Remember the criminal detector in my helmet? I scanned for heat signatures, and all I got were animals. He’s not close enough to know we’re here – the fob confirms that. Trust me, I’ve been reading them for years. He’s at least ten minutes from here on foot. He is not gonna ambush us. Now breathe.”

Okay, that helps. Your companion reaches for your hand, carefully pressing his gloved thumb into the centre of your palm, knowing now that it calms the body. Then he picks up your other hand and presses it to his beskar chest, exaggerating his slow breathing to help you pace yours. You follow the rise and fall of his cuirass, matching the speed until your gulping breaths slow and you’ve regained some semblance of composure again.

“ThankyouI’msorry.” Gratitude and apologies tumble out together, less shrill than before but still loud enough to carry above the storm. “I just… I hate that the plan’s gone to shit, and we have no karking idea what’s coming. It’s making me nervous.”

He allows your hand to fall from his cuirass but keeps his thumb in your palm. His glove and your hand are so wet that it’s a poor and distinctly soggy version of the gesture, but you’re thankful nonetheless. He still has to raise his voice against the noise of the torrential downpour, even hovering so close to you.

“The plan is the same: locate, observe, adjust, then track. We reached the river without injury, and I didn’t expect him to be sitting on the shore waiting for us. The fob gives us his direction, and the storm gives us cover, so we have an extra advantage now. Once we’ve located him and confirmed how and where he’s waiting this out, we can do the same. We’ll move when he moves. I know it’s not ideal, but we can handle it, okay?”

Din’s supportive comments cause confidence and gratitude to bubble up inside you in defiance of the downward pounding rain. In your mind, you rebel against the very idea of Endor’s wayward weather. How dare it interfere with your hunt! Once again, you’re filled with an indignant drive to catch the motherkarking quarry and escape this moon, steeling you against the inclement conditions.

The hunter sees the change in your eyes and removes his thumb from your palm. “Good girl,” he praises loudly, giving your upper arm a firm squeeze, and now you have something else to bank in your brain for later. Something much nicer…

He yelled those two words casually, yet your brain decides to revive you from your recent doldrums by imagining him whispering them to you in bed. Stars. But with a sly smile, you curb that thought and store it safely, turning your focus to the current situation. “What’s next?”

“We conceal the bike, then recon on foot, heading north. Stay low. The trees make for taller lightning rods than us and should dissipate any hits, but you can’t predict the path of lightning. We don’t wanna be obvious options. Don’t pass too close to trees, and don’t reach out for anything taller than you unless it’s me. Follow my route exactly and stay about a metre behind me.” He concludes his instructions with another squeeze of your arm, helping you to your feet when you acknowledge.

Once he’s donned his jetpack, you drag foliage across the speeder and set off, remaining low as planned.

Trekking through the dense undergrowth in a rainstorm is challenging, to say the least. Din picks a path that takes you between vegetation of a similar height to himself, avoiding the tallest trees. He makes skilful use of his vibroblade on the thick foliage where required, carving a discreet path. You activate your vamblade to assist but manage to weave through it without cutting much more. Your parents taught you about tracking, though that part of your schooling didn’t start until you’d left the Highlands, so it was all theoretical. Nonetheless, you recall you should be as subtle as possible in creating a path from your origin point and your supplies on the speeder.

Finally, he stops and crouches, and you mimic the movement in his wake, unable to see what he’s seeing. The notion that you’re so close to your attacker again makes your heart pound. Your partner taps some commands on his vambrace, then extracts a small scope with which he focuses on a specific area of interest. After a few moments, he stows the scope and turns.

Creeping closer so you’re hunkered down with heads bowed together again, you can just about hear his clearly spoken report through the howling storm. “I’ve got what I need; let’s head south. I’ll fill you in when we find shelter.”

You turn and move in the direction you just came from, picking up your own trail. The return trek is quicker with fewer bushes to cut, and you relish how accomplished you feel simply by taking the lead and not getting lost once.

When you arrive, Din recovers your supply bag from the speeder but leaves the lyaer’tsa where it is, replacing the thick foliage over the bike. He then beckons you to follow, darting across to the south side of the main path you followed to the river. You’re happy to note he’s putting more space between yourselves and Nantoogen while keeping a safe distance from the aggressive flow of the river itself.

It’s a further ten minutes of pressing through thick foliage and flinching at the cracks of thunder, and your nerves are getting frazzled. But soon, the space between the trees increases, and the vegetation begins to thin out, making you feel less trapped. As tangled roots make way for a slippery carpet of leaves, your companion leads you to the base of a steep ridge. Several sharp rocks and boulders protrude from it at odd angles, and a few almost overhang, creating shallow yet vital sources of possible shelter. However, the ground below them is a quagmire of mud and leaves, and you’re not keen to sit in it.

He soon finds a suitable location: a shallow outcropping at a right angle with a vertical face, forming a corner alcove. The planes of the rock are oddly smooth and look almost carved.

“Stay back; gonna use my flamethrowers,” he warns.

Once you’re crouched a few metres away, grasping the backpack he just shoved into your arms, you discover the purpose of his pyrotechnics. He angles both vambraces at the spot beneath the rocky overhang, and twin jets of fire incinerate the damp leaves, baking the mud into a hardened seal. Smoke billows off the ground as the rain cools the superheated earth, and when he’s deemed it safe, he beckons you closer.

There isn’t room for both of you under the jutting rock. In fact, there’s barely space for you on your own without a broad man in beskar. Plus, it doesn’t protrude far enough to keep either of you completely dry. But Din seems to have a plan, and you value his survival skills even more.

“Crouch down there and give me your cloak. I need your vibro-shiv too,” he instructs, speaking directly toward your ear. The sky flashes bright with lightning again, making you close your eyes against the reflection in his armour. Between peals of thunder, he urges, “Now.”

You duck under the low, shallow overhang and follow the instructions as fast as possible. Squatting on the baked clay-like spot, you bemoan the loss of your waterproof covering until you realise what he’s doing with it.

He jams his vibroblade through the blanket’s corner into a fissure just above you, then pulls it across and secures the other corner using your vibro-shiv. It’s low enough to connect to the ground with plenty of excess, and from inside your narrow refuge, you watch him pull it outward a little. Then the fabric goes taut, and you surmise he’s heaved some smaller boulders onto the lower edge to prevent it from whipping about in the wind.

You’re now veiled from the elements by a vertical stone wall on your left, plus an inclined rock roof/wall behind and above you. The waterproof blanket creates a mirrored sloping fabric roof/wall at a narrow angle from the lip of the outcropping to the ground in front. A small opening remains at the end for lookout purposes, downwind so the gusts won’t blow inside.

Using only two blades and a blanket, he’s constructed a tiny mixed material cave-tent. And he’s done it with such nonchalance – as if keeping you both safe and dry amidst a monster storm isn’t an outstanding display of skill.

There’s barely room for you on your own in here, so you’re unsure how you’ll both utilise the shelter. Even when Din speaks again, you’re none the wiser.

“This’ll be tight, but we can manage,” he calls from the opening on your right, detaching his jetpack and passing it to you. “But we gotta behave, okay?”

You have no idea what he means, but you’ll agree to anything. “Yes, fine. Just get in here.” You tuck his jetpack next to your bag in the narrow space where the fabric meets the ground, leaving as much room as possible closer to the smooth rock.

As you debate whether you can fold yourselves in here side by side, he clarifies, “You gotta come out first, just for a few seconds.”

You hurriedly swap places with him and grimace in the downpour, but his prediction of a few seconds was accurate. The moment you’re clear, the hunter grabs your waist from behind and spins you both. Then he ducks down and falls backward into the shelter, landing on his ass and pulling you down messily with him… straight into his lap.

His arms stay locked around your waist, holding you securely against him as he shuffles as far inside as possible. When he can go no further, he finds the best position with his back against the vertical section and his legs outstretched. But he doesn’t relax. Neither of you comments on how firmly your bodies press together. You sit in skittish silence for a few minutes, listening to the storm raging outside, pinned against cold beskar, albeit not painfully.

Din’s thigh cuisses are smooth to sit atop, and you’ve leaned against his chest plate before, so this isn’t half bad. Wriggling atop him until you’ve found the least awkward angle, you distribute your weight evenly and readjust your shock baton along your outstretched leg so it doesn’t dig in.

The rain slides right off the metal of his armour, making it a drier seat than his soggy flight suit underneath. The blanket kept your own clothes mostly dry, so you don’t want to wick up the wetness from him any more than from the ground. Given your position, though, there’s no avoiding it in the armourless areas… in fact, your ass is already a little damp. Nonetheless, it’s the best option – physically, at least.

The atmosphere, however, is a different story. The silence isn’t awkward, but it’s far less relaxed than usual, and you’re not quite sure why. This isn’t the first time you’ve found yourselves in a small space pressed up close together. You spent several hours in such a position less than half a rotation ago.

After a while, it becomes alarmingly clear that you need to address the issue. The enclosure of blanket and rock means the turbulent storm no longer whips away your words, so at least you don’t have to shout anymore. Small mercies, you suppose.

“So… I realise this kicks the whole concept of keeping each other at arm’s length in the metaphorical ass, but this doesn’t have to be weird, Din. I slept in your arms last night; why are you so tense?”

When he exhales, it sounds (and feels) as if he’s been holding his breath since you sat down. “It’s just… I gotta focus so it doesn’t get weird. Last night, you weren’t… pressed against anything I needed to control. That was easier than this.” Despite his hesitant response, he doesn’t sound embarrassed. Instead, it’s more like he hopes referring to the likelihood of an erection might somehow keep it from occurring.

“Oh,” you offer sheepishly when he reveals the issue, making a valiant attempt to keep your hips and ass completely still against him. “Am I… should I move? Or is moving bad? Yeah, moving’s gonna be worse. Okay, I’m channelling stillness.” You begin chanting in a slow monotone. “I am one with the weirdly smooth rocks around us, enduring and stable. I am beskar, strong and—”

Your companion’s laugh cuts you off, quaking below you, and you replace your chanting with a grin. The instant the tension dissipates, you forget about staying still and fully relax against him, which in turn reduces the urge to fidget.

“That helped,” he chuckles. “Thanks.”

“Thank you for making a shelter,” you respond. “And for keeping me off the ground – beskar is better than mud, even baked mud.”

His laughter fades into a low hum to acknowledge your gratitude.

It’s dim in here but not dark, and the fabric is thin enough that the space fully lights up whenever the sky flashes. Studying your surroundings further, you reach out to stroke the pinkish-grey wall. “This rock is strange. It looks carved.”

“It’s quartzite,” he explains. “It forms naturally like this. Means there was volcanic activity here before the forests grew.”

You start to smile at Din’s impressive knowledge of the natural world, clearly a boon in bounty hunting. But you’re facing away from him, so your smile goes unnoticed, and he completes his lesson unaware of your wordless esteem.

“The mineral has high resistivity and low conductivity, like my armour. This is the safest place we could be in this kind of storm.”

You pat a smooth section of his vambrace. “Thanks, Professor Djarin,” you jibe, making him chuckle again. Using his mirth as a distraction, you seamlessly switch to interrogation mode and declare, “So, I have questions.”

His levity morphs into a melodramatic groan. “When don’t you?”

“Mission-related questions,” you pout. Stars, he’s so weirdly fussy about when he is and isn’t happy to answer you. Adopting a commanding tone, you announce, “I’m debriefing you, soldier. What did you learn from our recon?”

The casual way you play-act at military speak sets him at ease, and he answers you honestly. “There’s good news and bad news.” He hesitates, then ventures, “Don’t get upset, okay? This is nothing we can’t handle.” At your nod, he continues. “Bad news is he has a boat – he’s using it as shelter. Good news is it’s small, and as far as I can tell, it’s unpowered. So we can still outrun him on the speeder.”

The sky cracks with another lightning bolt, but it doesn’t perturb you as you consider Din’s report. You’re becoming as accustomed to the fearsome booms of the thunder as you are to the unwelcome hiccups in the plan. Plus, the strong arms wrapped around you and his earlier words of support help keep you calm.

Instead, a meagre grunt of frustration escapes you. You flatly surmise, “If Nantoogen has a boat conveniently stashed where he needs one, he must have planned this.”

“Scrapping the speeder was probably planned, yes. Fake a crash and scuff around to make it seem like he’s taken the forest path, then divert to the river. It’s a smart move on his part and would’ve worked on many other hunters. His contact at the compound must’ve put an escape route in place for him. But the storm will have inconvenienced him just as much as it has us. Nobody wants to sit in the mud with only an upturned rowboat for shelter.”

Over your shoulder, his helmet gently nudges the side of your head – a little Keldabe kiss of support.

“The plan is mostly unchanged,” he continues. “We’ve reached the river, and we’ve located him. He’ll stay put until the weather calms down, or taking that boat out won’t be safe. When he moves, we’ll track him from a safe distance and take him down when we’re closer to his ship. The only change is that there’s more waiting, which often happens on hunts. Timing is critical.”

A frustrated sigh escapes you, except it’s not about the plan. Sitting in your Mandalorian’s lap just reminds you of what you can’t yet have, and any delay in reaching it is a hindrance you could do without. “I’m getting used to waiting, I guess.”

“Mm-hmm,” he agrees, fidgeting slightly beneath you.

More minutes pass, during which Din continues to squirm subtly, and you try not to think of what he’s struggling to control. Instead, you focus on how the rolls of thunder echo through the valley carved by the river like a rampaging herd of banthas.

It soon becomes clear that he’s having trouble subduing his physical reaction to having your weight pressed against him. Not that you’re coping much better. It’s crossed your mind, so it must have crossed his too: you could have some mind-blowing sex in this position. The way he’s got you trapped against him… kriff, you can feel him half hard beneath you. All you can think about is rolling your hips and pressing against his stiffening cock, and your muscles twitch with the effort to stay chaste. The idea of getting off like this makes you wet in a way that has nothing to do with the rainstorm, only adding to the dampness between you.

No, this is wrong. You’d better stop thinking these things before you go too f—

“Ask me something,” he suddenly croaks through a shuddering breath.

“Oh, so now you’re inviting my questions?” You bark a cynical laugh, focusing on the role switch to distract from the sexual tension. “Just now, you suggested my urge to constantly ask you things is annoying.”

Against the flutter of the blanket above you, he negates your assumption. “Other people asking me about myself is an annoyance. I resist answering out of habit. But I told you, your questions help me focus… and I really need some of that right now. I’m— dank farrik… I’m having trouble here.”

“I’m not exactly immune either, Din,” you advise. “This is hard for me too, no pun intended. It’s taking every scrap of willpower to stop myself from moving against you how I really want to.”

He groans and then swallows audibly. “Please.” His low voice sounds strained, almost begging, which doesn’t improve your focus. Logic tells you he’s repeating his appeal for you to question him, but you can’t help thinking he’s secretly pleading for you to grind down against him.

“Ah, okay, um….” You rack your brain, trying to formulate something not related to the filthy images searing themselves into your mind’s eye, but you come up short. Maybe you can just compel him to offer something of his own accord? “What’s the next big thing you need to tell me about?”

His groan is a fusion of lust and frustration. “Fuck, woman, way to be general about it.” You recognise that he’s cursing, complaining, and using such an impersonal label because it’s safer than giving in to his desire. The tension in the arms wrapped around you is palpable; he’s locked his muscles to avoid sliding his hands to places that are within easy reach.

You need to get your companion talking, but given his reluctance to speak about his past, you’ll have to persuade him once again. Do you really have to convince him to trust you every time? Then again, he’s given you such tireless support regarding your own areas of weakness that you can’t deny him the same when he finds something difficult. The instant you grasp this fact, you relent easily.

“Alright, look at it this way: I don’t know what I should be asking, so we’ve got two options here. We can dance around the things you want to tell me and let the sexual tension take over. Or, we can use this time to get some of the important stuff out in the open and refocus ourselves. We’re stuck here for who knows how long, and I’m facing away from you, so you won’t have me staring at you when you talk. And if you need support or comfort, you’ve got me in your arms.” You illustrate by squeezing his elbow.

When he stays silent, you carry on your persuasion, wondering if you’re getting anywhere. You try to infuse extra softness into your tone, as if you’re coaxing a bearded jax out of its den.

“Din, I promise you there’s nothing you can say that’ll make me like you less. I don’t care if it’s about your beliefs, your creed, bad things you’ve done in the past, or crazy things you want in the future. I’ve accepted everything else you’ve told me, so why should this be any different?”

His helmet lowers onto your shoulder, and he performs a vague imitation of nuzzling you there if there wasn’t beskar between you. You get the impression he’s trying to reassure himself rather than come on to you, though. At least you’ve managed to distract him, or you’re pretty sure you have since the bulge beneath you is already far less evident.

You wait patiently for him to figure out where to start, but when he still hasn’t spoken after a further minute, you prompt him again. “Whatever it is, try reducing it to the smallest possible statement and then just say it. I don’t care how shocking it sounds. Then you can explain it at your own pace, and I’ll just listen. Okay?”

After a few seconds, you feel the helmet shake against your shoulder. Then he explains, “This is… a lot of big stuff, and you need context, or you’ll get mad. I can’t just… say it.”

“Well, then maybe….” You flounder a little, casting about for ways to help him. “Are there… events you can tell me about chronologically? Will that work?”

Once again, you detect the response on your shoulder; this time, it’s a nod. Finally. Din inhales audibly through the vocoder, and you steel yourself for whatever his disclosure is.

He doesn’t lift his head, but he rolls the helmet sideways on your shoulder so he’s speaking close to your ear, his voice hesitant. “I… I had a foundling. A child. I rescued him from an Imperial remnant, and he travelled with me for a while. I took care of him. The Imps sent bounty hunters after us, so we were… fugitives for a while. Then, after I’d dealt with them and cleared my name, my tribe’s Armourer tasked me with bringing him to his own kind.”

It’s another startling confession, but you take it in your stride again. The knowledge that he protected and provided for a child only makes you more sure of your feelings for this incredible man. Suddenly, his caring instincts make sense.

It also gives you more context regarding his character. You’ve already determined this hunter has morals, and now you’ve learned he knows how it feels to be quarry too. He can truly empathise with those he hunts, and that must make his job profoundly challenging.

Beyond that, however, you’re intensely curious to learn about the child he cared for. You utilise his pause to prompt him gently, “His own kind?”

He continues, still sounding uncertain. “I’d never seen one of his species before, but then I discovered he was a Jedi with… powers. It meant I couldn’t train him – I had to find him a Jedi. But while I was tracking them down, we became… close. It felt like he was my kid. And then a Jedi found us, and… he took him away.”

You’ve heard of the Jedi. Your parents told you stories about their role in the Clone Wars and how they were all wiped out by the Empire when the conflict ended. Then there are the tall tales your Ewok friends told you about a magical Jedi in the Battle of Endor. But those were campfire stories for the Woklings, nothing more. Your brain suddenly connects those stories with Din’s laser sword, though you can’t possibly ask him about that while he’s busy sharing his past. And it can’t be the same thing, anyway – his weapon isn’t bright like lightsabers supposedly were.

As the heavens continue to rumble outside your shelter, you ignore your sceptical thoughts and focus on the anguish in his voice. You lace your fingers with his damp gloves and give a supportive squeeze, and he returns it in gratitude.

After a moment, he needs no prompting to continue, now sounding dejected. “I told you that Mandalorians adopt foundlings, how it’s part of our creed to raise our children as warriors. I failed with mine. I couldn’t adopt him as my own, and I couldn’t raise him as Mandalorian.”

Guilt rolls off him, but you’re sure he hasn’t finished because he’s said nothing remotely maddening yet. And he seemed so sure you’d get mad about something. You’d rather not interrupt him with verbal sympathy, so you soothe his gloved hand with your thumb, awaiting his confession.

“I was… upset when he went. He made me a better man, but I had to give him up. It made me angry, sad, selfish… I don’t know why I did it, but… please don’t be mad….” Din takes a deep breath, and his subsequent words smoulder in shame and regret. “I broke the Creed and removed my helmet to say goodbye.”

Oh, kriff. That’s what’s got him so worried. He’s already taken it off for someone, yet he’s not sure if he can ever do the same for you, even in darkness. And he let this kid see his face. On purpose.

But this isn’t about you. Managing to contain your shock, you recover within seconds, knowing he needs your support without judgment or jealousy.

When he doesn’t speak for a moment, you stroke his gloved hand again and softly murmur, “I’m not mad… that would be a very selfish reaction. You had a valid reason to do it. He was your child, even if only for a short time. If that’s what he needed when you had to say goodbye, you were just being a good father. Less than a minute ago, you told me that part of your creed is raising children. The way I see it, you had to break one part to fulfil another for the sake of a child you cared for. I would say that’s a noble sacrifice.”

He inhales raggedly and squeezes your hand – a thank you for your words of support.

You wonder why he was so sure you’d be mad about this, but then you recall how he froze in response to your earlier query about kissing. Ah. You should clarify things.

“Din, I need you to know: I will never expect you to break your creed for me. He was your family; I’m not. I want to kiss you, but only if we can do it without risking your creed. I’ll only be comfortable trying it if you are too, and we go at whatever pace suits you. When I asked about loopholes earlier, I didn’t mean to suggest that you should risk or sacrifice anything for me. That’s the last thing I want. I should’ve clarified that; I’m sorry.”

Your Mandalorian tightens his arms around you and lets out a shuddering exhale through the modulator. Then he breathes your name, and since he seldom uses it, it signifies that what he’s about to say will be sincere and impactful. “I didn’t want to keep it a secret from you that I had a kid. But I didn’t want you to be jealous or assume I could remove my helmet again because I’ve broken my creed before. I couldn’t tell you one without the other – it would’ve felt like lying. The guilt has been… weighing on me. Because I removed it before and because I can’t do the same for you… as much as I want to.” He nuzzles his visor against your shoulder again. “I’m sorry that I can’t. Thank you for accepting that, cyar’ika.”

Three of his words glow like embers in the small space, hanging over you and burning themselves into your brain. Perhaps it’s wrong to ask, but you can’t help yourself. “You want to? Remove it for me?”

Din is silent again. Karking hell, he’s just as frustrating as a dokma: all cute and cautiously affectionate until he’s startled and darts back inside his shell.

Mere minutes ago, you assured him you’d never condone him breaking his creed for you, so he should understand you haven’t revised that opinion. Nonetheless, you reassure him of your respect for his customs. “I know you can’t, and you shouldn’t. As you said, I’ve accepted it. I’m not asking; I’m just surprised to hear you say you want to.”

He makes a muted noise of frustration, although it’s clearly directed at himself. “Part of me does. Very much. There’s a voice inside me saying, what the hell – it’s come off before, so it’s no big deal to do it again. And I’m already pushing the boundaries by lifting it to eat and drink in your presence. But other parts of me are saying no way: my loyalty to the Creed, my need to atone. And I gotta listen to my faith and guilt because right now, they shout louder than… my feelings for you. But it’s only been five days… that could change. I think if… I-I think—” He cuts himself off as words fail him, then gathers his strength. “Fuck it… it’s… it’s already starting to change.”

Holy stars. The weight of Din’s statement lies heavily on your chest like a fallen bantha.

It’s true, it’s only been five days – five short Endor days. And whatever you feel for one another, no matter how serious it’s rapidly becoming, it doesn’t justify him giving in to temptation. But those feelings are growing fast for you both, and the idea that they could become the loudest voice guiding his actions is both wonderful and worrying.

Because this isn’t just any action you’re discussing. It’s whether his feelings for you could become so deep that he’d willingly break the creed he’s lived by for the past twenty-five years. And he’s just confirmed not only that his feelings could become that strong, but that they’re already evolving in that direction. The implications of that are huge and fucking scary.

“I don’t… it’s…” You scramble helplessly for the right words, taking a deep breath. Now that those as yet unlabelled feelings have become the main topic, you thank the stars you’re not facing him for this discussion. “I want to be… honest,” you begin. And you do, but it’s hard, despite the momentous thing he just admitted to.

Can you name it? Will it scare him? Somewhere deep inside, you already know the answer to that. Once he’d conquered his initial nerves, Din made his admission with confidence. If he’s willing to face it head-on, so are you.

So you persevere. “The truth is, I’m feeling some… intense stuff here. About you. Toward you. This thing between us is becoming much more… serious than I expected. We both know it. We’ve alluded to it. But we haven’t said it.”

“Because it’s only been five days,” he asserts. “It sounds crazy out loud.”

Well, that confirms it. Your thoughts align on this concept. It gives you confidence.

“I agree, and we’re not… kriff, look, if we’re both thinking the same crazy thing about where this is going, then I’m just gonna say it.” You hear him inhale expectantly, and you draw in the energy from the storm and close your eyes. “This isn’t love, but—”

“—but it’s heading that way,” he finishes for you, low and assured.

Huddled in the tiny shelter, the wind and rain beating on the blanket, your warrior’s warm body beneath you and his strong arms around you, the act of finally giving your confusing feelings a potential label infuses you with both terror and joy. You inhale a shuddering breath, out of your depth yet so sure of the truth, able to do nothing except nod your emphatic agreement.

And now you know precisely what to tell him.

“I need you to understand, Din… if that happens, I still won’t accept it as a reason for you to remove your helmet. Not on its own. If that voice gets louder, it doesn’t mean the other voices disappear. I won’t let you abandon your faith or your need to atone just because I’ve distracted you with something new and exciting. If you feel okay lifting it around me to eat and drink and someday kiss, that’s your decision. But I don’t want you to compromise anything else for me.”

He squeezes you tight again and nuzzles your shoulder, then simply breathes, “Fuck….”

Two swears from your companion in the space of two minutes. Your words have hit home.

“Yeah, that about covers it,” you agree.

You sit quietly for a while, the sky outside rippling with lightning that strobes dimly through the fabric and brighter through the downwind opening at your feet. And here you remain, safely ensconced in a bubble of blossoming emotions for one another, reflecting on what was just said. Admitted.

It’s several contented minutes before Din speaks again. “Saying those things to me… making promises like that… it’s only making that voice louder for me.”

“Well, I guess when we can finally stop talking in euphemisms, we’ll know we’re there,” you smirk, lightening the discussion’s weight with humour.

It works, and he chuckles in agreement. Then he offers a sudden (though unsurprising) admission. “I’ve never been in love before.”

“Me neither,” you agree, a smile turning up the corners of your mouth at hearing that word from his lips. “But I don’t think this is how normal people do it.”

He snorts through the vocoder. “Discussing it first like we’re planning a hunt.”

“Uh-huh,” you laugh, pausing to try and work out how to put words to your thoughts. “This is all new and… scary – for both of us. But yesterday, I told you we should just see what works for us, and I meant that. I was always scared to tell others how I felt in the past, but with you, it’s different. I’m not scared of telling you; I’m scared of what it means. But it seems like… the more we admit out loud what we’re feeling, the easier it is to deal with. Like we’re figuring it out together. And I think that makes the feelings – and what they mean – seem a little less scary.”

“It does,” Din agrees warmly, and you’re pleased your thought came out somewhat coherently.

“I’m also pretty sure all this ‘sharing’ is increasing our feelings. We’re spending so much time getting to know one another that it’s no wonder this is happening so fast. And even though waiting for sex is difficult, I like the idea that when we finally get there, it’ll have more… emotional weight. I’ve never had that. It makes the waiting easier to bear, and it’s… kind of exciting.”

“Mm-hmm,” he agrees, and you detect a ripple of desire running through his body beneath you. “Maybe too exciting… I wanna talk about it, but it’s not a good idea when we’re sitting in this position. Too tempting. Ask me something else.”

You’re briefly speechless at learning he wants to actually talk about the two of you having sex. Then again, assuming he can tamp down his urges, you have a hunch that he finds it easier to discuss the physical than the emotional. Although he managed to do a fine job just now. You’re proud of you both for being so honest.

But you should avoid risky topics while you’re pressed so close together. “I’d love to hear more about your foundling if it’s not a difficult subject for you. Will you tell me about him?”

His tense muscles instantly relax beneath you, proving it was a wise direction to steer the discussion. You hear relief and affection in his tone as he begins to describe the child who brought softness to the life of a beskar-clad warrior. “His name’s Grogu….”

And for the next hour or so, Din regales you with stories about the fifty-year-old green baby he rescued and cared for. He radiates warm pride as he tells you of the child’s quirks and foibles and his surprising (and frankly impossible) powers. He candidly reveals his own struggles with unplanned parenthood, and how the kid’s mere presence evolved and adjusted his worldview.

He becomes sad when he recounts the kidnapping by the dark troopers, and you entwine your fingers with his again. His anger seethes as he bitterly describes the ex-ISB officer who wanted the child for fiendish research, and you stroke calm support along his arms. Your heart breaks when he details the destruction of his ship – his first home away from his tribe, one he’d had since leaving them at eighteen. But you share his joy at Grogu’s rescue and their reunion, along with the defeat of the Imperial scourge. Then almost instantly, you’re engulfed by the pain he felt at having to say goodbye to his child, possibly forever.

To claim he’s had a turbulent few years is an understatement. While you’ve been feeling nothing here on Endor, he’s been feeling every emotion possible to an insane degree.

He doesn’t explain why he took the child under his protection in the first place. Nor does he talk about who made up the team he assembled for the rescue mission after the kidnapping. His sentences become clipped as he rushes ahead with some new detail, and you begin to realise he’s glossing over some parts of the story. You don’t question what he’s skipping, however, assuming they’re topics for when he has the strength of mind to dwell on them. He’ll bring up his omissions when he’s good and ready.

All the new insights tuck themselves securely inside the file of data you hold in your heart about your Mandalorian, swelling your understanding of who he is. Every detail you hear just makes you love him more. Because that’s what this is, you realise. You might not be in love with him yet, but you do feel such a strong affection for him that it must be some form of love. Friends, definitely. Lovers, inevitably. And so the word fits. Not quite perfectly; it’s still a little like trying to plug a scomp link into the wrong size jack. But its burgeoning existence is finally something you can acknowledge, even if it hasn’t fully crystallised into the certainty required for a formal pledge.

You let Din talk without interruption for as long as he needs to, save for offering supportive touches and nods. The details flood out of him as if a dam has broken, coming as thick and fast as the rain above. When you first met him, you couldn’t imagine him speaking at such length with such a range of feelings. Yet now you’ve discovered that underneath the hard armour is a man with an infinite capacity for softness and passion alongside the resolute strength of a warrior.

They say still waters run deep, and he embodies that adage.

When he’s finally all out of words, you rest your head on his shoulder and turn it toward him. “Thank you for sharing all of this with me,” you whisper, tapping your forehead against the side of his helmet.

Your companion hums a response, and his mood feels more buoyant than ever. “I really wanted to tell you, I just… I was afraid of your reaction to me breaking my creed.”

“Yeah, I understand that. But you need to start believing me when I promise I won’t judge you or use anything you tell me against you. Someone I apprenticed for years ago used to call me ‘logically inclined’ and took it upon himself to teach me logical debate. He said I can see other people’s points of view, and from that, I can determine exactly what I can and can’t convince them of. That lets me win the arguments I choose to engage in. And I can see your creed is not up for debate, Din. Getting you to describe yourself and remove your glove was fair game because you confirmed those things weren’t forbidden. But I would never try and convince you to remove your helmet when it’s clear how traumatic it was to do it once before. I would never disrespect you in that way. I’m not one of those women who try to nag their partners into changing things for their own selfish gain.”

“You’re not like anyone else I’ve ever met,” he agrees, stroking your arm gently.

A peaceful interlude descends between you, and you refocus your thoughts on your surroundings, listening to the beat of the raindrops on the blanket. With your attention no longer on the man beneath you, you register how cramped your muscles are becoming from the static position you’re maintaining. No doubt his are just as bad from having your body pin him in place for what must be hours by now. You can’t help shifting in his lap, drawing a slight yelp from him.

“Sorry,” you lament. “I’m starting to ache. I mean my muscles, not… other places.”

“Should I sit in your lap instead?” he jokes, making you giggle. When you sober, he continues, “If you let me out, I’ll go do a sweep of the area. I gotta stretch my legs too.”

Pouting, you paw at his flight suit sleeve and grumble, “You’ve only just dried out.”

“Aching muscles or a damp partner, you choose.” Din taps your arm, prompting the second option. But for a moment, you’re stuck on wondering whether he meant ‘hunting partner’ or ‘romantic partner’. You’ve been using the former in your mind since you left your quarters, but you suddenly realise you just said it aloud in the context of the latter. Is that why he used it to refer to himself? He’s your partner now? Well, it’s better than ‘boyfriend’.

“Fine,” you grouse. “How do we do this?”

“Just… crawl off me, carefully. As soon as I’m out, you can come back inside.”

It’s a tricky manoeuvre involving extensive shuffling, but you’re only crouched in the rain for a few seconds as he quits the hideout. You scurry inside again, lamenting the latest discomfort of baked mud beneath your ass, before calling out to him as he huddles by the entrance. “Check the fob. Any movement?”

The hunter follows your command and calls out his findings. “No change. Sit tight; I’ll be a few minutes.” Then he moves out of view of the small gap at the far end of the shelter, and you’re alone with your thoughts.

Strangely, though, you’re not scared, which is surprising. You’re alone in the middle of the forest, at the mercy of a turbulent tempest, and there’s a dangerous criminal not twenty minutes northward. Yet, when you think about the bond you and Din have developed over the past few days, it infuses you with a fortitude you’ve never felt before. You’re pretty sure it’s that ‘right type of focus’ he spoke of. Your reason for fighting. For existing. It sits glowing in your chest, soothing and strengthening you better than anything else has ever managed.

The rain continues to hammer down, but the wind has lessened, and the skies no longer flash with lightning. You hadn’t noticed the absence of rumbling thunder until now, but thinking about it, you can’t recall the last booming peal you heard. It’s a promising sign, and with any luck, it means you’re at the tail end of the storm.

True to his word, your companion returns after only a few minutes, crouching at the entrance to the shelter. His wet armour glistens as he confirms your suspicions. “I can see the edge of the cloud bank from the ridge. It’ll pass soon. We should be ready to move when it does.”

“Okay.” You shift forward and begin to gather your pack from where it sits by your legs.

Then all hell breaks loose.

You see Din jerk as something hits him, though the downpour covers the sound. Then sparks of blaster fire ricochet off his beskar, and he instantly draws his own weapon and returns fire at the unseen assailant. Instinct makes you cringe backward against the rock behind you in acute alarm.

A shot suddenly tears through the blanket where your head was seconds before, and he yells, “Get out and find cover!” Then he’s off, sprinting toward the danger as only a warrior would, showing himself as the prominent target so you can make good your escape.

With your heart in your throat, you abandon the pack and throw yourself through the gap, scrambling to your feet against the damp forest floor. You tear up the ridge as fast as you can on the slippery leaves, heading for the cover of the jutting rocks higher up. Zigzagging as you move, another bolt of plasma screams past you just as you reach a large rock and dive behind it. For several seconds, you’re frozen there, gasping from the mad dash and the adrenaline that flooded your body the instant the attack began.

It can’t be Nantoogen. Only a few minutes ago, the fob showed he hadn’t moved from where you left him… didn’t it?

Peeking over the jagged rock, you try to assess the situation. Din is engaging in a firefight with someone concealed by a large tree some distance away, exchanging shots before ducking behind a smaller tree of his own. When the attacker next dodges out from the trunk to fire, you note the slim waist and prominent breasts, which suggest it’s a woman. You can’t tell her species from this distance. You can only make out greyish wrinkled skin and a lack of hair besides two long braids that whip about as she moves.

Who the fuck is that? If it’s the bounty’s accomplice from the compound, she must have access to an off-the-books vehicle to have travelled such a distance just as fast as you.

Although your knowledge of firearms is minimal, the elongated barrel of her pistol looks modified to increase its range. Her shots easily strike Din’s tree while his bolts barely reach hers. As she levels off a couple more volleys and retreats again, the hunter darts forward, taking up position behind a closer tree. He does this twice more until his shots reach her easily, although she still has a more powerful weapon.

But he has better armour.

Fear for his safety surges from your stomach to your throat as you watch him abandon his cover and stand out in the open. Now confident his shots can reach her, he lines up his sights and waits for her to take her turn.

The rain beats down on you, soaking your mud-stained clothes, but you couldn’t care less. Focusing every scrap of your attention on your Mandalorian, you can’t stop fretting about the gaps between his beskar plates. You hold your breath.

The instant the woman peeks out, he fires, but she ducks back, and the bolt grazes the tree exactly where her head was a second before. Damn, he’s a fucking expert shot. He really wasn’t just trying to impress you when he mentioned his blaster skills – he spoke the truth. But it just so happens that this target is quick and agile too.

Now that she knows he has the proximity and skill to take her out the moment she shows herself, the shooting stops. You assume she’s weighing her options, and Din gives her one. “Drop your blaster, and I won’t kill you,” he yells, loud enough for you to just barely hear it over the hiss of the downpour.

There’s no reply from his opponent, although you’re not sure you’d hear it from this distance unless she yelled it too.

You’re just wondering where this stalemate is going when there’s a shot from the tree’s opposite side. Even before it’s ricocheted off his armour, the hunter has adjusted his angle and returned fire. His quick reaction seems to land him a hit of his own this time, if the gruff scream that rings out is any proof. Your respect for his skills grows even more.

Once again, the falling rain and swaying conifers are the only movements, with the woman hiding and your partner poised and waiting. You recognise what she’s doing, though. She wants him to assume she’s too injured to fight, and when he steps around her tree, she’ll fire at him. It’s an amateur move, one this seasoned warrior is well-acquainted with, judging by the pissed-off shake of his helmet. But thankfully, he has other tactics and weapons he can employ.

Din moves his blaster into his left hand and carefully creeps forward. You watch as he raises his right vambrace, and you’re a little unnerved at the idea of him using his flamethrower on her. That just seems macabre. But when he nears the tree, he doesn’t step around it as the woman hopes he will. Instead, he launches a whipcord from his vambrace and jerks his arm to the left, sending it sideways to encircle both tree and target. The trunk’s substantial girth means it wraps around only twice and isn’t tight enough to properly pin her. But it gives him the extra seconds he needs to cover the last few metres and dart around the tree with his blaster poised to fire.

Two shots scream from two barrels.

You wince as the plasma bolt grazes Din’s upper arm, but he doesn’t so much as flinch. In fact, he doesn’t move at all, frozen and primed for any more trouble. His inaction after firing his weapon only once tells you that he must’ve hit his mark too, and it was probably a kill shot.

When he finally lowers his blaster and looks up at the rocks, you understand the nod he gives you: it’s safe to approach. Carefully, you sidle down the slippery ridge and over to the chaotic scene below.

Mud is partially splattered across your companion’s vambrace and cuisse where he side-skidded down the steep slope, but the rainwater should soon clean it off. He appears calm and impassive, and you’re a little mystified by how he can maintain such composure after getting shot at and taking a life.

You suppose this is just a regular day at work for him.

Rounding the tree, you discover the woman is a Weequay, and you’re shocked to find you recognise her. You’re sure you’ve seen her at the cantina drinking with a crew from one of the compound’s numerous outposts, although you’re unsure of her job.

It’s clear now why he risked going in close range – this species’ skin is somewhat resistant to blasters, so he needed proximity. His kill shot pierced the very centre of her wrinkled forehead, a kriffing masterful display of marksmanship, given he had barely a second to aim with his non-dominant hand. Okay, you’re convinced. Din has magic hands.

The adrenaline is wearing off, but you’re not scared. The dead body lying limp against the trunk doesn’t unnerve you since you saw numerous fallen soldiers in the Partisans’ camp. But you simply can’t decide which question to start with out of the millions that race through your mind. Luckily, the hunter seems happy to provide you with the details he’s already gleaned, saving you from having to ask.

“I’m guessing this was Nantoogen’s contact at the compound. She probably met him at the river with the boat, which explains how she got up here so fast. You knew her?” He must’ve seen the recognition on your face, and you confirm with a nod. He then speaks in a quieter register, and you realise the storm must have eased a fair amount if you can hear anything less than a shout now. “You understand I had to kill her, right? She gave me no choice.”

His urge to check you’re alright with his decision to take a life is sweet but surprising. You thought he knew that you have no issue with his profession. Then again, he wasn’t given a bounty puck to authorise killing this woman, so perhaps he’s testing where you draw your moral lines. Maybe he’s also concerned by your silence.

“I understand,” you respond flatly. You accept it had to go down this way, but you’re not about to sound happy about it. And at least taking out Nantoogen’s smuggling ally means the compound will be safer now. “She would’ve killed us both if you hadn’t shot her first. I know you’re not a monster, Din; please don’t assume I would think that.”

His body relaxes a fraction, but he grunts and mirrors your muted tone. “Don’t assume you know what I’ve been in the past, sweet girl. These hands may be soft with you, but you still don’t know about all the blood on them.”

After your recent sharing session, it appears your partner’s confidence in revealing things he thinks might be difficult for you to hear is growing. You assume he threw in that endearment to soften what must be another topic he wants to discuss: how much he’s had to kill and how much that might bother you.

Once again, you take it in your stride, confident your trust in him is fully justified and absolute. “You’re not the only one with a violent history. Whoever or whatever you’ve been in the past has made you into who you are now, and that’s the only version of you I care about.” His specific phrasing suggests he wants you to ask about it next time, so you make a mental note and show you’ve understood. “But if you feel up to it, you can tell me about those violent origins later – I’m still not judging.”

As your clothes become steadily soaked, you cross your arms over your chest and peer at his arm. You have more critical issues on your mind, and you manage to change the subject before he can respond.

“She shot you too. How bad is it?”

“The bolt only grazed my arm, just a burn, no blood. I’m fine.” He seems pleased with the change in topic, showing you the rip in his sleeve and the burn beneath. You’d be hopping in pain if it were your arm, but he looks utterly unbothered by it, so you don’t make a fuss. He looks you over carefully in turn. “Are you okay?”

“Not a scratch.” You give him a closed-mouth smile, soothing and earnest, then continue to clarify events. “Why didn’t you see her on your sweep? Didn’t you use your heat vision?”

Din crouches down next to the limp figure and pulls down the collar of her jacket. “She’s wearing a thermoguard body suit. It screws with the sensors. Plus, the rain obscures any prints by cooling the heat residue.”

“Nantoogen doesn’t have one, though?”

“No, I detected him easily. And the fob shows he hasn’t moved.” He pulls it out of his belt to illustrate, passing it to you so the unchanged interval of the pulses can reassure you.

“So, how did she find us?” You return the fob and attempt to wipe some of the droplets from your face, but it’s fruitless with your equally wet hands.

The hunter is silent for a moment, mulling over your question. “The most likely answer is that she was with our guy when we found him, but I couldn’t detect her because of the thermoguard. They waited out the storm, same as we did. When the lightning stopped, he sent her out to recon, and she picked up our trail.”

With a deep breath, you focus on gathering data to help with the mission, fervently ignoring your unease in favour of practical thinking. “So, should we assume she told him we’re hunting him?”

Rummaging in the pockets on the corpse’s belt, Din comes up with a comlink and lifts it to show you. Your jaw aches from grinding your teeth at each new grim surprise.

“Okay, so it’s almost certain she told him, right?” you repeat with more urgency.

“Yes,” he agrees carefully, “Although it’s a fair bet he suspected it anyway, so it doesn’t change our plan. But her locating us might, so we’d better get back to the speeder. If she tracked us here, she must’ve passed it, so my first concern is to check she didn’t tamper with it.”

Shit. That hadn’t even occurred to you.

“Tampered, I can fix; destroyed, I can’t. Let’s get ready to go. I won’t be happy until I’ve found out which it is.” Not waiting for his response, you head toward the small shelter to pack up, an icy ball of nerves sitting in your chest.

How many more problems can you expect before the mission’s end?

You put all your strength into pushing the boulders that pin the blanket, rolling them just enough to extract the fabric. Then you wiggle the knives out of the rock, grimacing at the scrapes along the metal planes. They’ll need sharpening and polishing when you have time.

Once the blanket is free, you can’t help but bemoan the slits made by the blades and the large hole where the Weequay shot through it. You finally fold it and hang it through the backpack’s straps; there’s no way it’s going inside while the outer layer remains rain-soaked.

Speaking of rain-soaked, you embody the very word – another reason you folded the blanket. Every scrap of clothing on you is now drenched, although your mud-caked boots are a snug fit, so your feet and calves remain dry. Thank the stars for quality footwear – it’s a lesson you learned growing up on a rainforest planet. But it’d be pointless to don a sodden cloak again when you’re sopping wet anyway, so you simply endure.

You return down the slope to find your resourceful companion has searched the Weequay for anything else of use. He’s come up with several heavy blaster mods, a smaller pistol with a spare power pack and gas cartridge, and a few hundred credits.

“Hey, now you can afford to refuel your ship,” you joke, trying to make yourself laugh more than him. However, it’s Din’s responsive chuckle that turns up the corner of your mouth as you thrust his heavy jetpack at him.

He sobers as he reattaches the device to his backplate and admits, “Robbing the dead of their credits is dishonourable and something I rarely do. I have no right to take what I haven’t earned, so I’ll only do it if I have no choice. And in this case, you’re correct – I don’t have a lot of fuel left. I let you assume I can chase the bounty to Bakura if he escapes, but… that’s not true. I need credits, and she’s not using them now.” He levels his visor at you. “And you’re not above larceny, it seems. Maybe you could make it as a bounty hunter after all….”

Choosing to ignore his confession of just how broke he really is, you keep up the witty backchat. “Hmm, it sounds like a lot of work. I think I’ll just send you out on my behalf.” You hold out his vibroblade, pleased when he offers a laugh in exchange.

Accepting the weapon, he laces his voice with sarcasm and remarks, “Woman at home, man out earning a living… on some planets, they call that marriage.”

For a second, you’re thrown by his comment, but his cynical delivery shows he’s just trying to be funny, so you scoff and match his tone. “Yeah, and on some planets, giving someone a knife is a courtship intention. On others, carrying a spouse’s weapons is a shared marital rite. What’s your point?”

Din barks a sharp, modulated laugh at your forthrightness, holding up his gloved hands in surrender. “Five days. I have no point, I swear.”

It’s an amusing reframing of your fast-moving relationship versus more widely accepted customs and traditions amongst humans in the galaxy. You grin sincerely to show you understand and welcome the ability to joke about it. It feels good to be like-minded on the subject, jointly aware of how serious your bond is becoming, yet happy to acknowledge it without any pressure. And content to admit where you’ll end up…

In love.

“As long as you don’t misread me giving you this,” he adds, holding out the small blaster pistol he’s recovered from the woman’s thigh holster.

You accept his offering warily, holding the weapon with care. “I’m not a gun person,” you protest. “These things are unpredictable. With close combat, you can control a strike – you can feel it. But you can’t feel where a blaster bolt will land.”

“But you can shoot.”

It’s delivered as a statement, not a question, and you’re flattered that this warrior would rather overestimate your skill set than show any doubt. “Badly, yes. My parents showed me how, but I’ve never owned a blaster. It’s probably been about a decade since I last fired one.”

“Then keep it just in case. You might not always be close enough to use your primary skill. This is just another option if the situation is less than ideal.” He unwinds the holster from the Weequay’s thigh and holds it out to you with the spare power pack and cartridge.

With a sigh, you relent and begin equipping yourself. Din remains crouched and watches you, and you shake your head at him. “Should you turn away while I do this? I’d rather not distract you.”

He stands up and looms toward you. “It’s weapons-related; it’s not the dangerous kind of distraction. I can appreciate how good you look carrying weapons without it affecting my focus. It’s getting easier to compartmentalise.”

As if to illustrate his claim, he steps in close and drops into another crouch, checking the tightness of the holster around your thigh. Then he moves up along the strap that runs up over your hip and clips onto your belt for added support, checking it’s secure. During his inspection, he grazes your wet pants aplenty but doesn’t seem too distracted. Satisfied, he places his hand on your waist as he stands, gives a quick squeeze, and then steps backward with an approving nod.

Hmm. Suddenly, the urge to clarify something overwhelms you. “So with the gurreck… your reaction after that was just because you hadn’t seen me fight before?”

Your partner pauses before he nods. That’s not quite it, then. You think back over the past few days, focusing on events and discussions related to weapons and combat. Suddenly, you recall how relieved he seemed when you explained the extent of your training to him en route to the mess hall. You can’t prevent the triumphant grin when you realise the truth.

“No, it was because I’d finally proved I could fight, wasn’t it? You thought you’d fallen for someone soft. That my training didn’t equal my ability. But I passed a test, and you let your guard down out of sheer relief.”

Din’s helmet hangs in apparent shame, studying the ground off to his left. He seems embarrassed or perhaps a little distressed that someone can read him this well despite his beskar walls, so you reassure him.

“It’s okay, I get it. I don’t have to know anything about Mandalorians to recognise that your culture probably champions strength in women too, so weakness wouldn’t be attractive.” You recall how many times he’s urged you to acknowledge your strength over the past few days, and it makes total sense now. “I imagine it must be confusing to realise you’re attracted to someone who doesn’t seem to fit your usual type. I’m glad I’ve had a chance to prove I’m not just capable, but also… suitable.”

“It wouldn’t matter to me,” he insists, then clarifies his statement. “If you couldn’t fight, I mean. Or if you prefer not to anymore. I value the skill, I admire it, and it makes me worry less. But it isn’t… a necessary factor for me to feel the way I do. I hoped that was obvious after Nantoogen did what he did to you.” He then rocks his helmet from side to side, conceding your conclusion. “But you’re right about how it affected me in the moment. It was a relief to see you handle the gurreck so well. It’s… cultural. Sorry…”

You dismiss his apology with a shake of your head. “Whether I want to fight or not isn’t relevant. We both know there’s no avoiding it sometimes, and I’ve learned I can’t hide away on this moon anymore. Being with you is helping me see I can find a balance between the beauty and the horror of combat.” You smile and extract your new blaster from its holster to examine it. “Plus, I’m happy I turned out to be more the sort of woman your people might approve of after all.”

Din doesn’t reply to your comment, though his chest visibly swelled with deeper breaths throughout your response. Over recent days, you’ve learned this means he’s so approving of what you’re saying that he’s almost trying to breathe in your sentiments. And you love that you know that about him.

You continue to study your new weapon, and he soon steps in close again, ready to give you any pointers if required.

It’s a model you’ve seen many times, but you’ve only ever heard it referred to as a ‘Mos Eisley special’ by the Partisans. It’s lightweight and easy to handle, although it’s slightly different from the ones you saw your family carry. “No safety?”

“No. BlasTech produced DL-18s as military grade, but they made them easy to mod so they’d be more popular. The Alliance added safeties to theirs, but criminals prefer a quick draw, as do bounty hunters. Mine has no safety either.”

You’re starting to love it when he goes into his lecturer mode. He’d make a great teacher.

“It’ll be fine in the holster,” the hunter reassures. “Just don’t point it at anything unless you wanna shoot it, and don’t touch the trigger until you’re ready to fire.”

“Have I got time to try it?” Your willingness surprises even you. Perhaps his love of firearms is rubbing off on you.

He nods, and you resolve to be quick about this. You turn your back to him and line up a wide tree about ten metres away, adopting the position your parents showed you many years ago. Before you can fire, Din gives you some extra pointers.

“Your stance is good, but this has a reduced spread mod, so use your rangefinder for accuracy.” He points to the long metal shaft along the top that you felt was just getting in the way of lining up your shot.

Instead of squinting down the side of the barrel as you had been, you adjust your gaze along the rangefinder’s length. It feels too high above the barrel to be correct; surely it’ll push your shot low? But your Mandalorian is the expert marksman, and you trust him.

“Good. Keep your arm straight, but don’t lock your elbow, and squeeze slowly to get a feel for the trigger’s biting point. The recoil is minimal since it’s not ballistic, but be ready for it anyway. If you hold true, it shouldn’t change the angle.”

You slot your finger in place and squeeze the trigger slowly as instructed, and you’re happy to find it takes a firm pull to fire the weapon. It’s strangely thrilling when the red bolt of plasma screams from the barrel and hits the tree you were aiming for. Sure, the burn mark is off-centre, but it’s surprisingly accurate, and you’re overjoyed. And there was barely any recoil, just as predicted.

“Thought you said you were a bad shot,” your companion remarks, sounding just as impressed as you feel.

“Last time I fired a blaster, I was!” You can’t keep the grin off your face. For some reason, doing well at something Din is an expert in makes you feel closer to him. “I hope it’s having a better weapon and an excellent teacher rather than just luck.”

“When we have time for a proper lesson, we’ll test that theory,” he suggests approvingly, “But we gotta get back to the speeder. The rain’s getting lighter – Nantoogen will start moving soon, especially when she doesn’t check in.”

He glances at the fob to confirm the target’s location hasn’t changed, then pockets the purse of credits he found on the Weequay along with her comlink. You’ve holstered your blaster by the time he stands again.

Taking a deep breath, you begin moving north toward the bounty. “Let’s go,” you call over your shoulder, and a quick glance behind you shows him frozen in place, just watching you as you walk away. It’s only a few seconds, and then he’s striding after you, catching up swiftly.

You can’t help but feel warmed to your core by seeing his attraction and approval directed so openly toward you. He’s described it to you today, and now he’s showing you.

Chapter Text

Within ten minutes, you’re back at the trail leading to the river, and you and Din execute the plan you’d agreed upon as you walked. Your task is to check the speeder for signs of tampering, so you hasten toward the bushes just off the path where you hid it. Meanwhile, your partner veers off to the tree line to assess any storm damage to the route along the riverbank. He’s given you the tracking fob so you can focus on the bike and not get distracted by any fears about Nantoogen approaching without warning.

The rain is no longer beating down and has transformed into a drizzle during your walk. Not that it makes a difference anymore since you’re both utterly soaked through. What you wouldn’t give for a hot shower and the marginal comfort of your bed back at the compound right now.

But you don’t complain. When you weigh up all the things that have overwhelmed you in the last few days, there are far more positives than negatives. Okay, so you’ve had your life threatened twice by criminals, which is a big negative. But when you review your thoroughly buried past, you realise you got yourself into a few life-threatening situations during those drunken brawls on Onderon too. The difference was that you invited those, so you didn’t feel so… targeted.

That’s really what you need to get used to: the idea that you have limited control of the violence coming your way. But now that Din’s helping you adapt your thinking and reactions, you’re confident you can cope.

The recent events have rekindled your combat instincts, reviving that sense of fulfilment you clung to when fighting on Onderon. The more of your old self-defence routines your body recalls, the more that same old fulfilment returns.

Wait, no, it’s not the same. That was depressive; this is active. Back then, you fought to bury the emptiness you felt following your parents’ deaths. Now, you’re fighting to bring down someone who harmed you, someone whose capture will earn your companion a million credits, someone who has evaded the galaxy’s best hunters for decades. And you’re fighting for your new relationship, for a more exciting life, and for a possible shared future.

Stars, only a week ago, you couldn’t even imagine having such things, yet now… you crave them.

You no longer feel the fear that threatened to consume you after Nantoogen’s attack, when the carefully built walls of your peaceful life were crumbling around you. Instead, you feel as if you’ve sloughed off a false guise you’ve been living under, pressed play again on the holovid of your life. And every step you’ve taken, both forward and backward, has brought you here to this balanced place. Growing up in a camp of insurgents and seeing the aftermath of missions reflected on their scarred and angry faces. Training with your parents once they’d learned to exercise control. Losing that control yourself when you lost your parents. Then finally learning to calm the anger during your self-imposed solitude on Endor.

Fighting is in your blood, but it took a Mandalorian to show you what it truly means to be a warrior.

Yes, you can do without that hot shower, after all. You’ve traded small comforts for something much better.

Understanding.

The wet forest smells refreshing as the clouds clear and the suns begin to evaporate the moisture from the ground. Inhaling the earthy scent of petrichor deep into your lungs, you revel in your good mood, wondering if Din likes how it smells after it rains. You’ll have to ask.

The speeder is still mostly covered by foliage when you locate it, but small areas are visible that weren’t on display when you hid it earlier. You mute the tracking fob to avoid distraction, then you start checking whether the exposed sections are due to the high wind or possible tampering. At least it’s in one piece, and your lyaer’tsa remains strapped along the length of it.

After a thorough inspection, you’re boiling with anger, your good mood forgotten. The Weequay has sliced through the altitude control wires. It’s a subtle form of vandalism that might have gone unnoticed by someone less acquainted with speeder mechanics, and it could’ve been disastrous.

Din trudges over to you, and you stand with thunder in your eyes. “Fucking bitch cut the wires to the foot pedals. It can only travel at base altitude, so we can’t skip over puddles or debris. It’s ironic sabotage – what Nantoogen did to his bike on purpose would’ve happened to us by accident if I hadn’t noticed.”

He crouches down and studies the damage. “Can you fix it?”

“Not fix – the wires need fusing or replacing – but there’s tape in the cargo compartment I can patch them with. Riding with a makeshift repair like that is a huge risk, though.”

“Do what you can; we’ll just have to be careful.” He stands again and gives your arm a supportive squeeze. “If we can’t keep up, we might have to take him down today after all.”

Nodding, you slide the blinking tracking fob from your belt and hold it out, but the hunter urgently grabs it and flicks off the mute switch. “Dank farrik, he’s moving.”

Your eyes go wide. “It sounds the same…?”

“Trust me, it’s slowing. He’s moving away, and it’s quicker than walking pace, or I wouldn’t have noticed. He must be in the boat already. The current’s calmer now the rain’s stopped, but it’s still flowing much quicker than he can limp. He must think putting some distance between him and us is worth risking a little white water.”

“Shit,” you curse with increasing unease as you begin your repairs in earnest. “This’ll be a few minutes.”

Din’s tone carries both urgency and reluctance as he suggests, “I can use my jetpack to chase him while you fix the damage here. If you work fast, you’ll only be a couple minutes behind once you’re on the trail. You can catch up easily.”

You’re not keen to split up and even less eager to race toward a hostile encounter on a hastily repaired swoop. But no matter how anxious it makes you, it’s the most sensible course of action. The patch won’t guarantee you can reliably track the bounty any longer, and he’s clearly aware you’re on his tail. The only option is to strike now, or you’ll lose your chance.

“Be careful,” you reach for your companion’s arm and return his earlier supportive squeeze.

“You too.” And he turns and sprints to the path where his lift-off trajectory isn’t hindered by trees, ignites the jetpack, and soars out over the river. He’s out of sight almost instantly.

You allow yourself a moment to marvel at the fact that he can actually fly. But you have no time to waste, so you hasten back to your repairs, wishing your parting could’ve been less hurried. You’re not a fan of long goodbyes, but you ache to feel his arms around you, to inhale his scent deep into your lungs. Your mind wants something tangible to cling to while you’re apart. But you can’t get lost in sentiment right now; you have a job to do.

Having put all your musings about Din out of your mind so you can focus, you fully patch the wires within the predicted few minutes. It’s record speed for you, but you’re confident in your work.

Pushing the bike out to the path for a test, you’re happy to discover that the altitude controls operate adequately, albeit sluggishly. You instantly get underway at the fastest speed you’re willing to risk, surveilling through your goggles for any dangers.

In a way, the rain has helped. Any dips in the trail are now tiny ponds, making them easy to spot and avoid, so you don’t have to risk using the patched altitude controls.

Five minutes pass, but there’s no sign of either the hunter or his prey. The river is flowing steadily but no longer surging now that the deluge has lifted, so you should’ve caught up with them by now. Where are they?

Then you hear it. Blaster fire.

It’s just one shot, but it sends ice through your veins.

You accelerate as fast as you dare, and when you round a bend, you finally glimpse them up ahead. Desperate to grasp what’s happening, you risk splitting your attention between the path and the spectacle on the water. Though logic screams at you to watch the trail on your broken speeder in rained-out conditions, fear wins out over common sense.

The small wooden boat is several metres out from the shore, almost in the middle of the wide river. Nantoogen stands at the bow; Din balances in the stern. They both have blasters pointed at one another, and strangely, it looks like they’re… talking? The criminal gestures wildly, clearly mouthing off. The beskar-clad warrior makes no move, as if awaiting the right moment to break the stalemate once his opponent is suitably distracted.

Fear fogs your brain, but adrenaline focuses you… and thank the kriffing stars that it does. You glance at the path just in time to slam your feet onto the pedals and lift the bike over a fallen branch. Kark, that was close!

Up ahead, you see you’ve got a clear run – the trail straight and flat after veering back amongst the trees, the bank high. Your mind forms a partial plan.

You accelerate to overtake them, covering a few hundred metres rapidly with no risk to the bike at base altitude. When the path weaves closer to the river again, you skid to a halt and leap off, drawing your new pistol and crouching behind the speeder.

Now, you just have to wait for them to catch up. Even though the trees shielded your approach, Nantoogen must have heard you go past, although he now has his back to you while Din faces you.

In theory, you want to blast a hole in his vessel so he’s forced to come ashore, thwarting his river-based escape. You’re unsure why your partner hasn’t done this already, though perhaps he doesn’t want to risk losing sight of the target beneath the choppy water. In that case, he did well to land on the boat for this little chat they’re now having.

Both men’s blasters point directly at each other, but as with the Weequay, your Mandalorian is better shielded from harm by his beskar. It appears the criminal understands this, which must be why he isn’t firing.

At the other end of the boat, Din’s caution must be because of this bounty’s infamy and the proximity factor. Well, that and the fact that the puck clearly stated ‘wanted alive’, so he can’t be drawn into a possibly fatal shoot-out. There’s no chance for a surprise tactic here. If Nantoogen shoots at this range, he could catch somewhere the beskar doesn’t cover, so you’re thankful for your companion’s caution. He needs the odds to shift somehow so he can disarm his target without taking a blaster bolt in the process.

You can supply that much-needed distraction, but you haven’t yet worked out precisely how. You’ll just have to hope the hunter will react exactly as you want him to at the precise moment you provide the distraction.

The vessel comes into range, and you start lining up a clear shot to the wooden hull. But suddenly, Nantoogen proves you profoundly wrong about the chances for surprise tactics and does something completely unexpected.

He throws himself overboard.

Din reacts instantly, firing low, clearly trying to clip the other man’s leg as he bails out. But his shot misses, and the bounty submerges himself fully, hidden by the dark and choppy water. Your partner ignites his jetpack again, rising up to gain a broader view of the river and better judge where Nantoogen will surface. As he hovers, you remount the bike and push forward to ensure you keep pace with the drama.

Then suddenly, there’s another blaster shot, and chaos erupts.

Nantoogen is below the boat, using it to shield himself against Din’s higher position, barely surfacing to breathe and firing from beneath the water. You didn’t even realise blasters were waterproof! The fucking bastard is clever, you’ll give him that. He’s balancing the odds by using the only viable shield within reach. Although a plasma bolt would make it through the wooden hull, he must have concluded that his hunter won’t risk inflicting a fatal injury.

You’re unsure how to help now that a distraction isn’t needed, so you stay level with the boat. Thankfully, the slower pace allows you to monitor the sporadic vertical firefight on the water without risking your own safety on the trail.

When it becomes clear that Din can’t guarantee a non-fatal shot with his target submerged, he changes tactics, settling on the same plan as you. When Nantoogen fires next from the starboard side, the warrior dodges it and puts a hole in the portside deck. If he can sink his shield, then the bounty will have to surface uncovered.

However, with his attention focused on his new strategy, your companion fails to anticipate another much quicker shot from his opponent. Your stomach drops as you watch the bolt tear into his thigh above his beskar, his agonised yell instantly making you skid to a halt.

Fuck!

Din’s careful control of his flight fails, and he drops toward the boat. But he can’t land – the vessel is already starting to take on water, and he has only one good leg. It’s simply not an option. Yet he can’t let Nantoogen escape, either. He hovers unsteadily for a moment, in pain and indecisive, his wound so large that you can see it from your position on the bank.

But then another shot comes from the water, luckily missing him this time, and at last, your partner elects to abandon the hunt and withdraw. He weakly directs the jetpack to propel him to the shore, and you run to intercept, frantic because of his erratic flying. The injury must be bad.

Fuckfuckfuck!

Din all but crashes to the ground in front of you, hands outstretched to catch himself but falling heavily as the jets switch off. You skid to his side and throw off your goggles, putting all your strength into rolling him over to get a look at the damage.

It’s bad. No, awful.

But before you can inspect it further, the gasping hunter grabs your arm and growls through the vocoder, “Sink the fucking boat.”

Eyes wide, you instantly obey before the target can float out of range, adrenaline focusing your brain while your stomach roils with concern over your companion’s safety. Drawing your blaster, you aim it at the wooden hull where the water laps at it, the same side as Din hit. You discharge ten bolts in a row and manage to make six holes along the length, knowing that’s too many for him to patch. The extra damage will cause the vessel to fill with water faster as it sinks.

There’s no sign of Nantoogen, but you strongly suspect he’s sheltering on the boat’s starboard side. He’s not stupid. At least it won’t get him much farther – you’ve reduced his river-based options to floating on debris. The current will continue to slow with the decreasing rainfall, so staying in the water is pointless.

The vessel is now a substantial distance past your position on the bank, although still within sight. The moment it tilts far enough for the holes you just made to start taking on water, you turn back to Din.

He lies motionless and prone, detached jetpack now lying beside him, helmet turned to watch you carry out his order, silver chest rapidly rising and falling. You can see he’s in extreme pain. That tells you how serious it is – he said he barely feels pain these days.

What the fuck do you do? You’re not a medic. You have no karking clue how to deal with severe wounds.

But you do have common sense. Frantically, you launch yourself at the speeder, dig in your bag for your medpac, and dart straight back to your partner with it clutched to your chest.

“Good… shot…” he pants through the modulator, somehow finding the strength to praise your performance with your new blaster.

You’re suddenly surprised to realise that, yes, your shooting really was good. Although only six of your ten shots landed, your accuracy was much lower than sixty percent when you last held a blaster over a decade ago. Then again, shooting was never a matter of life and death before, so maybe having such high stakes improved your accuracy. Or it’s a kriffing fantastic weapon.

“Me hitting his boat doesn’t compare to him hitting your leg,” you object, gesturing at the grisly wound before you. You fumble to open the small medpac, rummaging inside until you realise you have no idea what you’re looking for. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Din. You need to direct me.”

“Cauterise…” he wheezes, clawing at his belt.

“There’s no cauteriser in here,” you start to complain, but then you notice he’s unclipped his laser sword and is pushing it toward you. “Fucking hell, no fucking way. I am not using that on you. Forget it. For a start, I’d probably just slice you up more. And talk about overkill. I can stop the bleeding another way – I’ve got a coagulant.”

He doesn’t reply, so you hastily extract the hypospray and the single vial of coagulant that’s been in there forever, relieved to find it hasn’t expired.

When you try to inspect the wound closer, you discover the mess of dark blood and dark flight suit prevents you from seeing how bad it really is. In fact, there’s so much blood that you can’t tell flesh from fabric. Kark, you hope it’s not an artery. Your knowledge of anatomy is quite basic – your parents’ teachings mostly focused on ways to inflict damage, not treat it. However, when you reverse those lessons, you realise that if it were an artery, blood would be spraying out, and your patient would be unconscious by now. Maybe it’s not that serious, then.

But why didn’t the heat from the plasma cauterise it like a typical blaster shot?

One problem at a time. You can’t treat him until you’ve figured out the extent of the injury, so that has to be your first goal.

“I need to cut your flight suit. Is that okay?” It crosses your mind that his hands are the only bare skin you’ve ever seen on him. His upper thigh might be pushing the boundaries somewhat. “I’ll keep it small, I promise.”

When the helmet offers a jerky nod, you set down the coagulant and unclip your petar from your belt. The small curved blades should give you more control over the angle than your shiv (which is now blunted from the quartzite anyway). You show Din the shining bronzed weapon, seeking his approval, and he nods again while fumbling with his cuisse, detaching it so it sits loosely.

Inferring his permission, you carefully lift away the beskar, grateful you now have an expanse of flight suit to grab and pull taut. Then, you slot your fingers through the petar’s holes and activate the vibro. The dual blades begin to hum.

You identify and snag the frayed edge of some cloth, gingerly peeling it up and cutting a clean but narrow margin around the injury site. It’s so far up his thigh that it’s almost level with his crotch… and that’s when you realise. You’re cutting through two layers: his flight suit and his undershorts.

Mother of moons, this is not how you wanted to get your hands on your Mandalorian’s underwear.

Luckily, you’ve just had to clip off the shorts’ lower edge, not make a hole like you did with his trousers. You hope he won’t be too upset.

With the fabric cut away, you can see more of what you’re dealing with. The wound looks ragged, which is strange for a blaster shot, and you’re confused until you examine it closer.

“Fuck, there are bits of bone in here. The bolt hit your thigh bone!”

Din growls and then rasps, “Femur….”

It takes you a few seconds to realise he’s giving you the bone’s name. Why is he trying to show off his smarts when he’s laid out like this? You can only assume it’s an attempt to exert some control and authority – a safety net he’s deployed because this injury has stripped him of his usual quota.

“I don’t care what it’s called!” You’re starting to panic now, feeling ever more helpless with each moment, tears pricking your eyes and blurring your vision. But with the panic comes a desperate form of bravado preferable to despair. “This just got way tougher than just stopping the bleeding. If you ever wanna walk properly again, Din Djarin, tell me what I should do about the bone.”

“Medpac… what’s in it?” He continues to gasp ragged breaths behind the helmet, and you can tell it’s from the pain, so you check if you have any anaesthetic or pain relief. None of the former, but you find a mild painkiller and jam the vial into the hypospray. Shit, you should’ve thought about this before cutting his flight suit.

“I’m giving you a painkiller, okay?”

He nods, and you shuffle up toward his head. Though you were never taught medical care, you peeked into plenty of med tents as a curious child at the Partisans’ camp, so you’ve seen how to deliver this type of pain relief. It gets injected into the artery in the neck, and you recall the device can dispense the dose through a single layer of clothing. With no cloak in the way, you simply smooth his high collar against his neck and administer the hypospray.

Within ten seconds, Din’s breathing starts to even out a little. The painkiller isn’t that strong, and he’s clearly still in agony, but you’ve taken the edge off. It’s enough for him to speak more coherently, and he rasps a thank you.

“There was only one of those, so if we need to pick bone out of your leg, we’ve gotta do it fast.” You really hope it won’t come to that. “What’s next?”

“Gotta… clean it,” he groans, his words more distinct now but still sounding wrecked. “Disinfectant? Antiseptic? Alcohol?”

You root through the small kit. “Yes, ‘antiseptic irrigation bulb’,” you read off the side of an item, noting it’s obvious how to use it. You set about unstopping it and pumping the contained liquid across the wound in spurts. He winces with each one, but he doesn’t stop you.

Your efforts are futile, though – the blood still isn’t clotting, and the hole refills in seconds. “It’s just bleeding more. Do I use the coagulant?”

“Yes,” he agrees, and you jam the vial into the hypospray. Your shaking fingers become bloodier as you try to keep his skin taut to inject it close to the injury site, but you manage it. This one takes about a minute to have any effect, but at last, the bleeding begins to slow. You clean the wound with the last of the antiseptic, and this time, it doesn’t fill up with blood again.

“Okay, it’s clean and not bleeding as much. Now what?”

“Gimme your hand,” Din commands, growling like a gurreck.

You comply, placing your less bloodied hand in his outstretched palm, and he sandwiches them together, gripping you firmly. Then he pushes himself up on his other elbow and tugs on your arm, forcing you to help pull him up or fall forward.

The little shit, he could’ve just asked you to help him sit up.

Somehow, you manage to heave back enough to offset the warrior’s muscle and beskar bulk, and with a frightfully pained cry, he’s sitting upright. Then, to your horror, he rips off his gloves and proceeds to poke at his leg near the wound, wincing heavily and swallowing a groan.

“What in the fires of Mustafar are you doing?” you fret.

“Gotta check if… ’s broken or just chipped.” After probing for a few moments longer, he concludes through gritted teeth, “Chipped, I think. Won’t need a splint.”

“Well, thank the fucking Force! There’s a spray splint in here, but I don’t know how it works.” If it’s possible to feel relief alongside the abject fear and adrenaline rush you’re enduring, you begin to now. “So we just put a bacta patch on then?”

“No… you were right. Gotta get… the bone shards out. Could do more damage.” Din upends the medpac, tipping the contents onto the damp ground and sorting through until he spots a multi-tool containing tweezers. He grabs it and holds it out to you.

Oh, hell no; you are not stabbing those into his flesh. You push away the tool. “You want me to dig around in your leg looking for spare bits of bone? Are you crazy?”

“Please,” he beseeches, rasping your name, and your attention snaps to his visor. With pronounced effort, he pleads with you, breaths still ragged. “Can’t do it myself… gotta lie flat. The amount of pain means… ’s hit a nerve, so no anaesthetic means… it’ll fffucking hurt. I’ll probably pass out. Need you to do this for me. Please… I know you can. I trust you.”

“Oh fuck me,” you exclaim with a resigned groan. Though your language is far bluer than usual, you couldn’t care less about decorum right now, and neither does your companion, it seems.

“I plan to, sweet girl… but you gotta fix me first,” he rasps, holding out the multi-tool to you again.

His flirting in the face of the daunting prospect before you hits the mark perfectly, and you’re calmed enough to pull your lips into a grim half-smile. Despite the blatant reference to sex, it’s a promise, not a temptation – the perfect level of distraction.

“Tell me what you need,” you relent. You remain reluctant, but your concern for his well-being convinces you to hear him out. As worried as you are, you want to help him, so you’ll listen to his insane request to operate on him out here in the middle of nowhere.

His instructions come through pained gasps. “Normally… use anaesthetic, clamp open the sides, check down to the bone for fragments. But… we don’t have drugs or tools, so it needs… more blind digging.” When you wince at the thought, he wheezes your name again and implores, “’M sorry. I need you to do this… however much it hurts me. Need you to be strong. Can you do that… for me?”

Din needs you to be tough, like a Mandalorian. If you’re going to be with him, you need to find the courage to do distressing things like this. And this is not the same as burying a blade in someone. This is a medical procedure that will help him. You can do it.

You swallow nervously and nod.

“Good girl.”

There’s that praise again. It buoys you.

He somehow gathers the energy to lecture you on the medical aspects, still breathing heavily but able to form sentences, albeit racked by gasping breaths.

“Coagulant stopped the bleeding. His blaster has an… accelerator mod. Shoots plasma faster… makes deeper wounds. Ballistic… like a slugthrower. Should’ve known from how far… his shot at the compound threw me. It exploded against the bone, but… ’s too quick to burn the flesh. ’S why it bled. But it made a clean hole… you just gotta open it up.”

As you scrunch your nose at the idea, your patient raggedly drags air into his lungs, then carries on with enviable strength, setting out your tasks.

“Push the tweezers inside… move around the edge. You feel something hard, you pull it out. Keep going deeper ’til you… hit bone. Check… get them all. When it’s clear, use… the other antiseptic n’ wash it out again. Bacta patch next. Wrap my leg tightly… patch won’t stick; needs pressure. Tight, but… space for two fingers beneath. Understand?”

Din’s instructions nauseate you – this is not your forte in the slightest – but you try not to grimace as you nod your agreement. Employing his abandoned cuisse as a tray, you lay out the remaining irrigation bulb, a bacta patch, and a length of bandage. Before you begin, you squirt a sparing amount of antiseptic over the tool. The bacta will prevent any infection, but you’d rather play it safe, and there’s plenty left in the bulb for the wound’s final rinse.

“Ready?” you ask, voice wavering.

The hunter grasps your hand. “No matter what happens… keep going. You gotta… hurt me to help me, okay? If I pass out… ’s good.”

You nod again. “Din, I—” You’re not sure what thought you were about to express, but you think the better of it. Now isn’t the time for sentiment. Instead, you swallow your fear and your feelings, and croak, “Okay. Lay back down.”

He releases your hand and raises his palm to cup your cheek, sharing his warmth, a sweet little response to whatever you just left unsaid. At least you’re both able to express your growing feelings through actions.

As far as you’re concerned, what you’re about to do for him is the epitome of how deep your feelings run. You’re willing to hurt him to help him – to insert metal into his flesh at his request. It’s messed up, but somehow it perfectly describes your unusual bond with your Mandalorian.

He lays himself flat again with a groan, closing his fist around the medpac’s handle – something to squeeze. There’s an idea.

You shift until you’re kneeling by his hip, facing his feet. Then you lift his other hand and slot his fingers into the space between your thigh and ankle, urging him to grip the latter. “Squeeze if you need to. And this way, I don’t have to see as much of your pain.”

Din pushes slightly higher up your calf until his fingers are firmly sandwiched by your thigh, then squeezes hard through the leather of your boots. The pressure instantly demonstrates why this is better. His grip is strong enough to hurt your ankle, so he’s holding on where there’s more flesh and muscle. You nod over your shoulder at him, approving his adjustment, and his thumb rubs your calf, a gesture of gratitude and comfort in response to your kindness.

“Alright. Here goes.” You mentally beg your hands to remain steady and not shake as you clamp the tweezers onto the bone chip you spotted near the surface. Then, you slide it out as smoothly and swiftly as you can. It comes readily, and he doesn’t flinch.

Okay. Now for the more challenging part.

You gently ease the tweezers into the wound about a centimetre, then start pulling the raw flesh outward so you can feel around. Your partner’s breathing instantly becomes heavier, his grip tightening on your calf, so you try your hardest to slide, not scrape, as you move the tool. Something solid soon halts your progress, and you carefully catch it between the metal, pulling out another shard of bone. It’s smaller than the first but deeper and thus closer to the nerves – painful enough to make him whimper.

“You doing okay?” You wish you had an endearment to call him, but nothing in Basic comes to mind, and his Mando’a ones for you don’t sound right for him.

“Fine,” he pants, sounding anything but. “Keep going…” His voice is heavily choked up, making tears spring to your eyes again as you imagine him crying beneath his helmet from the pain.

You slide the tweezers to the same depth, checking the opposite side and finding nothing. That’s good.

Then, with a shaking breath, you push down deeper.

The growl of agony Din emits causes your collecting tears to overflow and cascade down your cheeks. Nonetheless, you stay focused on your task and complete your probing with no further fragments discovered at this depth. His already firm grip on your calf gets tighter as he readies himself for you to press even deeper.

And holy hell, as your tool hits muscle and nerves, he howls like a boar-wolf at the gas giant in the sky. The mournful sound induces yet covers your own sobs, and you urgently try to blink away the tears to see what you’re doing.

His breathing is erratic now. He’s almost hyperventilating, and if he hadn’t insisted passing out would be a good thing, you’re not sure you could continue this torture.

This is already a fucking nightmare as it is, but it’s just getting worse. The tweezers are fairly short, so you need to hold them quite far down to maintain a firm grip. The grim consequence is that as you delve deeper, you have to insert your fingers inside his wound too, increasing the agony for you both.

You explore the hole’s sides and detect something else hard, but it’s at an angle. Shit… you’ll have to tilt the tool so you can clamp the tweezers around it. His chest heaves as he openly yells his anguish at the angle, his fist releasing the medpac’s handle to hammer the ground beside him. You can feel his other hand fitfully squeezing your calf, pulsing alongside ragged breaths he can no longer control, his body blindly reacting to the pain.

The metal closes firmly around the bone chip, but there’s resistance as you begin to extract it, and you sincerely hope you’re not tearing more flesh. You can’t hide your own sobs anymore, matching his, and you’re not even sure your words are coherent as you all but weep your remorse. “Fuck… I-I’m so… sorry….”

Din’s agony catches in his throat in a heartbreaking and mournful whine, followed by two heavy exhales through the modulator and then… silence.

He’s out. Body inert, muscles loose, hand no longer squeezing where it remains trapped between your thigh and calf.

However, your own torment burns onward as you finally extract the ragged fragment, working quicker now your patient can’t feel it anymore. Completing your investigation of the other side, you slide in deeper still… and you’re relieved (and somewhat horrified) to discover his thigh bone. Holy karking hell, that’s his actual bone. But you’re almost done.

Struggling to tamp down the dismay at seeing and feeling your fingers inside ripped flesh, you carefully trace the wound’s circumference with the tweezers. Next, you proceed across the bone, checking for splintered shards, noting the dips where the fragments came off but finding nothing else loose.

If there’s any bright side to look upon, you suppose it’s good luck that the affected bone was the large one in his thigh. Femur, he called it. You assume its thickness was what prevented it from breaking completely. Regardless, you doubt he’ll be able to walk until it heals, or else this chip might turn into a break.

Satisfied you’ve done all you can, you extract the tool and follow your final instructions, rinsing the injury again before carefully applying the bacta patch. You have to lift the fabric of his pants to slide the patch underneath, but now isn’t the time to dwell on how close to Din Djarin’s crotch you are.

Once it’s in place, you bind his thigh as ordered, battling to lift his heavy leg high enough to wind the bandage beneath. Finally, you check the tightness, relieved you can fit two fingers under it as advised.

You’re mostly content with your efforts. You’ve worked on all manner of machines and tech systems over the years, and when cries of pain aren’t distracting (and distressing) you, working on a body isn’t so different.

With your macabre task complete, the tension you’ve been holding onto emerges as your loudest and most anguished sob yet. You gulp down ragged breaths as you shift off your knees and sit forlornly at your injured Mandalorian’s side, grasping his motionless hand, unsure of what’s next.

The blood on your fingers is dry now, yet you’re plagued by a specific memory of your first meal together. You recall how he resisted removing his glove because he claimed his profession meant he had blood on his hands – metaphorically. As your bloodied fingers clutch his comparatively cleaner ones, you wonder if the universe is punishing you for scoffing when he insisted you wouldn’t want to see his hands.

Now you don’t want to see your own.

Minutes pass, and you attempt to calm your breathing, managing to regulate it a little. However, fresh tears continue to spill across your cheeks, silent but with just as much grief.

How long will he be unconscious? How long is too long? Part of you wonders if you should give him the stim-shot from the medpac, but honestly, you don’t know what that would achieve. Perhaps you should just allow him to rest so the bacta can work on the wound for as long as possible before he comes around. The mild painkiller was barely effective in the first place, but you hope the pain won’t be as bad by the time he wakes up. The bacta should help.

Vitals.

Your brain offers you a word you’ve heard in medical settings, and your memory gives it context. Din checked yours after Nantoogen’s attack, and you dredge up more memories of watching medics tend to the wounded after Partisan missions. They would monitor things like temperature, respiration, pulse rate, blood pressure, and other stats for which you don’t have the tools. The medics used diagnostic scanners, and the hunter has his medical device and HUD, but your medpac contains no such thing. Plus, you can’t borrow his if you can’t see his HUD.

However, you can use your hands and common sense, albeit in line with your patient’s creed.

Okay. Respiration first. That’s breathing, you recall.

His chest rises and falls steadily, and you place your cleaner hand on his cuirass to monitor it closely. It’s a lot slower now than when he was awake, which you think is promising. It’s slower than your own, even, and you’ve already worked hard to get your breathing under control. But it’s steady, and you can’t feel any hitches.

You press your ear against his cuirass, wondering if you might hear any wheezing, but the gushing river nearby is too noisy. One last thought has you listening at the base of his helmet, but still nothing is audible through his vocoder over the water’s hiss. You hope the absence of loud and worrisome sounds is a good sign.

Pulse. You know you have two options. Wrist or neck. You’ve touched both already, so you don’t think checking either is pushing too far. You’re not entirely sure how to take someone’s pulse, so you opt for his neck as you believe it’ll be easier to feel there.

Carefully, you insert two fingers below Din’s helmet and find the top of his high collar. Then you drag it down slightly and press against his skin, searching for the spot where the blood throbs strongest through his artery. Lining up the hypospray earlier was easier than this since that was over his clothing. Now that you’re underneath the fabric, you can’t see exactly where you’re pressing.

Once located, you compare his pulse to your own via the same place on your own neck. The two are similar; his is slightly slower than yours but strong. Again, that satisfies you.

Temperature is trickier since you have limited access to his skin. You decide to simply rest more of your hand against his neck to judge how warm he is, and your remaining fingers join the first two. He’s a little clammy with sweat, but he isn’t burning or freezing. Okay, you think that’s probably fine.

You swiftly withdraw your hand, worried that you’re pushing boundaries by staying there any longer than required.

Blood pressure… you have no clue about that. You’re not totally sure what it means, but you’re aware that too high or too low is bad. You also know that too low makes a person pass out, but you don’t think that’s what happened to Din, or else your continued probing would’ve awoken him. You saw this a lot in the aftermath of Partisan missions: the brains of the injured would simply shut themselves off to avoid feeling the agony. Plus, he predicted it would happen to him, which reassures you.

But in terms of measuring blood pressure, you have little to go on. His pulse seems normal, so if the blood isn’t pumping at a worrying speed, then you hope its pressure is also of no concern. That’s the best you can do.

You’ve exhausted your task list, so you simply sit on the damp ground, staring at your companion, unable to make sense of what you’re feeling. The tears dried up as you focused and reassured yourself by checking his vitals, and now you start wondering what else you can do.

Logical Brain makes a decision to get organised.

First, you clean the multi-tool in the river and return it to the medpac along with all the other items. The small box then gets nestled inside your backpack once more. Next, you add the empty medicine vials and blood-soaked flight suit remnants to the trash bag fixed to the speeder’s cargo rail. Then, finally, you wash your hands in the river. It flows ever slower since the rains have stopped, and the current now meanders instead of gushes.

As you wash Din’s blood from your shaking fingers, a sense of abject loss envelops you – a spiralling notion that even on the run, Nantoogen is chipping away at every positive aspect of your life.

No. You beat that feeling already. Don’t let it take root again.

Stay focused.

You swig some water from your flask to ease the ache in your throat after gasping out so many sobs, and it soothes you a little. But packing away the flask, it strikes you that your mission plan has once again gone hopelessly south and will now require further adjustment.

Will your partner be able to sit on the speeder with a wound that far up his thigh? Not likely. It’ll doubtless need some time to heal before he can do that without risk, which puts you at a distinct disadvantage.

But you won’t let yourself believe the hunt has failed. There must be some way to continue. Okay, what do you know, and what can you surmise?

Common sense dictates that Nantoogen will want to move away from the river now. Logically, a tracker would continue along it, looking for the boat’s remains to try and gauge where he came ashore. So if it were you, you’d head straight back into the forest, knowing the wreckage would drift farther with nobody clinging to it.

Also, if the bounty is confident in his use of fake chain codes, how could he know you’ve pieced together a partial tracking fob? You hope he simply thinks you and Din are freakishly skilled at pursuing someone through a forest. And he can’t possibly know you’ve figured out his ship’s location. He has no clue that you were a salvager with knowledge of the area.

Hopefully, then, while he’s loping about in the forest trying to throw you off his scent, you can utilise the more direct river trail. Perhaps you can even overtake him like you considered before, just with your routes reversed.

It’s a vague plan based on numerous assumptions. But it’s something.

You reach for the hunter’s belt and slide out the tracking fob. The tempo is faster than when you checked it at the crash site, but not as quick as it was from your storm shelter. It’s probably been about half an hour since Nantoogen escaped, so when you look at things in context, you can determine his likely actions thereafter. If he were still clinging to the boat, it would’ve submerged by now, so you conclude he’s abandoned the flotsam and is once again limping on dry land. That means you can still catch up and overtake.

Having the beginnings of a plan calms you a little, but the question remains of how to move your patient once he comes around. That’s now the main problem to solve.

Then, suddenly, a spark of hope fizzles in your mind like a plasma welder against a hull plate.

The river runs through a valley. Valleys have enhanced sound propagation – something you recall learning from your Ewokese teacher, Tenal. He taught you how Ewoks send messages in emergencies, explaining that long-distance communication is easier within valleys because you can better pinpoint direction. Shouting from high ground can send your voice far and wide, but locating the source from the widely dispersed sound is tough. Better to utilise a valley’s confines to let your message echo along much farther in a direction that can be easily discerned.

You scramble to the riverbank and cup your hands around your mouth, facing downstream toward where it eventually flows into Lake Sui. Then you fill your lungs with air and bellow as loudly as possible, “Chyasee!”

You give it thirty seconds and then repeat your plea for help. Though the village at the lake is too distant for anyone there to hear you, maybe you’ll get lucky and there’ll be a scouting party out this far south. The storm makes it unlikely, although given how suddenly the weather descended into madness, perhaps some Ewoks were also caught in it. You can only hope the devoted little furballs will be out in the forest checking for anyone needing assistance after the squall.

“Chyasee! Ewoks! Stusl chyasee!”

Still nothing.

You stumble back to Din and collapse beside him, picking up his hand again. Part of you just wants to break down on his chest. But the part of you that he asked to be strong for him lectures you that now still isn’t the time for sentiment.

You can’t fail now. You sank Nantoogen’s boat, performed field surgery on your partner, ensured his well-being, cleaned up, got organised, devised a vague plan, and tried to summon help. You’ve done everything in your power to be strong for him. The only thing left in your pitiful arsenal is to try your hardest not to fall to pieces.

Then you hear it, and your relief is more glorious and tangible than if you’d just outrun a hragscythe.

A horn. An Ewok horn. Distant but audible.

You leap back up and call out again, “Chyasee!”

A few seconds later, the horn answers. Thank the stars, someone has heard you!

You return to your Mandalorian’s side and lean your head down to his, gently resting your forehead against his helmet in a Keldabe kiss. Then you lift up and press your lips against the same place on the smooth beskar in a type of kiss you’re more familiar with.

“Help is coming, Din,” you whisper.

Chapter Text

Your rescuers manage to locate you quicker than you thought possible. Each time the horn’s low resonance echoes through the valley, you shout back to lead them to your location, giddy at the thought of some much-needed good luck.

While you wait, you ensure your bags are evenly packed, just as Din showed you, glad of the distraction. You also take a moment to ease his gloves onto his limp hands to respect his privacy principles about showing his skin. The small tasks and your renewed hope make the wait seem shorter, and you’re overjoyed when your saviours round the path and find you.

It’s an Ewok duo, an elder with a youngster trailing him, perhaps on a training exercise. Both have cream-coloured fur, an uncommon trait, so you wonder if they’re related.

They arrive on a wagon drawn by a bordok, and your relief is palpable – it’s suitable transport for your partner’s injury. If they had rocked up on blurrgback, you wouldn’t have known what the kriff to do.

The elder Ewok introduces himself as Kirrat and is eager to help. Your numerous prior dealings with the natives have proved what a hospitable species they are, especially toward the few humans who’ve learned their language. Kirrat is no exception and happily agrees to transport you and Din to the village at Lake Sui. There, he promises the tribe’s healer can provide pain relief and powerful medicines to promote healing.

Your Mandalorian is still unconscious, and although you’re unnerved by how long he’s been out, you remind yourself that he can’t feel pain in this state. You suspect his lengthy dormancy partially has to do with exhaustion anyway. He got just over an hour of sleep last night before the gurreck incident and none the previous night when he cared for you after Nantoogen’s attack. He deserves some proper rest.

However, the question remains of how the three of you can lift a broad and muscular man in full beskar armour onto a wagon. You consider yourself fairly fit, and Ewoks have a strength that belies their short stature, but even working together, you doubt you can lift him up to the vehicle’s flatbed.

You pose the problem to your new comrades, using gestures to emphasise how heavy beskar is. The youngster, Baplim, claps his paws together as if it’s an easy challenge and scurries over to the wagon, enthusing, “Tyatee thek!”

You follow as requested, and he points to what appears to be a large wooden stretcher in the back of the vehicle. Beaming in gratitude, you praise, “Teeha, dee fratta saetae.”

It’s far too large for such short-statured people, but as you help unload the rigid board, you notice other stretchers of varying sizes. You realise this must be a sort of Ewok ambulance, ready to transport any injured souls, regardless of species. Just another display of how truly selfless these fuzzy little folks are.

Not knowing if Din will stir from his unconscious state, you instruct your new friends to slip the board beneath his body while you roll him. You imagine he might react poorly if he woke up to find furry creatures pawing at his armour, so you should be the one to manhandle him. Plus, you’re confident you can roll his weight because you did so earlier.

Once he’s bound to the stretcher, the three of you haul the top half high enough to rest on the wagon’s edge. Phase two involves switching to the other end and lifting it parallel before pushing it fully onto the flatbed. It’s an effort, but you manage.

Before you leave, you conceal the speeder again in the undergrowth, and Kirrat assures you the village can send someone to recover it later. Carefully, you unhook your lyaer’tsa and slide it onto the wagon, blade safely tucked into the corner. Then you collect Din’s jetpack, cuisse, and the repacked supplies and heave them on too.

Finally scrambling up into the wooden vehicle, you unbind your companion and situate yourself with your back against the side, stretching your legs across the width. Then you manoeuvre his helmet into your lap and fidget until you find an angle without too much heavy beskar digging into your thighs. He held your whole body in his lap during the storm, so it seems only fair that you cradle his helmeted head in yours now.

When they’re satisfied you’re secure, Kirrat and Baplim climb up to the driving platform and gather the reins, gently coaxing the bordok to move off.

Though you’re glad of the smooth ride, you can’t ignore your desire to reach the place where you can obtain proper medical help. It rapidly overwhelms you, so you politely call, “Veek, gyeesh,” urging them to go as fast as possible.

Your gracious hosts instantly cluck “Kaiya!” to the clever bordok, which obliges and increases its pace until it’s galloping alongside the river.

As the trees whisk by, you lace your fingers with Din’s and bring your clasped hands up to settle on the sun-warmed metal above his heart. You hope it won’t be long before your Mandalorian is back with you.

The earlier storm took you well into the afternoon, so by the time your journey is two-thirds complete, the suns are kissing the treetops. Kirrat advises it’ll be after dark when you reach the village, but you’re safe on the wagon, so you’re not too worried about night-time dangers. However, you keep the tracking fob next to you to monitor the one threat that does make you anxious.

Physical dangers aside, your primary concern right now is your partner’s well-being. He’s still out cold, and you fervently hope it’s not a sign of something worrisome and that his mind and body are simply restoring themselves.

Now that you’ve had a proper chance to consider it, you’ve surmised he’s barely slept at all since he landed on Endor. He admitted he didn’t avail himself of the free guest quarters you got him, and he’s stayed awake with you for most of the past two nights. The hour he got before the gurreck attack can’t have been sufficient. Though he claimed he slept while you were working, you’re not convinced hiding in a storage closet somewhere counts as actual rest.

You hope this is merely a much-needed recharge.

Meanwhile, you let down your ponytail so your hair will dry faster and lay your soaked jacket next to you. Your shirt and pants are still damp too, but it’s nothing you can’t endure. You sip some more water to ease your throat from all the shouting but have no appetite for food. If Din is awake when you reach the village, you’ll eat with him later. You wish you could give him water, but there’s no way in hell you’re lifting that helmet. So you stay stretched out in the wagon, cradling his head and trying to minimise any jostling from the faithful bordok’s brisk pace.

Some desperate part of you wants skin-to-skin contact with him to ease your worry, but you can’t remove his gloves without his permission. You put them back on him to protect his privacy, so removing them now in the presence of others would negate your earlier act of respect. It’s immoral and insulting, and you could never do that to him.

Instead, you simply caress him through the parts of his now completely dry flight suit that aren’t covered in armour. Well, the parts above the waist. With no thick cloak in the way, you have rare access to his neck, shoulders, collarbones and upper chest above his cuirass. On his arms, there’s room to massage the muscular biceps below his pauldrons, down past his elbows to where his vambraces begin. To a lesser extent, you can access his sides through the double-layer coarseweave flak vest his cuirass attaches to. Sadly, you can’t feel much through the armourweave padding over his stomach since it’s just as thick as the beskar, albeit flexible.

The caresses are certainly nothing close to the forbidden type of touching, so it doesn’t feel risky or like you need his permission. It calms you to imagine that even though Din is unconscious, perhaps your gentle touches somehow comfort him.

Each time you approach his neck, you push past his collar to check his pulse with two fingers – a fleeting allowance of skin-to-skin contact hidden by his helmet. Whatever boundaries you worried about crossing when you first took his pulse have been thoroughly pushed aside at this point. It doesn’t subvert his privacy, and you’ve touched him there before. Feeling his blood throbbing in his veins and his chest rising and falling with his slow breaths soothes you.

Your thoughts are all over the place, a mix of memories and fears, both old and new, wonderful and terrible. You distract yourself by watching the golden-tinged early evening light reflect across your Mandalorian’s armour, soon yielding to the warmer blush of near sunset.

When he finally regains consciousness, it’s slow.

His body subtly twitches as physical sensations return, and you feel his biceps contract where you’re stroking them. Worried he might find it alarming to wake up to someone grasping his upper arms, you relocate your touch, lacing your fingers with his and whispering gently. You wish you could use his name, but your new friends at the front of the vehicle would overhear, so it’s best not to.

“You’re safe,” you soothe as his brain catches up with his body and he tenses up. “Relax, everything’s okay.”

Din’s helmet turns slightly to focus on you above him, and then your name comes through the vocoder in an unsteady, dry rasp.

You can’t tell if there’s a question mark at the end, but you reassure him again regardless. “I’m here.”

His head rolls slightly to the other side, but the visor darts back to you as he becomes aware of his surroundings and his position in your lap. “Where’s here?” His voice is hoarse.

You shush him gently. “Don’t talk; you need water. I’ll fill you in properly in a second, but the important things are that we’re safe, the mission hasn’t failed, and your leg is still attached. I made contact with some local Ewoks and got us help.”

He grunts softly, a sort of surprised but happy noise, and you feel some of his tension dissipate. Your stomach flutters with pride and relief to learn that he’s not displeased by the decisions and actions you took while he was unconscious.

“Priorities. You need water. Can you sit up?” He considers for a second, then gives a slight nod but doesn’t otherwise move. “Good. I’ll shift around as you sit up and lean my back against yours. And I’ll tell our Ewok friends to keep looking forward so you can drink safely, okay?”

When you detect a second nod of Din’s helmet against your thighs, you set the remaining water flask by his hip. Recalling how he needed help sitting up earlier, you position one hand behind the crown of his helmet and the other beneath his pauldron, eager to assist. But despite some heavy wincing, he’s surprisingly spry about it this time.

Once he’s vertical, you spin and press your back against his, giving him something to lean against so he doesn’t strain his thigh trying to stay upright. Without the jetpack, the backplate of his cuirass is mostly smooth, so nothing digs into you. In fact, he manages to match the pressure you’re exerting exactly, which balances out the weight of his armour and further avoids discomfort.

You hear him uncap the flask, so you call ahead to your rescuers, telling them your companion needs privacy to drink and to please not look. Kirrat and Baplim chorus their accord, and the elder Ewok even places his paw atop the youngster’s hooded head to ensure he doesn’t peek.

You pat his pauldron over your shoulder to confirm that it’s safe. A second later, you hear his helmet latch hiss and feel it nudge the back of your skull as he tilts it up and lifts his chin to drink.

After several swigs, Din clears his throat several times before resetting his beskar and closing the flask. “Better. Thank you.”

Relief and joy wash through you when you hear the modulated baritone once again, and you release a breath you weren’t aware you were holding.

He starts to shift, so you turn and help him pivot ninety degrees against the wagon’s side, carefully assisting with his injured leg until he’s settled. There’s just enough room to keep his leg straight across the vehicle’s width. You’re about to sink against the opposite side when he emits a surprising sound not unlike a whimper and holds out both arms to you – innocent and adorable. Vulnerable.

This warrior hasn’t shown you vulnerability before, or at least not in such a blatant display. When his injury occurred, he remained the stronger of you, directing you on what to do even as he writhed in pain. Sure, he’s slipped up a few times trying to maintain focus for the hunt, giving in to statements and actions that show how intensely he yearns for you. And sure, his hesitant demeanour during your more personal exchanges has shown you a glimpse of his heart and his desires. His confession about his parents’ fate and his desire for soft touch was the most open he’s been with you. But despite the gravity of that exchange, it wasn’t something he asked for, and it didn’t feel like he’d break if he didn’t get what he hoped for.

But when Din holds out his arms to you now, the noise from his throat comes through the vocoder as raw and needy. It feels like an admission – not of weakness, but of incompleteness. Like you’re his fuel to carry on, and he’ll die if he can’t recharge from your touch.

You’re starting to suspect you might too.

You gladly sink against your Mandalorian, and he wraps you in his arms with a deep and ragged sigh. Snaking one of your own across his stomach padding, you finally indulge in the sentiment you’ve been denying yourself since his injury occurred. You need it now as much as he does.

For a few minutes, you simply cling to one another in silence, thankful you’re together and safe.

After a while, you inquire, “How’s the pain?”

“Bearable.” His tone is earnest, which suggests he’s telling the truth, and it’s an almighty relief from your worry. The bacta must be holding it at bay for now. He examines your bandaging for a moment, then looks around at the wagon and softens his voice. “How did you….” He trails off, visibly overwhelmed by the many questions he must have. “You did good… great. This is… I’m…”

Chuckling at his astonished response, you squeeze him tighter in gratitude for his praise, both spoken and implied.

Pressed close together in the wagon’s flatbed, it takes longer than expected to fill in your companion on the events since he passed out.

Mindful of Din’s concern about his job, you detail your suspicions about Nantoogen’s likely next move, now borne out by the changes in the fob’s pulses. The device has been next to you throughout the trip, and you’ve monitored it carefully. The directionality confirms that the bounty left the river trail just as you predicted, and your galloping pace has already taken you far north of his position. That puts you well ahead of him in the race. He’ll have to limp for a couple of days to reach the village you’ll be arriving at in only a few hours, giving your Mandalorian time to recover. From there, it’s still another half a day to the Death Star wreckage in the Oniantae Hills.

You also tell him of the new plan you concocted while waiting for him to wake: asking the Ewoks to send scouts to locate Nantoogen’s ship. If they agree, it could yield further intel and a greater advantage than you’ve had at any point so far.

Throughout your report, Din all but worships you with his gloved hands. He paws and caresses your head, neck, arms, back, waist and hips, as if you might be a forest spirit he needs to prove is solid flesh. His touches are in no way lustful; he somehow limits them to a mixture of respectful and reverent whilst still being indulgent. It’s a strange echo of what you were doing to him while he was unconscious, and you wonder if he was aware of it on some level. For now, you just soak in the pride and gratitude he lavishes upon you for keeping a clear head and progressing the mission so ably in his absence.

After you’ve brought him fully up to date, the hunter takes his own turn and expresses his regret at failing to take down Nantoogen on the boat. He explains that before you caught up, he had attempted to tackle him from the air. However, his quarry fought with surprising skill and forced Din back with another point-blank blast to his cuirass (the shot you heard en route), just as he did at the compound. That led to the standoff you witnessed upon arrival.

“I hate bounties like this,” he complains. “Ones who’ve been outrunning hunters for so long they can predict every move.” He sounds ashamed to admit that his target bested him, so you give him a consoling and supportive squeeze.

Once you’re both fully caught up, you formally introduce Kirrat and Baplim, and the furry fellows wave a greeting from their position up front. Your partner nods and thanks them for their help.

“Say ‘teeha’,” you whisper. “They don’t understand Basic.”

Din repeats the word, and the Ewoks squeak in delight and chitter an effusive response, making him chuckle at their joyful spirit.

“This is why I quit hanging out with the people at the compound who just drink and complain,” you explain with a grin. “These guys can make anyone smile.” He chuckles again and hums in agreement.

The suns are fading fast as the bordok canters along the trail toward the lake. Finally calm after the deluge, the river flowing beside you catches the fiery rays, reflecting them a deep blood-red. The evaporating rain shimmers on the path in the twilight, and combined with the lengthening shadows, shifting shapes appear to dance just out of eyeshot. The Ewoks believe this hour to be sacred, and in honour of such mirages, they call it azar toot de – Ewokese for ‘magic time’.

Before the darkness sets in, a rest stop is in order. The hard-working bordok needs water, the vehicle needs light to progress safely, and your guides need to pray to the setting suns.

While Kirrat leads the animal to the river to drink, Baplim ignites the lanterns on the wagon’s four corners. Once aflame, they cast you and Din in a flickering yellow glow where you remain curled up together in the flatbed.

Standing in the vehicle with you, the young Ewok casts a cautious but curious look between you, then points at your companion while addressing you. “Weechu nuv chaaa?”

His candid inquiry flusters you, setting your face and neck aflame, and you gape at him, unsure how to respond.

“What did he say?” Clearly, the hunter finds it distressing when someone speaks about him if he can’t understand the context.

“Uh, well… he basically asked if we’re a couple,” you stammer, hoping to avoid a literal translation.

But your partner knows when you’re mincing words. “Basically.”

There he goes again, interrogating without ever asking a question.

You sigh and chew on your lip, deciding to give in since you have already broached the subject. “The direct translation is: ‘Do you love this one’.”

Din is silent. It’s not awkward, but you both admitted earlier that although such feelings are on the horizon, you’re not there yet. You can’t even summon the words in Basic to describe your current status, let alone in Ewokese. Pre-love? Courting? You know you feel a type of love, but it’s too soon to assign it the formal label your young friend is asking about here.

Baplim is still awaiting an answer, but you have no idea how to respond.

After a moment, you offer the little furball a resolute nod and a single word. “Danthee.”

He glances between you several times, then tilts his head in confusion, perhaps wondering why you had to discuss it before answering.

It seems Din also needs to clarify. “What did you tell him?” he asks quietly, nervously, probably all kinds of bewildered by the fact that you nodded as you spoke.

“I said, ‘maybe’. He’s barely older than a Wokling, so he doesn’t realise it’s rude to ask and won’t understand a more complex answer. Honestly, I wouldn’t know where to begin anyway.” As an afterthought, you add, “I don’t think my vocabulary is good enough either. Ewokese is a very… precise language; I was never taught a word for ‘eventually’. The future tense is always given a time frame. To them, ‘maybe’ means the same as ‘I don’t know’, which is pretty much a negative. Adding a nod is the only way I can think of to say, ‘I don’t know yet’.”

You’re about to ask if he’s happy with that assessment, but he releases a hum of approval before you can speak again. Baplim, however, isn’t satisfied, and he tries again for a more straightforward answer by chittering the same question to Din as he points at you.

“Danthee,” the hunter replies, pronouncing it perfectly. It impresses you that he committed the word to memory after hearing it only once and not knowing the meaning until he asked.

You note that he, too, nods as he declares it – in fact, his gesture is distinctly resolute. But Baplim looks suspicious, and you’re not convinced he understands what you’re trying to convey. The poor kid probably thinks you’re attempting to mislead him with cryptic answers.

“Tell me more about their future tense,” Din insists, keeping his voice soft but making it clear he wants a speedy reply.

You stammer slightly at the odd request, unaware he had any interest in languages and unsure how to respond. “What do you mean? Like what?”

He huffs as if it should be obvious. “You said it’s always given a time frame. In numbers? Or can it be indeterminate?”

“I don’t think so. Like I said, I’ve never been taught a word for ‘eventually’.”

Then he surprises you yet again with knowledge you weren’t aware he had. “That’s a negative abstract indeterminate. It means ‘not now but after an unknown quantity of time has passed’. It makes sense that they just use ‘no’ instead. How about positive time-related indeterminates, like ‘soon’? As in ‘it will happen imminently’. They can’t put exact time frames on everything. Most languages can distinguish the near future from the far future – the foreseen from the unforeseen.”

You breathe out a small laugh as you realise he’s correct. Even in an area of your own expertise, he can out-think you. Din Djarin is a smart man.

“Soon is ‘sut’,” you provide, somewhat awestruck.

Hang on… what did he just say? You recover from your awe at his intellect, only to register the inherent meaning of what he’s just asked you to translate. Holy shit. The news that he thinks love is imminent further stuns you.

When you find your tongue again, you scramble to justify why such a word didn’t occur to you before. “Based on what we talked about earlier, something abstract seemed… safer for now.”

“Well, we agreed it’s less a question of if and more when… right?” He rubs your arm as if hoping to convince you, and you dip your chin in bashful agreement.

“I… yeah. ‘Soon’ sounds… correct. Sounds… good.” A smile creeps onto your lips as you accept and condone the revelation, and he gives a satisfied hum.

Learning that he believes love is visible on the horizon instead of somewhere in the future strengthens your own convictions about your feelings. Yeah, you like the idea of ‘soon’.

You’re silent for a moment and then notice Baplim watching you both with wide eyes, as if he can’t decide whether you’re intriguing or insane.

“Oh right. Kark.” You refocus on the young Ewok with a better idea of what to tell him now. “Ees ya nuv eesaa sut. Vay jiks treekthin toto eetee, ba ees ya medh zoevinaer pered buegd treek. Tep… x’iutha ota kisa.”

“And that was…?”

You look up into Din’s visor with affection. “Word for word, it means: ‘We will love each other soon. But this journey is long, and we must be certain before taking each step. He is important to me’.”

“Well said,” he affirms. Then he raises his large hand to stroke your (finally dry) hair and softly states, “You’re important to me too.”

In response, you drop a small kiss on the beskar over his chest.

Baplim claps his paws at your more precise answer and visual display, chittering his delighted reaction now that he understands better.

You smirk and translate, “He wishes us a smooth and successful journey.”

“Teeha,” Din responds, and you beam at the fact that he remembered the first word you taught him earlier in the journey. The little Ewok claps in joy again before dismounting to seek his mentor at the river’s edge where the bordok rests. Your new friends need to bid the suns farewell and pray for the forest’s protection in the dark, so you have a while before they return.

“You’re good with languages,” you note. “How many do you know?”

“Almost a dozen if you include those I’m not fluent in.” You cock your head for more details, and he expands. “Basic is my native tongue. I learned Mando’a from ten, Huttese from fifteen – I’m fluent in those – and I do pretty well in Bocce and Tusken. I also understand Durese, Bothese, Ryl, Dosh and Rodese, but I’m not great at the grammar, so speaking them is harder. And I know a bare minimum of Jawa Trade language, but my pronunciation is… poor.” He mirrors your questioning head tilt. “You know any others?”

“Basic from birth, and I started learning Ewokese about a year after I moved here. It took a few years, but Tenal stopped my lessons when he decided I was fluent. My knowledge of other languages begins and ends at swears. When I was a kid, a Twi’lek friend taught me a few choice phrases in Ryl that have come in handy. And I can cuss out anyone in Kage.”

“Not a common one,” Din comments.

You hesitate, unsure if you should reveal how you learned the few words you know. “I… dated a Kage guy on Onderon. Don’t be jealous,” you add.

The nervous breath you hold escapes as he chuckles. Then he sobers as he promises, “I’ll try not to be an asshole about your past conquests again, but you gotta understand my position. I’m gonna be jealous of them until I’ve had the chance to satisfy you better than they ever did.”

He says it so earnestly, but for some reason, it gives you the giggles. You don’t doubt his resolve; you suspect that when this man sets his mind to a task, he will tear apart the galaxy to achieve it. But it amuses you that he’s only decided on this goal because he’s jealous of people he really needn’t compare himself to. It’s… juvenile.

When you notice the questioning tilt of his helmet, you realise you probably shouldn’t have laughed at his earnest promise. Maybe you can get away with being cute about it? Licking your lips, you give him some sass. “So, bounty hunter, you wanna be the best I’ve ever been with, hmm?”

Din flexes his thick fingers gently but firmly against the nape of your neck and drops his voice into its lowest register as he vows, “I will be.”

Oh, stars. Suddenly, his confidence is achingly alluring.

Revelling in your low-key arousal, you assume he wouldn’t discuss this if it were a risky topic, so you succumb to your curiosity and probe further. “You’re rather sure of yourself, Mandalorian. I take it you’ve had enough experience to perfect some moves?”

He ignores your use of his adopted identity as his name and substitutes the cocksure attitude with honesty, addressing the subject of his sexual competence head-on. “My experience is… sporadic, not long-term enough to ‘perfect’ anything, so that’s not what I’ll rely on. But we agreed we’d get to know each other first, and I plan to use that time to my advantage. I aim to learn anything that’ll help me understand what turns you on, or at least, some clues about where to start.”

It surprises you how eager Din is to answer one of your questions for a change, especially on this topic. Plus, hearing him describe such a generous goal is nothing short of sublime. You’re so stunned that you don’t respond, and he continues to hammer home his intentions as if he’s unsure whether you’ve understood.

“I’m a hunter. Hunters gather data and use it to predict and then enact the best outcome. So, yes, I intend to use whatever I learn to become the best you’ve ever had.” He thinks for a second, then suggests, “Or, you could guarantee it if you’re willing to give me some helpful pointers in advance.”

Throughout his speech, you become more and more convinced that your impending coupling will be downright heavenly… until he utters his final words. Those make you squirm in his arms.

It’s not out of awkwardness. No, it’s because you’re a little dumbfounded at how forthright Din is being on the subject of sex. It’s one thing to brazenly reference the two of you fucking if you’re only flirting, like that delightfully suggestive exchange before breakfast this morning (risky though it was). It’s an entirely different thing to speak honestly about it.

It seems he’s a lot more confident discussing the carnal than the emotional – far more than you are. That’s fine when it’s just him talking, but asking you to give him pointers? Kriff. What would you even tell him? You have no clue how to voice your desires.

You hear his grin as he teases, “Are you embarrassed?”

“N-no,” you stammer, sounding completely the opposite. “It’s not that. I guess… sharing stuff about our pasts and discussing our feelings is sometimes tough, but it’s always… worthwhile? It’ll progress our relationship, so I can manage it. But talking about sex…?” You whisper the word, but you’re unsure why – nobody’s listening. “I’ve never had anyone say, ‘Hey, let’s sit down and plan that part out in advance’. The usual way is to just… try things, see how the other person responds, and adjust if needed. You don’t have to talk to learn that stuff.”

It’s somewhat amusing how keen Din is to discuss this. Though it was his idea to share your histories and get to know each other before anything physical happens, he’s always approached it with hesitance. By now, you’re aware it’s part of his overall character, so you’ve come to expect it. Silent and stoic. His eagerness to engage in this topic is not consistent with what you’ve learned about him, so it surprises you.

He remains quiet, waiting for you to decide if you want to have this discussion. You swallow and try to order your thoughts. “But I can see your logic, and you know I value logic. So, no, I’m not embarrassed; you’ve just… thrown me out of my comfort zone slightly. I’m also kind of surprised because you’re normally more hesitant about sharing. But… if it’s something you really want to talk about first, I could try.”

He gives you a comforting squeeze, approving your efforts to see his point of view. “Mandalorians are straightforward people, which includes honesty with partners about sex, so it’s not an unusual concept for me.” He pauses, then adds, “Though this is the first time I’ve had a… situation that warrants it.”

Two things in Din’s final sentence cause you to smile widely then. First, his awkward use of the word ‘situation’ to describe your relationship, despite urging you earlier that love is on the horizon. Clearly, he has no label for your present status either. Second, his bashful admission of inexperience. He’s referenced his lack of serious relationships before, which means he must believe sexual discourse is only required in serious ‘situations’. Any casual partners in his past clearly didn’t benefit from such interest and effort.

Suddenly, your mind flashes back to when he pointedly steered away from any mentions of carnal acts. “Is this not a ‘dangerous’ subject? During the storm, you said it’s not a good idea to talk about this yet.”

His helmet shakes, reflecting flickering lamp light into your eyes. “You’re not pressed up against my… lap now, I’m injured, and there are Ewoks nearby. Right now, I can think hypothetically instead of getting too tempted by the idea. And this isn’t flirting; it’s research.”

You smile again at his choice to say ‘lap’ instead of a more explicit term. You can’t imagine him uttering the word ‘cock’, but his euphemisms are certainly flowing easier with every personal conversation you have. It helps you realise he’s not suggesting you describe the literal ins and outs of what you hope to engage in when you reach that stage. How can he be if he can’t even use explicit language? No, this is a more generic inquiry into tastes and tendencies.

You decide to consent and see how it goes, although you should approach this cautiously. There’s a definite risk of triggering Din’s jealousy here, so you’d prefer him to speak first and demonstrate the level of disclosure he’s looking for.

“Okay…” you assent slowly, making it obvious you have a caveat. “If we’re gonna discuss this, we should start with some background. Can you tell me a bit about your… experience?” You don’t want details, but you’re curious about how well-practised he is in this area.

Your companion grunts but relents. You suspect he’d prefer to talk about the future than the past, but he seems to accept your rationale for starting at the beginning.

“As I said, it’s sporadic,” he begins. Then, to your surprise, he launches into a forthright summary. “I was eighteen when I left Concordia, but I had no idea how to attract anyone outside the tribe, so I didn’t bother looking to start with. But after a while, I realised that some people find the idea of an armoured stranger attractive, and I was getting… attention. So I didn’t need to make much effort, just accept offers. They were mostly one-offs… it seemed simpler to choose women I wouldn’t run into again.”

Din’s candidness causes a question to form itself and fall from your lips before you’re even aware of speaking. “How many women have you been with?”

He hesitates but answers, probably just thrown by your no-nonsense query when you were too awkward to talk a moment ago. “Uh… five.”

His response neither surprises you nor confirms any suspicions; you hadn’t even theorised a specific number before. Yet, despite how unprepared you are for this discussion, another question instantly trips off your tongue. “You said ‘mostly’ one-offs. You were with somebody more than once?”

“Yes….” Suddenly, the normally confident hunter sounds downright nervous. Perhaps he didn’t intend to discuss specific people, or maybe he’s uncertain how much detail to share. Nonetheless, when you stay quiet, he sighs and expands his answer unprompted. “A bartender. On Nevarro. When I’d return to unload bounties and pick up new pucks, she would invite me to her place after her shift. Sometimes I went.” He’s meandering, but you maintain your silence until he gives you more. “I didn’t know much about her, but it was almost regular for about a year until—”

“A year? That’s a relationship!”

You didn’t mean to cut him off, honest. In the back of your mind, one brain cell whispers the word ‘jealous’ and your jaw tightens. Kark it. You suddenly feel a lot more contrite about condemning his initial reaction to your own past encounters this morning.

But Din hurriedly and firmly refutes your assumption. “No, it wasn’t. I was away tracking down bounties for months, and I didn’t agree every time she asked. It was… four times? Then the Guild decommissioned me when I picked up the kid, so I couldn’t return. And when the Empire occupied Nevarro City last year, she was… killed.”

Oh. Maybe that’s the reason he’s nervous about describing this former lover. He reports it flatly, but you’re painfully aware that the death of someone you’ve been intimate with can incite complex feelings about those memories, no matter how casual the affair was. You’ve endured such a hardship yourself. So you murmur, “I’m sorry….”

His helmet shakes as if he doesn’t want to speak about it anymore, and he downplays your empathy in clipped words. “You needn’t be. Like I said, I didn’t know her. Not even her name. It was ‘no questions asked’ on both sides. Convenience, nothing more.”

You let the subject drop, although you’re not convinced his dalliance was as straightforward as he’s claiming. It sounds as if your Mandalorian might’ve felt something more for this woman he returned to more than once. But now isn’t the time to get into it, so you move on. You’re not sure you want to know anyway.

“Any other repeats?” you ask, aiming for casual. Then, to lighten the mood, you add, “I’m sorry, I’ve started grilling you. You’ve got me talking, at least.”

“It’s fine,” Din responds, now mirroring your cordial tone. “If telling you this makes you more comfortable, I don’t mind. Only one other repeat… when I was still living with the tribe.” He pauses to swallow. “It was before the other kids I trained with turned sixteen and started formally courting… we were still young. I used to spar a lot with this one kid, and I… well, we figured some things out… on our own.”

Though he uses no pronoun for this person, you infer his meaning from the pointed emphasis he gives to his last three words. He means ‘without involving girls’. Until now, he’s been solely using the word ‘women’, so it’s unexpected, but it’s not in the least bit unwelcome. Based on his unflinching yet subtle way of disclosing it now, you suspect his tribe were accepting but taught and practised discretion.

You reassure him with a smile that you’re perfectly approving of it. “Was he the only guy?” you ask graciously.

“Yes,” he confirms sedately. “Five women, one guy. Though he and I didn’t… do a lot. I’m more often attracted to women, but it’s not conscious. Gender doesn’t have any bearing on attraction for me.”

You nod in agreement and continue quizzing him on his pleasingly unbiased views. “Humans?”

“Not always. My creed doesn’t discriminate, so neither do I.”

“Good,” you smile again, genuinely gratified that Din’s opinions match yours. “It pisses me off that this galaxy is so human-centric. I’m glad you’re not prejudiced like some people are. That said, I have to draw the line at Hutts.”

He laughs in agreement, which sets you off too, and you feel safely simpatico in your views. Riding that high, you finally feel confident enough to match his honest disclosure, keeping to the current topic of multispecies coupling. You just hope your admissions won’t inflame his jealousy.

“I had a huge crush on a Pantoran when I lived in Iziz – older guy, lots of gravitas – but nothing ever happened. And the Kage guy – his parents died on a Partisan mission too, so we fell together because of that but had barely anything else in common. We had very different reactions to the same loss. He had even more issues than I did back then.”

You choose not to mention how he sometimes brought those issues into the bedroom. That would probably just anger Din, even though it was mere selfishness and not at all abusive.

You give him something else instead. “I’ve also been with a Mirialan – a woman.”

“Yeah?” You can tell he’s finding it tough to hear about the men from your past, but he sounds almost relieved to learn that you’re not gender-biased either.

“Mm-hmm. I’d been thoroughly underwhelmed by the guys I’d been with, and I don’t rule out based on gender either. She was trying to pick me up, and she was gorgeous. So it was… an easy option.” The modulator buzzes in agreement, and you realise you’ve just described your Mandalorian’s self-confessed strategy for finding sexual partners. “But in the end, I had about the same amount of fun with her as I did with the guys, which is to say limited.”

A silent moment passes between you, filled only with the trill of munyips’ songs and the rustle of trees. You detect mild anxiety when he echoes, “Limited. You make it sound like you’ve never enjoyed it….”

Oops. You didn’t mean to suggest that sex has been such a letdown for you that Din might face a lacklustre reaction. Just that you’ve yet to find someone who has made cosmic fireworks explode for you.

Tightening your arm across him, you emphasise, “That’s not something you have to worry about. With you, I crave it in a way I never have before. In the past, it’s just been an attempt to achieve intimacy and orgasms, and then feeling let down when it hasn’t happened because it’s just felt like… I don’t know… making do? Filling the void?”

A breathless laugh escapes from him, his cuirass quaking as he gently wheezes, “A fitting description….”

His levity gets you laughing too, and you wonder how the discussion you thought would be difficult has somehow become mostly painless and natural. Once again, it feels much easier to admit things you’re nervous about when your intent is to reassure him.

When your partner sobers from his merriment, he sighs and cautiously suggests, “Well, you’d better tell me how many you’ve ‘made do’ with. I don’t want details; I just… I should probably find out what I’m competing against.”

You smile at the fact that he still thinks he’s competing with your past lovers, yet you’ve already found him to be worthier in every way.

“Four guys,” you reply honestly. When he doesn’t react, you take the cue to refine your answer whilst carefully avoiding too many details as requested. “I… sort of dated three of them for a while – the Kage and two humans. Plus there was the drunken mistake with the Twi’lek spice dealer.” Din approves your disclosure with a nod, and you’re relieved you pitched it right, so you conclude your catalogue. “And my night with the Mirialan woman puts my total up to five, so you beat me by one.”

“Okay,” he accepts with no trace of jealousy. Perhaps you diffused it by revealing how little you enjoyed your past encounters.

The suns have gone down fully now, and the two of you sit ensconced in a tiny bubble of lamplight in the wagon. The sense of privacy and his acceptance of your disclosure gives you the confidence to stroke this hunter’s ego.

“You know… I may have had limited fun with them, but you’ve already got me closer to ecstasy than anyone else has… fully clothed and without even trying. So you’re already making good on that whole ‘best I’ve ever been with’ promise.”

He visibly preens at your assurance but collects himself and challenges, “I thought that was just the speeder’s vibration….”

You chuckle at his roundabout method of asking precisely how he’s managed that. Of course he wants to learn exactly what he’s been doing right by mere chance.

“That helped, sure, but we were flirting all morning. And just before we left, you groped my thigh… and it was the first time you’d touched me in a… sexual way. So there I was on top of a speeder with your body between my thighs, my hands just north of your crotch, and my tits pressed against you. What did you think would happen? You lit a fire, then put yourself and a vibrating piece of metal between my legs.”

Din nods slowly as if this is a revelation. It probably is. You doubt he’s had much feedback from anyone about how horny he’s made them before.

“It’s the most keyed up I’ve been in years,” you assure him, marvelling at how easily your words are coming now, even the spicier ones.

“But you were able to control it after we talked….” You infer he’s asking if those urges remain just as strong, which is a fair concern.

“Before you explained why we need to wait, I figured we’d just fuck against a tree and get it out of our systems. Clear our heads for the hunt.” You detect a brief shiver of yearning running through him, and you hope that image wasn’t too temptingly graphic. “But it’s easier to keep a lid on it now that I understand why that’s not a sensible option.” At his regretful nod, you add, “In some ways, the waiting sort of… makes things hotter.”

Now that gets a reaction. Like a gurreck who’s caught the scent of its prey, Din pulls away slightly so he can fix his visor’s dark scrutiny directly on you. “So this… it’s like a… a tease? Does that… do you like that?”

Suddenly, you feel exposed – naked, almost. And it’s not just because it’s so rare for him to ask you a direct question not related to the hunt. This is of a distinctly personal nature, and he’s looking right at you.

Sure, this is the type of thing he started this dialogue to discover, but it appears he’s made a leap to something far too nuanced for this initial discussion. Teasing is a fine line, a more advanced art form. It’ll require significantly more explicit language to explain to any useful degree, and you want to keep things general for now. He won’t get that level of detail out of you at this stage, even by surprising you with such a direct query, stuttered though it may have been.

Instead of giving an actual answer, you point out his technique. “Hey, you just switched the focus to asking what I like – don’t think I didn’t notice that.”

“Don’t avoid my question.”

Oh, kriff… Din borderline growled that, and it opens floodgates within you. Your eyes squeeze shut in a confusing blend of nervous arousal as a shudder runs through your whole body. Ugh, there’s no way you can hide that reaction from him… you’ll have to refocus his attention on it. Thankfully, this turn-on is more straightforward, and you’re less shy about revealing it anyway.

“Okay, that. Right there. That commanding tone. It’s… it’s totally hot.” You catch your lip between your teeth, nervous at his reaction, eyes now open but studying the central design on his cuirass to avoid his visor’s stare.

“Yeah…?” is all he offers, coming equally as low and resonant through the vocoder. But he sounds… pleased? Amused?

Oh well. In for a coin, in for a chip. “Hell yeah,” you affirm, finally looking up at him for a clearer response. Then as an afterthought, you add, “But only for sex. You don’t get to boss me around otherwise.”

No need to let him develop any ideas about taking charge in other respects.

“Noted,” the hunter states evenly, still giving nothing away.

There’s a silence, and your nerves rage and multiply. “Is that… okay?” You flail a little, unsure of how your confession has landed but now desperate to find out. “Is it… does it fit with what you—”

The low hum from Din’s helmet and the tightening of his arms around you cut off your query mid-sentence. “Oh, it fits,” he husks, making your insides liquefy. “Very much.”

A trill of nervous delight escapes you, nasal and almost a laugh of joy. Kriff, you’re certain nobody has ever drawn that sound from you before. But he’s just confirmed your tastes align like dual power converters supplying a single engine, which gratifies you beyond compare.

But before you get too carried away, you wonder if the concept is still too broad for him to understand precisely what turns you on about it.

With tentative words, you begin, “I-I’m not sure how to explain this….” He strokes your arm to encourage you, clearly delighted that he’s finally getting some helpful tips. “I’ve had someone do that before, but he… did it wrong. I don’t want someone to be mean; I just like—”

“Ees kra ota treek!”

You jolt in alarm, and Din releases a groan of frustration at Kirrat’s poorly timed return. Instantly, the safe little bubble within which your slightly surreal discussion has been taking place drastically pops. As the real world floods back in, you tighten your lips self-consciously.

While the Ewoks re-tether the bordok to the wagon and mount the driving platform, you sit up from your position against your companion’s chest. He lets you go without protest, sensing you need to collect yourself.

Kirrat advises the village is just over an hour away now, and you thank him again and relay the news to Din, who simply nods. He doesn’t appear to feel as awkward as you, and he maintains his relaxed position with his arm along the vehicle’s edge behind your back. But the disrupted dialogue has somehow completely thrown you. Still leaning forward, your eyes track the tiny wisps of light created by the bioluminescent insects flitting between the dark trees, searching for your lost focus.

When the wagon begins to move forward and gather speed, the motion causes you to fall against Din’s arm again. However, he doesn’t return his hand to your shoulder, and you can’t decide whether you’re glad of the space or aggrieved by his failure to reassure you.

He still hasn’t said anything else, which you do find annoying. You were visibly flustered by having your confession cut short, yet he’s done nothing to comfort or reassure you. Once again, he’s reverted to silence, and you wish you didn’t have to prompt him to speak. He’s adept at talking once he gets going, but it’s almost as if he needs permission to open his mouth every time.

You reach behind you, and when you locate his hand, you return it to your shoulder. He responds instantly to your consent to touch you again, smoothing his palm along your arm. It’s a sliver of the comfort you were seeking, at least, but he remains silent.

You hesitate, then decide the only option is to press ahead and complete your confession, despite your notably higher level of discomfort. “I should probably finish—”

“Relax, cyar’ika. You gave me enough to predict the rest. You don’t have to say anything else if you don’t want to.”

It becomes instantly clear that he wasn’t just waiting for you to do all the hard work. Once again, all he needed was your consent for the discourse to continue. You need to get used to the fact that whenever he’s unsure, he stays silent, and you shouldn’t read into that silence. Your sudden insight diffuses your annoyance; he’s actually being thoughtful and generous in letting you set the boundaries for both physical and verbal exchanges. It’s just that nobody else has ever displayed such chivalry toward you, so it’s hard to recognise it.

Further displaying his attentive nature, Din then succinctly boils down the essence of your aborted confession and ties it up, allowing you to stay quiet if you so wish. “You told me this morning that you’re not ‘into’ pain, so I knew that already. But dominance doesn’t have to be about humiliation or a lack of respect either. There are different degrees of control, so it’s helpful you clarified. It’s a good starting point, thank you.”

And there’s the reassurance you were hoping for. He has understood your meaning perfectly, and he’s fine with it. You turn toward him and curl up against his chest once more, placing a gentle kiss on his cuirass, which makes him hum happily. You realise it’s the third time you’ve kissed his armour today – the only kisses you’ve ever given him. At least so far.

What you wouldn’t give to kiss his bare skin. Or his lips. Those soft lips he pressed against your fingers this morning.

You echo his happy hum, and now that you’re calm and content again, you find yourself curious about your partner’s proclivities. He’s satisfied with the tidbit you gave him about yourself, but perhaps there’s something he’s into that he wants you to be aware of. And it’s easier to continue the topic if the focus is on him. “Is there anything you wanna tell me about what you like?”

A thoughtful noise crackles through the vocoder while he considers this. After a few moments, he offers, “Given what you’ve told me, I think it’ll work well for both of us if I… direct you as we go. Sound good?”

It sounds ideal to you. You nod against his chest. “Perfect.”

Din then raises his hand to stroke your hair, the strands catching against his gloves slightly and causing a delightful pressure on your scalp. He speaks again, low and resonant but utterly forthright and without a shred of crudeness. “Don’t worry, mesh’la; even if nobody else has, I promise I’ll make you come.”

Normally, when he comes out with anything vaguely sexual, you’re a gibbering, messy mix of shocked and aroused. Yet, in the wake of your discussion, speaking such things suddenly feels far less indecent. He was so kriffing right: talking about sex really has been helpful. It’s no longer a taboo subject wherein every mention conjures enticing images. Instead, you can make mutual promises without risking the carefully maintained focus you require for the hunt.

So you respond in an equally pragmatic tone, now flirting with simple confidence rather than a desperate need. “Pretty sure your voice alone can get me there.”

“Dirty talk?” It’s not a direct question, but it’s close enough, pitched low and resonant again as if he’s trying to prove your point with a demonstration. Stars, it’s a challenge to keep yourself from sinking into any fantasies, but you manage it.

Din’s fishing for tips feels less daunting and more casual now. However, within seconds, you decide you can’t respond to this query without more data. Plus, you dislike these binary choices; once again, the answer isn’t just a simple yes or no.

So, instead of confirming or denying, you simply emphasise the core meaning of your comment – that you find his voice sexy no matter what he’s saying. “Honestly, you could read the shield generator manual to me at that pitch, and you’d have me seeing supernovas.”

He laughs again, holding you against him as his chest shakes. “Well,” he concludes, “This has been instructive. It wasn’t so difficult to discuss all that, was it?”

“No, I suppose it wasn’t,” you agree with a sigh. “Useful, actually. I’m glad you made me talk about this stuff.” As he gives a pleased hum, your much-misaligned biorhythms cause a wide yawn to overtake you. “It clearly took a lot out of me, though. I think the whole day has.”

“It’s just over an hour to the village?” At your nod, he uses his newfound powers of vocal persuasion to command in a low tone, “Sleep until we arrive.”

Din snags your backpack from beside him and extracts his cloak, laying it across you both and tucking it around you against the night-time chill. You doubt your desynchrony will let you nap, but you surrender to his soothing strokes, humming and closing your eyes against his chest. Though you can’t say beskar is comfortable to rest on, the wagon’s rhythmic rocking makes up for the hardness, and his firm grip ensures you’re not jostled against it.

Soon enough, you drift off, dreaming of your Mandalorian praising you in his honeyed tones for following his order.

Good girl.

Chapter Text

The gigantic gas planet Endor is glowing brightly in the night sky by the time you reach the lake. Tonight, it’s joined by two more of its nine moons, crossing orbits with your forested moon as they faithfully flank their master.

When Din gently shakes you awake, your eyes open to the shimmering blue sphere and its glowing white attendants reflected in the lake’s calm waters. Your body tries to yawn as you sit up, but their haunting beauty takes your breath away even as you inhale.

The bordok stops at the water’s edge, providing a perfect view of the stilt village lit by the warm tinge of fire pits and flickering torches. Kriff. How many gorgeous images can your brain process in quick succession?

The structures on the lake are sturdy yet elegant, thanks to the Ewoks’ impressive woodworking skills. You count roughly two dozen conical huts of varying sizes across numerous platforms connected by bridges. It’s a clever design that allows the village to sprawl out far over the water.

“I thought Ewoks lived in trees?” Din’s voice carries the same awe you feel.

“Not all of them,” you explain. “This tribe and a few others built their villages on lakes for protection from predators. The tree dwellers have to guard against reptavians, but condor dragons hate water, so the lake tribes are safer in that respect. And when they pull the bridges up, nothing can reach them.”

Distracted by the view, your companion makes a half-assed attempt to fix his cloak around his shoulders without leaning forward and jostling his injured leg. “Smart,” he remarks. “And defensible.” His combat-ready brain never switches off.

Kirrat dismounts, and you acknowledge his instruction to stay put until he’s spoken with the Council of Elders. Relaying it to Din, you bat away his fumbling attempts with his cloak, taking charge of the task since he’s doing a poor job alone. He shows you how it hooks into a clasp on the inside of his cuirass, and you manage to get the front looking vaguely neat. It’s bunched up behind him since he can’t lean too far forward, but it should fall better once he moves.

Baplim suddenly hops up to kneel on the driving platform facing you. Placing his fuzzy elbows on the backrest and his chin in his little paws, he proceeds to stare at the beskar-clad warrior with apparent awe. It’s insanely cute.

“I think you’ve got a fan,” you remark with a grin.

“I’m used to it,” Din grunts, dipping his helmet at the little fuzzball who giggles gleefully at the attention. “My armour is a warning to adults, but kids are often curious about it. I normally just ignore them until they lose interest, but… I’ve learned a few other ways to handle it now too.” Then he adds, “It’s late. He should be asleep.”

A warm chuckle escapes you at how paternal he sounds, and you try to picture him with his foundling. You think he’d make an excellent father – strict and instructional but also caring and reliable.

You’ve never thought about having children yourself, although it’s not because you don’t want them. It’s more that you’ve yet to find yourself in a stable enough position to consider whether being a parent someday might suit you. It’s a totally abstract concept to you. And it’s not as if you had a typical upbringing to use as a template. You like kids, though. Or Woklings, at least – they’re adorable.

Kirrat returns with three lavishly dressed Ewoks, and you dismount the wagon alone to meet them. It didn’t occur to you that Kirrat could be on the Council of Elders, but he walks beside them, signalling his equal status.

Though you visited the village a few years ago when salvaging, it was merely for rest stops, and you didn’t meet the Council. This is a great privilege, and you show your respect by kneeling before the leader, who Kirrat introduces as Chief Lyrfit.

The chief’s well-adorned hood shows he’s been leading the tribe for many seasons, which requires due deference. You offer him the traditional words of greeting as well as the last of the sweetcake from this morning’s breakfast. Ewoks love anything sweet, so it perfectly represents how grateful you are to them for answering your call for help.

The four elders eagerly gobble a chunk each while you explain how you and Din have been tracking a dangerous criminal through the forest. You convey your suspicion that he’s heading to the wreckage beyond the village, stressing your desire to ensure the tribe’s safety by capturing him without delay. Saving the worst for last, you then describe the encounter at the river that ended in critical injury and your need for assistance.

The tribe’s head warrior, Marfoo, takes a keen interest in your partner’s expertise and asks about this race of ‘metal warriors’. Trying to hide your smirk, you confirm he’s human and summarise what you can about Mandalorian fighting prowess. It’s not much, given you were shamefully ignorant about them before you met yours, but you impart what you’ve learned.

Luckily, it’s more than enough to impress the silver-furred elder, and he advises the chief to heed your warning and assist a fellow warrior and ally. You’re overjoyed when Chief Lyrfit agrees. He directs Marfoo to take defensive precautions until the danger has passed and organise scouts to locate Nantoogen’s ship at first light, just as you’d hoped.

That’s the safety issue dealt with. Next up: Din’s medical needs. “Min shetai seefo, chiotto fektur?”

The chief assures you they’ll provide you with whatever care and medicine you require, bringing you some much-needed relief. Showing his generous nature, he also grants his permission for you both to stay in the guest hut for as long as you need. Then he introduces the final Council member, Grallik. This Ewok’s intricate headdress indicates he’s the tribe’s healer, so you effuse your gratitude.

Formal up until now, Lyrfit finally bares his teeth in his species’ version of a smile and welcomes you to the village. You mirror his gesture with the toothiest grin you can manage, which satisfies your host. He then excuses himself and Marfoo to enact their defensive procedures, leaving you with Grallik and Kirrat to ponder the issue of moving Din.

After some discussion, they enlist Baplim to fetch two wooden bastons. As he scampers away to oblige, you notice he’s fawning over some fabric clutched between his paws. “What did you give him?” you ask your companion.

“Just a cleaning cloth,” he replies with a shrug. “He was staring again, so I showed him how I clean my weapons with it. He’s got a metal slingshot, so I let him keep it for that.” Your eyes crinkle in affection, but before you can respond, he hurriedly announces, “I figured they’d use wooden weapons.”

It’s obvious he doesn’t want you to fuss about his soft-hearted attitude toward kids, so you oblige and respond to his swift subject change.

“Normally, yes, but given how close they are to the Death Star wreckage, they’ve started using metal scraps wherever possible. They don’t know much about metallurgy, and they have no forge, so it’s only in the most basic senses. They can pry off sharp rods to use as spears or repurpose a bent axial stabiliser as a slingshot, for instance. But they’re curious by nature. It’s why Suriee ended up as the compound’s transport manager – this is her tribe. She started out as the liaison to our salvage teams because she understands Basic, and she sort of adopted us and became obsessed with our tech.” You grin, recalling your earliest discussions with her, both of you with poorer language skills back then. “She’s smart and observant, and she started to really enjoy repairing things. The compound administrators jumped at the chance when she asked to work in the hangar. She was managing it within a few months.”

Baplim soon returns with the requested bastons, which are twice the young Ewok’s height. He almost topples over as he scurries across the bridge with them, a sight that’s equal parts amusing and absurd.

You help Din shimmy to the wagon’s edge, slinging his arm across your shoulders as he readies himself to stand. He winces as he straightens out and puts his weight on his good leg, although it makes sense. His muscles were tense during the surgery, followed by an instant and lengthy period of inertia with no cool-down in between. They must be sore. Plus, his injury is so far up his thigh that even rotating his hip aggravates it.

Once he’s balanced, he examines the bastons. They reach his lower chest, but sturdy polished branches protrude from the top third, normally hung with beads, bones, and feathers. In this case, those branches serve as convenient handles at waist height, allowing him a stable grip on the makeshift crutches.

After a brief lesson on how to attach his jetpack to his backplate for him, you slide his cuisse into your backpack and grab your lyaer’tsa. Weighed down by the beskar but managing, you nod your readiness, and Grallik starts to lead you slowly across the main bridge. Kirrat and Baplim wave goodbye as they lead the bordok to the stables, and you respond in kind as you hover beside your hobbling Mandalorian.

Progress is painfully slow, and you wince with Din whenever you hear him inhale sharply. You can tell he’s trying to swallow his louder sounds of discomfort. He’ll need some potent pain relief, so you hope Grallik has something powerful enough.

Finally, you reach the stilt village’s western edge, and the healer leads you to a small hut at the end of a long pier. It juts out into the lake, almost directly toward the breathtaking reflection of the planet dominating the sky above. Lanterns are already burning around the circular hut, allowing you a good look at your lodgings.

The ground level is open, providing picturesque lake views, and low seats surround a fire pit suspended above the water. Carved pillars support a second enclosed level above, and you notice a grated hole in the upper floor directly above the glowing charcoals. It’s a clever design, allowing the warmth to rise through and heat the room above against the cool overnight breezes coming off the lake. An angled ladder leads to the upper level near the edge, but since Ewoks are so short, it’s roughly Din’s height. You’re glad it won’t be too far for him to climb.

“Toma ah-ah weewa luu, Grallik.” Knowing your partner’s frustration at not understanding Ewokese, before he can ask, you translate, “I said their water homes are beautiful.” He nods in emphatic agreement.

Your host seems politely gratified by your compliment, although he’s quieter and more subdued than Kirrat and Baplim were. You get the feeling Kirrat has reached an age where he misbehaves and frolics just as much as the youngsters. Grallik, whilst still friendly, is slightly more restrained by his respected status as the tribe’s healer.

Getting down to business, he asks where you’d prefer him to conduct his assessment and provide any required care. Doing so down here on the pier lacks comfort but avoids a climb up the ladder, or you can attempt an ascent to the beds on the upper level. You know which you’d prefer, but it’s Din’s choice, so you hide your preference for a soft surface as you relay the message.

“Upstairs,” he elects without pause. “I gotta remove my armour, and I can’t do that outside.”

“You whaaa…?”

Your companion seems to set aside his pain for a second as he chuckles at your bulging eyes and failure to form words. “I told you it’s only my helmet I can’t remove. I don’t make a habit of it outside my ship, but this place is well-defended, and I need treatment and rest. If they can guarantee privacy, I’ll relax my rule.” When you remain frozen, he adds, “But clothes stay on until the hunt is over, remember?”

You close your mouth and nod, brought back from your surprise by that reminder. But before you relay Din’s choice to Grallik, you mutter, “Maybe give a girl some warning before dropping that kind of gravity bomb. Don’t wanna add heart attack to the list of medical crises.”

Your wry comment makes him bark another clipped laugh through the vocoder, and you recall his description of the Mandalorian sense of humour. You’re pleased to have channelled such dry wit and glad you can help him laugh against the pain.

The Ewok healer seems relieved you’ll be ascending but asks for some vital background first. He starts by thoroughly grilling you about how and when the injury occurred. Those queries cover the extent of blood loss, the level of pain relief already provided, and your methods for extracting the bone fragments, cleaning the wound, and dressing it. After that, he enquires into Din’s physiological and psychological responses to both the trauma itself and your subsequent care. He concludes by asking about any similar injuries sustained in the past, including recovery time and pain tolerance in general.

You answer what you can, seeking help from the patient in question when needed. Grallik then leaves you to ascend while he returns to his hut for supplies suited to the injury summary and patient history he’s gathered.

Okay. Now to somehow levitate a Mandalorian….

Thankfully, it turns out to be far less challenging than you expected to get Din up the ladder. Since it rests at a forty-five-degree angle, all he has to do is remove his jetpack and perch on the closest crossbar. Then, he uses his good leg and both hands to push his ass up rung by rung until he’s through the narrow hatch, keeping the injured area still. You assist by gently holding his ankle from below to prevent the straps on his boot from catching on the crossbars.

Crawling up after him, you lug your bag and his jetpack in your arms but decide to leave the lyaer’tsa below for now. Once your head is through the hatch, your eyes land on your companion before anything else. He’s sitting on the floor nearby, surveying the circular loft, and although the beskar hides his expression, he looks… awed.

Curious, you turn your attention to your lodgings for the next day or two. And, kriff. It might just be the cutest place you’ve ever seen. Rustic yet romantic.

Designed for an Ewok’s stature, the low thatched roof tapers up to a peak in the centre, again roughly Din’s height. You both have to hunch down nearer the walls. The heat and light from the fire pit below filter up through the central grate, creating a diffused glow and a warm nest-like feel. Two small lanterns on opposite sides further enhance the ambience.

Against the hut’s curved walls are four thick mattresses made of softly woven fabric sheaths stuffed to bursting with springy, fluffy fibres. Although they’re once again Ewok-sized, you can create something large enough for you both by pushing all four together. You think it’ll fit between the curved wall and the central grate. And for extra comfort, piles of blankets and throws made of linen, furs, and other soft textiles sit atop each mattress.

Over near the ladder, a long curtain slices off a section of the circular room. Behind this, you find numerous empty cups, bowls, and basins, together with stacks of clean fabrics and freshly filled water jugs for both hydration and hygiene.

A wide window offers a stunning view over the lake’s far side and ensures privacy from the rest of the village. You note the single heavy drape pinned above it, ready to block out the planet’s glow and the overnight breezes when needed. And finally, to guarantee a fully secure hut, you spot wooden covers for the grated central hole and the ladder hatch resting against the wall.

It’s warm, cosy, and secure. Exactly what you need.

“Wow,” is all you can muster.

“Yeah,” Din agrees.

You raise an eyebrow at him in disbelief. “I swear the universe is testing our resolve with this whole ‘keeping our hands off each other’ thing. This place is like a kriffing rustic honeymoon suite….” Your voice contains notes of joy and frustration but is mostly just astounded.

“Yeah,” he repeats, still just as enchanted as you.

“Well then, in a weird way, your injury benefits us. No wild sex for us, just care and comfort, right?”

“Right,” he agrees, and you wonder where his multisyllabic words have gone.

Shaking off your delighted disbelief, you unpin the window covering and then set to work moving the mattresses into position underneath. Once in place, you cover them with blankets to join them into one super-mattress.

Din then crab-walks on his hands and uninjured leg to reach what you’ve dubbed ‘New Cloud City’ in honour of its fluffiness. You almost die laughing. It’s only a few seconds, but it’s the best thing you’ve seen all day.

As he heaves himself onto the mattress and directs his visor at your giggling form, you know he’s looking pained and harassed under there. But you see the moment he breaks and lets your mirth infect him too. It’s when the coiled springs of his body unwind, and his helmet tilts a fraction to the upper left as if he’s rolling his eyes fondly.

Your grin widens as he relaxes, and you dump a pile of soft things between him and the wall for his comfort. As he settles against them, you delight in the cosy atmosphere. It’s so much better than the hunting hide.

Grallik soon returns with his supplies and politely calls up before ascending with an Ewok version of a medpac. It’s huge and well-stocked – a large basket filled with roots, leaves, and saps, plus some rarer potions, balms, and salves. As he waddles over and sets his kit beside his patient, you’re distracted by his glossy black fur shimmering in the lamplight. Everything in this magical nest seems more beautiful somehow.

That effect won’t extend to what you’re about to witness, though.

Part of you wants to know if you patched up Din well enough earlier, but an equal part doesn’t want to look at that torn and ragged wound again. You ache to see soft, unbroken skin – places you haven’t had to maim at his request.

That’s why you were massaging him on the wagon when he was unconscious. You just wish you could access something more than his hands and a sliver of his neck. And you haven’t even seen the latter, only felt it. You accept the helmet is staying on, but you want – no, need – as much access to the rest of him as he’ll allow. Not even in a carnal sense; you just crave the comfort of stroking real warm skin instead of beskar and duraweave. You long for the man beneath all those layers.

With the armour coming off tonight, you’re halfway there. You hurriedly extinguish the fire that ignites within you at that notion.

Musing on this leads you to ask the hunter, “Are you okay with him seeing your wound? Given how covered up you are, I assume you’re not supposed to show your skin to others.”

“It doesn’t breach the Creed,” he replies. “It’s for privacy and honour that we don’t remove our armour in front of strangers. There’s no rule. I told you that when I took my glove off for you the first time, remember?”

“I remember. And I understand it’s not a creed thing, but….” You bite your lip bashfully. “You still resisted, so when you finally did it, I felt kind of… special.”

His smile is audible as he replies, “You are special. I showed you my skin out of trust and a desire to connect that I didn’t even understand then. Here, I’m only doing it because I need vital medical treatment. And the flight suit’s staying on. Tell him to work through the cut you made.”

Allowing the warmth of his compliment to fill your heart, you relay the message to Grallik, who grumbles but accepts his patient’s wishes. He then gets to work carefully unwinding the bandage with his surprisingly dexterous paws. You sink down on the other side of the mattress, and Din’s gloved hand seeks yours, though it’s unclear who he’s trying to reassure. Both of you need it.

He winces as the Ewok healer peels away the bacta patch. The microbiotics from the gel strip have already dispersed into the wound and begun working their healing magic, so it gets discarded. And suddenly, the day’s trauma is once again on full display.

It’s… not as bad as you imagined. It looks different now that it’s not freshly bleeding and you’re not having to poke at it, making it less upsetting than you feared. Now that you’re seeing it without tears blurring your eyes, you can absorb more visual data.

The injury is sizeable but neat with smooth edges. A dark ring surrounds the perfectly circular wound, and you wonder if the plasma burned him after all. Although it could equally be bruising trauma, you guess. The smooth edges dip inward to where the blood has clotted in the hole, and it’ll probably heal in a cavity without a lot more bacta. He’s likely to end up with one hell of a scar.

Bacta is something children on most worlds learn about with their first skinned knee, even in the Partisans’ camp. With deep wounds such as this, the healing substance will repair bone before tissue, so most of this dose must be busy mending Din’s chipped bone. The muscles, nerves, and veins will be next, but you doubt there’s enough to stimulate dermis regrowth beyond a thin membrane. On the bright side, the longer the wound remains open yet clean and covered, the more time you have to apply microbiotics directly.

After a thorough inspection, Grallik confirms your suspicions. The bone will be fine if the patient keeps off his leg for a few rotations, and the subcutaneous layer should also improve with your supplies. However, a complete repair with full tissue regrowth in that timeframe would require more microbiotics than you have.

Ewoks are fairly new to bacta as a medicine, but they recognise that it’s a natural organic substance and will happily trade with the New Republic for it. Unfortunately, this village’s distance from the compound means Grallik has none.

He urges you not to worry, however, as he’s sure he has some kolto from the Death Star wreckage stored somewhere.

You’re not surprised to hear that someone found bacta’s precursor in the space station’s ruins. Kolto was only ever sourced from a single Empire-controlled planet, and salvagers wouldn’t have valued the older substance because it’s less effective than bacta. They probably found it and used it to trade with this settlement.

Whatever the case, you’re reassured that the healing won’t stop when your own supplies run out.

You all agree the best plan is to clean and re-dress the wound with a bacta patch now and use the last one tomorrow morning. Then you can switch to kolto, which will continue the healing process, albeit at a slower rate. Din assures you he has more bacta on his ship anyway. Now that he knows the bone won’t break, he undertakes to cope with any remaining discomfort until he can access his own supplies.

His nonchalance in the face of injury both impresses and annoys you. You want him fully fit when you ‘celebrate’ your victory, selfish as that desire may be.

Grallik is content for you both to undertake the care yourselves, and he provides clean fabric to re-bandage with. His only remaining concern is to ensure a restful recuperation. To that end, he supplies you with various leaves and roots, explaining what each one does and instructing you on how to prepare them.

Step one involves heating water on the coals downstairs until it’s bubbling gently. Then, you’re to add some dlock leaf and fgir root for pain relief, plus some kata-wata stems and cambylictus root for their antiseptic healing properties. They need only steep for a few minutes to infuse the water with their effects, as they’re some of the most potent remedies on Endor. Then, you’re to decant a cupful for Din to drink. You have to do this every time you change the dressing so you can sterilise the wound with it too.

The healer divides the ingredients into portions to guarantee the correct dosages, ensuring the first batch has an extra-heavy dose of pain relief. He also warns you that dlock leaf has mildly psychoactive properties, but he doubts it’ll affect humans too strongly. It should just be thoroughly relaxing.

Throughout the assessment, your injured Mandalorian remains quiet and gruff. He barely tolerates having an Ewok poke at him and gets impatient when he can’t follow the discussion. But you realise the pain is making him grumpy, and honestly, he’s done well to stave off such a mood until now.

Wanting to ease his annoyance, you graciously translate Grallik’s advice once you understand the prognosis and treatment. Well… everything except the comment about the psychoactive dlock leaf. That sounds fantastic to you, but you’re not sure how he’ll react to learning that the drug might cloud his usual caution. You simply tell him the medicine will relax him, which is true, and you silently promise to maintain the required level of vigilance.

“Teeha, Grallik,” you thank him profusely, commending his medical skills and knowledge. “Amoowa bont gizhgin zeeg fektur.”

The glossy black healer pats your arm and waves to his patient, receiving a nod in exchange before departing. You follow him down the ladder with a bowlful of water and the first batch of supplies, telling Din you’re going to prepare his medicine. Though you don’t think he’d endanger himself, you instruct him not to move or touch his injury until you return.

You receive a grunted “fine” in return, which satisfies you, and you hop down the last few rungs.

Waving goodbye to Grallik, you start heating the water on the flat stone atop the glowing coals. A few moments later, you’re startled when the head warrior, Marfoo, hails you as he approaches the hut. One Ewok departs, another arrives. Where’s the privacy?

But you revise your reaction when he presents you with a meal of dried meat and berries, boasting that his warriors are excellent hunters. You’re flooded with appreciation for all this tribe has done for you, and you’ve exhausted every way you can think of to thank them. When he assures you as he departs that they’ve raised the bridges and stationed warriors to guard the village at all hours, you’re speechless. In fact, you almost cry in gratitude. How can you ever repay such kindness?

Once you’ve steeped the ingredients in the simmering water, you decant a cup of the brew for Din. Balancing on the ladder’s lower rungs, you slide the plate of food onto the upper level before ascending with the medicine. You’re happy to note your patient hasn’t moved as per your instructions.

“Drink this.” You pass him the cup and turn away for his privacy. The helmet gently hisses as he releases and lifts it before sipping the tonic, and you snicker at the disgusted sound he makes. “All of it, please. You need the pain relief.” He grumbles something about black melons but acquiesces, alerting you when it’s safe to look again. You nod your approval when he passes you the empty cup.

Next, you have to clean and re-dress the wound, so you dart down the ladder once more and refill the cup with the remaining mixture. While you’re down there, you grab your lyaer’tsa, concerned that a Wokling might mistake it for a toy. Then you climb back up with both items and settle yourself beside your patient.

“I know you said clothes are staying on, but this will be much easier if you take your pants off. I promise I can behave. Plus, it can’t be hygienic to let bloodstained fabric fester this close to an open wound.”

Din’s helmet tilts, and the T-visor’s reflective surface catches the flickering lantern flame. It animates his usual impassive expression, giving the impression that his eyes have just flashed at the thought of removing his trousers for you.

“Two reasons why that’s not happening,” he tells you in a low voice, less grumpy now you’re alone. “You’re fully aware of the first reason. I’ll have better control if you’re not looking at me like I’m on the menu.” You’re about to protest, but he interrupts, “Yes, you will. When you took your shirt off this morning, I looked away because I knew seeing what I can’t yet have would be worse. Trust me, you do not want the temptation. Clothes are the final barrier. Remove that barrier, and it’ll be torture for us both.”

Fair point. You nod, accepting his first reason.

“Second,” he continues, “Flight suit is a one-piece. Pants don’t come off without the rest of it.”

Oh. You didn’t realise that. The armour obscures his waist. Except…. You both took bathroom breaks on your journey here…. “Doesn’t that make peeing difficult?” The uncouth question spills out before you’ve fully processed your assumption, but your companion chuckles.

“Double zipper. See?” He unfastens his belt and lifts the stomach padding slightly to illustrate how he doesn’t have to unzip right from the garment’s neckline.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him remove anything beyond his gloves and cloak, but what a place to start! It’s a struggle not to gasp as he uncovers and gestures to his crotch. He’s just told you exactly how to access his nether regions. You carefully suppress your reaction and store that insight for later.

“Since you’ve already started, do you wanna get your armour off at least?” He doesn’t move, so you sigh and reassure him, “I know the deal, Din. I said I’ll behave. I’m just thinking of ways to maximise your comfort while I clean your wound. You admitted you’re taking it off this evening, so why not do it now? Imagine how great it’ll feel to finally get out of those boots….”

He gives in easily, and coupled with his crotch gesturing, you wonder if the dlock leaf is already taking effect and chilling him out. Excellent.

He starts by removing his gloves. Okay, no problem, you’ve seen his hands before. Then he presses something on each of his vambraces to extinguish the tiny lights, before thumbing catches inside the rims against his inner forearms. At his command, they widen along their length with a click, allowing him to slide them off his arms and set them on the wooden floor.

With his wrists now exposed, you can see a little more skin. It’s funny how much of a victory that seems – you’ve never thought of wrists as sexy before. Yet, on this warrior, they somehow represent his power. You know that with just a flick of those joints, he could snap someone’s neck. Probably has. Although, you’re sure they were criminals who deserved it. It’s a savage sort of sexy.

“Help me with this,” he requests, his thumb seeking the clasp under his cuirass for his cloak. You obey his direction and lift it from his shoulders, folding it square and laying it near the mattress.

Reaching for his vambraces, you hesitate. Will he mind you touching his armour’s controls? Sure, you’ve carried his cuisse and jetpack today, but these have pushable buttons. Except, he’s powered them down, so you should be safe. You chance it, carefully picking up the weighty pieces and setting them atop the cloak. Thankfully, Din’s nod shows he approves of the care you’re offering.

With his belt already undone and his cloak off, he grabs his bandolier and tugs it upward. You move to help him lift the leather straps over his helmet, taking over when he’s free of them. The whole belt and bandolier combo is heavier than you expected. Then again, you’ve no idea what he has stashed in the pockets, and the blaster in its holster weighs things down.

Laying the leather straps on his cloak, you slide out the tracking fob. The lengthy gaps between pulses prove that Nantoogen is still days behind you, and you return it to its pouch with a satisfied smile. Then, knowing your Mandalorian’s habits by now, you ease his blaster from its holster and set it on the cloak just within his reach. Your thoughtful action earns you a grateful head bob.

The tracking fob’s pulse interval reassures you. The proximity of his primary weapon reassures Din.

He removes his pauldrons and passes them to you, and you carefully arrange them in the growing pile. Then he deftly deals with the remaining cuisse on his right thigh.

You insist he directs you on releasing the single poleyn he wears under his left knee, as his injury prevents him from leaning forward. His uninjured leg can bend, however, so he removes the ammo belt around his calf and the strap at his ankle to access his thick leather greave. With the poleyn off, you continue down his injured leg, gathering the straps and greaves and adding them to the pile along with his vibroblade.

Together, you slip off his ankle boots, and he wiggles his toes through his socks, clearly relieved to be free of the heavy footwear.

With a weighty sigh, Din then goes to work on his cuirass. Rather than detaching the panels on the front and back, he simply unclips the flak vest beneath and starts lifting. As he heaves the linked pieces of metal over his head, you bear some of the weight and help lean them against the hut’s wall. How the hell does he manage to carry all this? He is strong.

The final item is his armourweave stomach padding. With his belt off, you now realise that the tassets covering his hips hang from the padding and not the belt. He peels off the cummerbund and passes it to you, leaving him in his charcoal duraweave flight suit, helmet and socks. And nothing else.

Stars. Even free of armour, the hunter’s build is impressive. The pauldrons expand his shoulder-width, but he’s still temptingly broad without them. Now that his stomach and sides aren’t shielded by thick armourweave padding, you notice his hips and waist taper beautifully. You ache to fit your arms around him, and you almost vibrate with the effort not to.

“Cyar’ika….” Din’s growl is a warning, a response to your roving gaze.

Having placed his stomach armour with the rest, you raise your hands in surrender but offer a verbal defence. “Hey, you’ve seen me in nothing but a tight shirt and pants, so you’ve had your chance to check out the shape of my body. Just because I’m getting that same chance now with you doesn’t mean I’ll jump you. I’m just evening the score, that’s all.” As an afterthought, you add, “Besides, I can’t tell where your eyes are looking behind that visor. You could be checking me out all the damn time for all I know.”

He grunts but doesn’t deny your assumption. “Do you…” He trails off, once again choosing to avoid a direct question. But with an awkward shift of his weight, he finds a way to rephrase his query less bluntly. “This is… okay for you?”

Kriff, he’s self-conscious! Precious man.

You assumed the honed power of a warrior would come with intrinsic body confidence. Then again, perhaps he’s never really cared before about how someone might judge his physical attributes. He told you that his past lovers were mostly anonymous and short-term. In light of that, surely any compliments would’ve praised his performance (and perhaps a certain part of him) rather than flattered his overall body image.

“A-absolutely,” you stammer, still a little thrown by his seemingly low self-esteem. “Din, you’re sexy as hell, and I cannot kriffing wait to get that flight suit off you too. But I promise I can behave for now.”

“Good,” he accepts, then quietly adds, “Same here,” gesturing at you with an upward thrust of his helmet.

Warmth runs through you at your partner’s shy and indirect compliment. As you sit back down beside his injured leg, your wide smile makes your cheeks apple, and you let him see the effect. You’re almost positive he’s matching it.

“Will you let me trim the bits of bloody fabric off, at least?” you chance. He tilts his helmet in a way that suggests you’re pushing for an intimacy he’s already vetoed, so you reason, “There’s a karking hole in your thigh. Seeing a bit more skin around it is not what I’d call a turn-on. We need to keep the area clean.”

“Yeah, okay,” he murmurs placidly, and you can tell the dlock leaf is having an effect now. You expected more resistance, yet he grants his consent softly and willingly.

The painkillers are dissolving his restraint, and you realise that if you were less principled, you could use that to your advantage. You won’t, of course, and if he loosens up to a degree that might endanger your agreement to wait, you’ll ensure things stay chaste. Still, it’s strangely exciting to dance this close to the edge. Though you’re intent on acting responsibly, nothing can stop you from playing out your fantasies in your mind. And you have so many.

With your petar, you carefully trim off any fabric that’s gone crispy with dried blood, giving you a better look at Din’s muscular thigh. You have to take another slice of his undershorts, too, since they’ve also soaked up some blood, and he simply sighs at that. Regardless of whether he thinks you’re pushing your luck, he knows he can’t complain because it’s the hygienic option.

You chance a joke, trying to put him at ease. “I hope you’ve got more than one flight suit… or a decent sewing kit.”

“Plenty more on the ship. They often get damaged, and I don’t always get around to patching them before the next injury. I stock up whenever I can.” Though you’re pleased he has spares, you can’t help but frown at his reference to frequent injury. You’re hoping he means small tears like his sleeve from the earlier blaster burn, not the removal of a massive panel like this. Before you can mention it, he blithely adds, “Not all of them are one-piece.”

Oh-kay. The dlock leaf is working, for sure. For no apparent reason, your companion has just informed you that he owns clothing that’s easier to remove. It’s not explicit, but given you discussed being unable to remove these pants due to the one-piece flight suit, it has subtext. There’s no way he would’ve mentioned that sort of detail before drinking the Ewok elixir. But thanks to the psychoactive dlock leaf, his tongue is loosening, allowing you small insights into his thought processes.

You glance up with a knowing smirk and redirect him. “You doing okay pain-wise?

He nods. “That was strong stuff. A little foggy… and… tingling in some places.” He stretches and wiggles his fingers as if to test that statement. “But yeah, the pain’s okay.”

“Great. I’m guessing that once I sterilise the wound with it, that’ll go completely numb too. You should be able to relax in total comfort.”

“Mm,” he sighs. “Sounds good.”

You smile at how unburdened Din seems for once and get to work on your task. As instructed, you gently dab the site with clean fabric soaked in the lukewarm brew before applying another bacta patch and re-wrapping it. Much to your delight, he doesn’t wince when you lift his leg to pass the bandage under his thigh.

He thanks you when you’re done, and you hear heavy appreciation filtering through the vocoder.

“You took care of my injuries,” you shrug. “I’m happy to return the favour.”

He hesitates, and then somehow manages to make his next words sound innocent, despite the multiple meanings. “So… you’ll sleep with me?”

You understand he means it in a literal sense, but attempting to stop the laugh that bubbles up at his simple appetency is futile. Before he drank that concoction, he was telling you to rein in the flirting. Now he’s spewing out loaded language without a care in the galaxy. Oh, how rapidly the roles have reversed.

You bite your lip through your smile and focus on him with an adoring head tilt, mimicking how he often looks at you. “Yes, we’re gonna sleep next to each other like we did after you patched me up. I didn’t create one big bed only for one of us to take the floor, you know. But,” you pause dramatically. “Since it seems I’m the rational person right now, let me remind you that it’ll be an entirely innocent night with nothing indecent.”

“Of course,” Din agrees. “I’m happy you’re not exploiting my… drugged state. Mostly happy. No… yes… I’m happy.” That makes you chuckle again, and he sighs and admits, “I can control my actions, but not what I’m saying.”

“No kidding,” you agree through your laughter. You tidy up the medical supplies and bring the plate of food to the mattress, sitting beside him. “Food next, then we lay down, and I exploit your willingness to talk by asking you more things.”

“Dank farrik,” he mutters, as though he’s just revealed secrets to the enemy by accident. But you can hear it’s in jest.

“Eat,” you urge, grabbing a few dried meat slices and turning your back to him. After a few seconds, you hear him lift the helmet and start on his portion.

The meat is slightly chewy, but it tastes good. When you’re done, Din holds up the plate beside you so you can grab a handful of what you recognise as rainbow berries without turning around. You eagerly tuck in, savouring the variation in the soft fruits’ sweetness with each different colour, all of them delicious.

When you hear his helmet reseal, you check, “Done?” As soon as he confirms it’s safe, you turn to face him. “Thirsty?” He shakes his head. Satisfied he’s catered for, you clear up the plate, pour a cup of water for yourself from the jug, and set it down near the mattress.

Your Mandalorian settles against the pile of blankets and grunts as you peel off your jacket, making you pause to check nothing’s wrong. With one arm still in the sleeve, you watch as he shifts down the bed and folds his large hands in his lap. Once in position, he nods as if giving you permission to continue removing your weapons and surplus clothing now that he’s ready for the show.

Okay, well, you did just ogle him, so that’s fair. And you’re not stripping off entirely. He implied he looked away this morning to avoid seeing too much skin, so you guess a top-layer disrobing is the extent of your flirting for now. Just… don’t be sexy. This isn’t a striptease.

With an eye-roll and a smirk, you rid yourself of your jacket, then start on your weapons.

First, you slide your shock baton from your belt and unclip your thigh holster, leaving the blaster inside. When you remove your vamblade from your forearm, you relish the chance to massage the skin beneath. It doesn’t pinch or chafe, but it’s been on for over a day, and taking it off feels good.

The same goes for your boots. You can’t resist echoing Din’s toe wiggling once your feet are free, your shiv remaining in its sheath fixed to the edge. Finally, you undo your belt with the petar still strapped to it and drop it in the pile you’ve made for yourself beside his.

Free of your trappings, you sink onto the end of the mattress with a sigh, relishing the softness beneath you.

The hunter continues to recline against the pile of blankets, an unmoving statue, watching you silently as if you’re his prey.

“What?” you query. Did you turn him on again by accident? As much as you wanted to put on a show for him, you didn’t tease him once when you stripped off your weapons. Even when you undid your belt.

“Trying to decide whether to touch you,” he confesses, his words once again more direct and unreserved than you’ve ever heard. At your raised eyebrow, he continues, “I mean… I don’t mean… like that. Just…” He sighs and raises his arms to beckon you. “Come here?”

Mimicking his standard gesture again, you tilt your head at him, debating the same thing. You’re desperate to go to him, but you’re also worried about how complacent he’s become. Tempting him too far is the last thing you want to put him through. He’s already likened temptation to torture this evening.

He drops his arms, but not the topic. “We’ve proved we can handle close proximity when there’s beskar between us. We still have the barrier of clothes right now. And if it helps, I’m pretty sure this stuff’s dampening my libido. I doubt I can even get hard. If this hut expects its occupants to fuck, we’re gonna disappoint it.”

You snort at Din’s crude joke, so utterly unlike his usual way of speaking. Yet you can’t help thinking the personified hut won’t be alone in its disappointment. Hearing him talk freely about getting hard for you (or not) is a fantastic change but a frustrating tease.

Nonetheless, it’s the assurance you sought, so you dismiss the flustered feeling his candid words evoke and crawl toward him. He raises his arms again to welcome you, shifting slightly to ensure there are sufficient blankets between you and the wall for your comfort.

You’re careful to stick to his right side to ensure his injured leg is not jostled. Within seconds, he’s pulled you into the semi-reclined position you adopted last night in the hide. His arm snakes around you, tucking you firmly against his side.

It’s effortless; you just fit. As you settle your cheek on his shoulder with no beskar in the way, you absorb his warmth and sigh happily. His ungloved fingers squeeze your waist in agreement.

But contentment leads to curiosity with your final adjustment. Last night, you simply laid your arm on the armoured padding around his middle, but there’s nothing except a flight suit covering him now. It’s too tempting not to explore.

Your hand settles on Din’s stomach, so different without the thick padding, endearingly soft with a more natural sort of cushioning. Slowly, you slide higher, adding gentle pressure and detecting firm abdominals behind the adorable paunch. Blessedly, he doesn’t stop you, though a shudder runs through him as you sweep your palm across the broad planes of his pectorals. He’s more muscular here but still not chiselled, so there’s a pleasing softness beneath your fingers. You imagine how comfortable it’ll be to sleep against his bare chest when the ban on nakedness is finally lifted.

You’re looking forward to that almost as much as the carnal acts.

Once you’ve completed your slow survey, he uses his other hand to nudge yours until it rests directly above his heart. “Happy now?” he asks, pressing on your fingers, showing you the effect you’ve had.

“Very, thank you,” you glow, feeling his racing heartbeat. Yours is beating a similar rhythm. “Wasn’t sure if it’d be—”

Din cuts you off with a wry laugh. “Given how I touched you after the gurreck, I think that balances the scales until we can move onto more.”

“So I didn’t tease you into an ill-advised frenzy?”

“Told you already, the Ewok potion is dampening my desire to rip your clothes off and tease you into a frenzy.” Stars, you love how forthright he’s being, thanks to the dlock leaf. “If it means we can get this close in the most romantic setting on Endor without it turning into a premature fuckfest, I’ll drink a whole bucket of it.”

You chuckle at your partner’s raffish words, reassured that the line you’re trying not to cross can stand up to more flirting than you expected. Knowing this gives you the confidence to nuzzle into his chest, breathing in his comforting scent – slightly muskier now but no less alluring.

He slides his warm hand from your waist to tangle his fingers in your hair, sighing as he savours the feel of you against him. You realise he’s probably never held anyone this close without his armour in the way. Seeking as much contact as possible, you tuck your toes beneath his calf, causing him to hum in contentment, another subtle shudder running through him.

You both take a minute to savour being so close, bathing in your mutual warmth, skin tingling where you touch, only a single layer between you now. The removal of Din’s armour has revealed the man behind the Mandalorian, and snuggling fully into his soft embrace for the first time is spellbinding.

“Okay. Interrogate me,” he invites. “Lay me bare before you. Probe my darkest desires. Put my loose tongue to good use.”

Holy shit. You grin into his chest, adoring the freedom of his words and their flirty edge, knowing it’s innocent and not leading anywhere. “Please carry on talking this way when you’re sober again tomorrow. It’s nice to hear you so… unrestrained.”

“Uh, which of us got embarrassed by talking about sex earlier?” he playfully reminds you.

“That’s not what I’m getting at,” you clarify. “You normally think so carefully about what you say before you speak. Even when you’re relaxed, you only say what you intend to. Hearing thoughts come straight out of your brain unfiltered is kind of… a bonus? An insight.”

“It’s a lot easier around you,” Din admits. “I’ve never revealed this much of myself to anyone, even people I trust. It’s… nice. Still a little difficult and… unsettling, but not impossible now. And very, very nice.”

You hum in agreement, feeling special again. “Same here.” Then you lift your head and rest your chin on his chest, looking up to find the visor already focused on you. “Okay, we’ll do quick-fire questions. All the basics. No more than two minutes on each topic. Then we sleep. Agreed?”

“Shoot,” he concurs.

And for a while, you ply him with every question that comes to mind, offering your own answers once he responds.

You learn his favourite treat growing up was uj’alayi, a type of stodgy cake that he claims is both sweet and spicy. He hasn’t had it in years but has fond memories.

Yours was (and still is) anything chocolate. You first tried it when you moved to Iziz at fourteen and instantly fell in love. Sadly, cacao trees don’t grow on Endor, and the compound has no trade agreements to obtain chocolate, so it’s been years since you last savoured the taste.

Din has limited interest in music, which you find strange because you enjoy it a lot. It seems Mandalorians sometimes engage in singing but rarely listen to recorded songs.

By contrast, growing up in the Onderon Highlands, you had little aside from a radio to entertain you. Most stations aired endless Imperial propaganda, although at least the ads for inheritance services were helpful when concocting your plan at the compound. But you spent long enough scanning frequency bands to find the unlicensed stations broadcasting music, and you soon discovered a love of quenk jazz.

Your metal companion doesn’t dislike music; he just has no preference for genre. And he has no clue what quenk jazz is.

“I’ll play it for you someday, old man,” you joke, and he pinches your waist as a gentle punishment for your taunt.

That discussion leads to singing skills. He has no idea if he can sing, but even the remedy relaxing him won’t convince him to demonstrate. You think you’re okay, but likewise have no plans to burst into song right now.

After that, it’s musical instruments. Din has never even picked one up. You tried to learn the hallikset in the Partisans’ camp but lost interest when you got into tech repairs. It’s been so long that you doubt you could play anything now, and you wouldn’t know where to find one these days, anyway.

Finally, you discuss dancing. Your partner deadpans that he’d probably look like a drunk Gungan, making you dissolve into laughter at the mental image. He’s never danced, he confesses. Then, he second-guesses himself and describes how as a kid, he trained alongside a steadily increasing tempo to improve reaction speed and execute progressively faster moves. So he might stay standing for longer than a Gungan, he decides.

You confess you often used to dance when drunk in bars, then swiftly change the subject when his grip on your waist tightens. It’s unclear if he’s jealous or turned on by the mental image, but you’d prefer to avoid both.

Since Din already knows you’re from Onderon, you ask about his birthplace, but he’s vague. He knows he’s from Aq Vetina, but that’s about all. He can’t recall what planet it was on, nor can he speculate on whether the settlement survived. A city might have, but anything smaller may not exist anymore, and he only remembers his local neighbourhood, not the wider area.

You ask if he’ll try to locate it someday, but he shakes his head. Foundlings are taught to forget about their pre-creed origins, he explains, so he’s unable to ask his tribe. He’s also never gone looking on his own for the same reason. He suspects it was a neutral planet that resisted Separatist expansion, perhaps near one of the borders. It can’t have been too far from Mandalore, or his rescuers wouldn’t have been able to intervene in time to save him. He has a few ideas but feels it would be disloyal to his creed to search or speculate further, so he avoids doing so. He considers himself wholly Mandalorian now.

You begin to understand why he said during your first meal together that where he comes from doesn’t matter. He truly believes that genetics and origins are meaningless to his people.

Switching topics again, you learn Din has no phobias as such. He does admit to harbouring an intense mistrust for droids, though, due to how his parents died. (You can understand that; you don’t trust superlaser-wielding space stations.) He’s become more tolerant of late, however, as he’s since met a few who’ve helped him realise not all droids are bad.

You confess that as a kid, you witnessed a hragscythe tear apart and devour a member of your camp, giving you a lifelong phobia. The memory haunts you to this day, and frankly, you hope you never encounter those monstrous three-headed creatures again. They make gurrecks look like puppies.

After a while, you’re reduced to asking more ‘what’s your favourite…’ questions, although these mostly just perplex him. He doesn’t appear to cast much judgment on things as an adult, which you suppose is a positive trait, but it gains you little insight. It seems he finds all colours equally pleasing, most planets equally dull, and he doesn’t have sufficient data to decide on his favourite part of you. (Yet.)

Unable to think of anything else to ask, you stop suppressing your yawns and hop up to snuff out the lamps. You then rearrange yourselves lengthwise along the mattress so you can both lie flat – pillows beneath your heads, but no need for a blanket. Body heat will suffice. You cosy up to Din’s side again, stretching along him like a tooka, and he clamps his arm around you once more. It already feels so natural.

“Can you sleep with me clinging onto you like this?” you wonder. “Last night, you let me go when it was your turn to sleep.”

“Don’t you dare move,” he implores. “I let you go last night because I could see you wanted to stretch when you woke up. Plus, without a thermal sensor HUD, you might’ve needed access to the window. But here? The potion’s making me sleepy, I’ve never slept on anything this soft in my life, and I’ve got a gorgeous woman in my arms. Don’t take any of that away from me, mesh’la.”

“Okay, what does that one mean? You’ve called me it a few times now.”

“Beautiful.” He states it like it’s obvious, stroking your hand where it rests on his stomach, so perfectly soft in contrast to his hard beskar.

You smile and drop a kiss against his chest, one layer closer to his skin with the beskar removed. But wait. You can kiss his skin right now.

You snag his hand and bring it to your lips, glancing up at him to check if this crosses a line. When he doesn’t object, you press lingering kisses to the pads of his thick fingers, echoing what he bestowed upon you this morning.

Din makes the same noise as he did when you stroked his bare neck last night – that astounded, contented, slightly overwhelmed, but entirely blissed-out noise. It emanates from deep within his chest, and you almost match it. All your nerve endings tingle at finally feeling his warm skin against your lips. You want to kiss every part of him.

When you release his hand, he hauls you even closer to his chest, so you’re now partially on top of him instead of along his side.

Huh. You did not expect that. You do, however, welcome it. And if he thinks it’s not going too far, then who are you to complain?

It takes you a moment to find the best angle, but before long, you’re nestled together happily, and he bids you sweet dreams.

Content that it’s safe to toss your own endearment across the line you’re both skirting, you respond, “Night, handsome.”

Din scoffs, then hums happily and begins stroking your hair. It’s bliss. Moments later, the motion sends you drifting into a heavenly sleep atop the cloud-like mattress, snuggled into your Mandalorian.

Chapter Text

The two of you sleep uninterrupted well past sunrise, your hosts understanding that you need plenty of time to rest and recover after the previous day’s hardships. Since you’re at the far edge of the village, you’re not disturbed by any noise from their daily routines, and the only light coming in is a diffused glow emanating from behind the curtain, the soft radiance from the fire pit below having long since died down when it cooled hours before.

When consciousness filters back in, several feelings and sensations accompany it before you’ve even opened your eyes.

First comes comfort - your muscles are more relaxed than they’ve been for days, weeks, even longer. Then bliss, wrapping you in its warm and welcoming embrace as you remember why you’re so comfortable - where you are and who you’re with. Following quickly on its heels is an unavoidable and raw feeling of desire, your nerve endings prickling as you become aware of how tightly you’re pressed against your companion.

Then a little confusion surfaces… you’re much closer than you started last night… dangerously so. The confusion melts into an odd sensation of mild alarm mixed with barely restrained lust.

Apparently, having just your upper body lying on Din wasn’t sufficient, or perhaps wasn’t entirely comfortable. Whatever the reason, you’ve also managed to shimmy your lower half on top of him during the night. You’re still on his right side, covering only half his chest, but you’ve now slung your leg over his (the uninjured one, thankfully) and brought up your thigh high enough that it’s now pressed over his crotch.

And he’s hard. Karking hell, he’s monumentally, achingly, devastatingly hard.

More than that, the large hand he had wrapped around your waist last night has now slid downward and is firmly cupping your ass, clamping you against him and preventing you from escaping this forbidden position without alerting him that you’re in it.

Your first reaction is to try and avoid tensing up, followed quickly by a heroic effort to keep yourself from instinctively pressing more firmly against his erection.

Your brain naturally catalogues what you’re feeling beneath your thigh, desperate even without your conscious effort to learn more about the attributes of the man you’re so profoundly attracted to. Whilst you felt a growing bulge beneath you back in the storm shelter, Din successfully controlled himself then, so this is your first opportunity to examine what he’s packing in an unbridled and fully equipped state.

He feels… substantial, more than enough to satisfy. Your core responds to that information with a flood of desire, making your pussy clench where it’s positioned right over his hip. You could easily press forward slightly and get some delicious pressure exactly where you need it most…. You barely suppress a wanton moan.

What should you do? You know if he wakes and discovers what’s happening, he’ll react badly. He’s made it clear that this is absolutely not appropriate yet, and you completely understand why. But already, the desire stoking in your chest for this to continue is clouding you, overwhelming you. If you give in now, it could be a distraction which might impede the hunt.

Then again…

The hunt is suspended. You know that you have a reprieve for at least two days from the constant high alert status that tracking Nantoogen requires. Will Din buy that? Will he agree that now could be the perfect opportunity to sate this intense desire you both feel?

But he’s injured. You can’t. You shouldn’t. You won’t.

But is it wrong to just enjoy this a little longer?

Oh, kriff, you want to let those feelings of lust continue to oscillate through you and soak in the euphoria; you really, really do. But no. You should do something to rectify this.

He’ll wake up as soon as you move, so you’ll need to do this carefully.

The fingers of your right hand are entwined with Din’s left one over his abs, and your first step is to extract your hand without him noticing. Carefully, you relax your fingers and slowly untangle them, centimetre by centimetre, taking care not to put any accidental pressure on his soft stomach with the heel of your palm as you withdraw. You feel his fingers flex fractionally, but he continues to breathe slowly and deeply, not seeming to stir any further.

Now free, your plan is to quickly and smoothly grasp the back of his right hand on your ass and pull it back to your waist, lifting your thigh off him simultaneously. If you can execute the move fully before he rouses, his embarrassment will hopefully be limited to waking up with a hard-on.

You position your hand above his and breathe slowly and steadily a few times. Then, as gently and swiftly as possible, you carry out the planned manoeuvre.

Immediately, Din says your name. It comes huskily through the modulator, sounding like he’s still half-asleep (was he dreaming about you?). But it’s not a growl, and you can’t tell if he knows what just happened, nor if he’s annoyed or turned on by it.

“M-morning,” you stammer, burying your face into his chest to let the heat dissipate from your cheeks and prevent your expression from giving anything away.

Din doesn’t move for a moment, doesn’t say anything. The sudden absence of his heavy rhythmic breathing seems to amplify the sound of your hammering heart in your ears, and now you’re concentrating on keeping your own breathing steady. You’ve gone from absolute bliss to absolute torture.

Then a half-sigh-half-groan comes from the vocoder, and he clears his throat, still sounding a little sleepy. “Thanks… for what you did there. And… sorry. There was always gonna be some risk in sleeping like this.”

You lift your face from his chest and look up into the helmet. “You’re not mad?”

Din quakes beneath you in amusement, and his now-repositioned hand grasps you tighter at your waist. “How can I be mad? We both know the lines, we both moved unconsciously in our sleep, and you tried to set it right. I’m grateful, not mad.” He drags his left hand down to his crotch and presses on himself, adding, “If a little frustrated.”

You relax in relief at his acceptance of the cliff’s edge dance you both just accidentally engaged in, squirming a little in agreement with his last sentiment and pressing your thighs together where you remain unsatisfied. “Mm, tell me about it. This is hard.”

“No, this is hard,” he corrects, grasping his rigid length through the fabric of his flight suit and hissing a little.

You’re taken aback at how forthright he’s still being, and you simply stare at his helmet with your eyebrows raised in surprise, trying to ignore his fiddling and how much his comment and blatant actions make you burn for him even more intensely. He’s touching his cock while his arm is around you. Is the dlock leaf still in his system?

When you don’t say anything, Din looks at you and lets go of himself, the arm around your waist loosening like he thinks you might want to pull away and is giving you an exit. “Sorry, I shouldn’t—”

“No!” you quickly lay your palm over his abs, only a span away from his morning glory but pressing the soft flesh beneath the flight suit gently, soothingly, trying to show him that it’s still okay to be so open about all of this. “If you need to….” You point first to his hand, now fisted against his hip, and then at his crotch, following with your eyes. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“It’s fine; it’ll go away. Some… adjustment was needed, that’s all.” Instead of returning his other hand to your waist, he lets it rest lightly on your shoulder, and you think maybe you might not be helping him calm down by staying pressed against him like this. He continues to play it down and says, “It happens sometimes. I should pee, actually; gotta figure out where I can go.”

You accidentally snort a little (well, that’ll probably help get rid of his boner) and carefully roll the rest of your body off him to give him some space. When you’re fully back on the mattress, you sit up and shimmy to the end, then stand up and walk behind the curtained-off area of the hut, returning with a sort of clay bottle. “Pee jar,” you announce, tossing it on the mattress beside him.

Even lying down with a load of metal obscuring his face, Din manages to give you a look of complete incredulity.

You sigh. “I know when you’re away from the comforts of your ship and out in the wild, you’re typically on the move, so trees are usually your best option, but don’t forget I lived in a camp for the first half of my life so I know a bit about the more civilised side of surviving outdoors in a fixed location. Going to the latrines at night was never a good idea, so bottles or buckets were better than a bush right outside the tent because they could be emptied in the morning.”

Din looks down at the bottle next to him, then back up at you. Given the relative luxury of your quarters back at the compound, it’s no surprise that he’s only now considering how rustic your early years were.

You return behind the curtain and say, “Plus, I think you could do with a bit of privacy anyway, and I don’t mean to just sort out your pants problem.” You emerge with a bowl of water and set it next to the mattress with a fresh cloth. Then you dig through your pack to find your can of sweat-stop, and lastly, you locate Din’s shoulder bag and extract his ultrasound cleaner. “You freshen up a bit, and I’ll go and find out if our stay here includes breakfast or if we’re back to ration bars.”

He props himself up on his elbows, but once again, the visor simply looks at what you’ve set before him and then raises up to fix on you wordlessly. What’s so wrong with your suggestion?

Oh, of course. You retrieve the panel to cover the central grate of the room from near the ladder and drop it in place, then set the one for the ladder hatch next to it.

“There. I’ll close it on my way out - complete privacy so you can take the helmet off and wash your face, at least. You can’t tell me that after a full day of travelling, a night in the forest, a fight to the death with a gurreck, being caught in the worst thunderstorm on Endor in years, a blaster battle with a Weequay, a blaster battle with an asshole bounty, having a hole torn in your leg, and being operated on without anaesthetic….” You pant for air. “You can’t possibly expect me to believe you wouldn’t want to freshen up a bit after dealing with all that.”

Din looks down at himself self-consciously, still with tented trousers. You swear if he glances back up at you once more with that unmistakable air of scepticism, you’re going to whack his kriffing helmet with your shock baton.

“You’re right,” he says after a moment, tugging at the fabric of his flight suit under his arms. “Guess I’m not used to having someone with me on hunts who might care what I smell like.”

“You smell kriffing sexy,” you assure him. Because he does - it’s like heat and musk and the filtered essence of gunfire and explosions, with a softer earthiness underneath. “This is for your comfort, not mine. I’ll wash up in the lake while I’m gone.” You snag your hygiene kit and ultrasound cleaner, a change of clothes and underwear, and the top you got gurreck blood on, intending to see if it’ll scrub out while you’re there. “And I’m pretty sure it’s been over six hours, so I’ll make more of the medicine when I get back. Less dlock leaf this time, though - as much as I’m enjoying chilled-out Din.”

He seems to suddenly remember his injury and sits up straighter to look at his leg, wincing in the process. Given he’s still filling out the front of his pants, you’re not sure what’s causing him the most discomfort, so you bundle your items into your own canvas shoulder bag, step around the mattress toward the exit ladder and drop a quick kiss on the top of his helmet as you pass.

Din watches you climb down the ladder, and before your head disappears, you hear him say thanks, so you flash him a brilliant smile and then duck down and fit the panel over the hatch above you.

It’s late morning, and the village is quiet, though you can see guards stationed on the shore beside the lowered bridges. Presumably, many of the residents are out doing their usual activities in the nearby forest. You also spot a group in a boat far out on the lake - fishing, it looks like.

In the beautiful sunshine, the stilt village is even more spectacular than it was lit up in the dark last night, the quiet lapping of the water complementing the life-affirming sounds of the creatures that make the forest their home.

As you reach the end of your hut’s pier, you step onto an adjoining walkway and spot an Ewok with a couple of Woklings cleaning fish in a basket by the water, so you steer toward them, intending to find out where you can wash up.

The Ewok notices you before you arrive and stands, waving you over emphatically and introducing herself as Ykeeni. As soon as you learn her name, you smile. Suriee has told you many stories about her niece who lives in the village, and you can see the resemblance. Ykeeni’s fur features the same rare striped pattern Suriee’s does, though she’s a shimmering silver-grey instead of the rich brown of Suriee’s coat.

Ykeeni is delighted to discover you know her aunt and invites you to sit with her and the Woklings, and the two youngsters pile onto you as soon as your ass hits the wooden dock. Laughing happily, you scratch them behind their ears and spend some time chatting to Ykeeni about her aunt, letting her know how fond you are of the grumpy transport manager.

After an enjoyable ten minutes of discussions and frenetic fuzzy excitement from the young ones, Ykeeni points out a lower pier that is shielded from the village by a sprawling water-vine tree, explaining that it’s a private area containing screened off cubicles in the water, like self-contained baths in which you can wash up. She insists you leave your bloodied top with her, promising to return it to you later, clean and dry.

Going about your tasks, you muse on your current circumstances. It’s a glorious feeling to be once again among a tribe of Ewoks, far away from the compound. Back when you were still salvaging, you visited many different villages on trips out into the forest (this one included, though it was merely a few brief rest stops to trade for supplies), and you enjoy the simple pleasure of seeing the furry little race live their rural lives in harmony with nature.

You wonder how frequently Din gets to experience this; he probably spends most of his time travelling from planet to planet, stuck in a ship in the middle of cold space.

Once again, you think about what it will be like when you leave Endor. Neither of you has mentioned the possibility of you coming with him, but given the intensity and direction of your relationship, you’re pretty sure by this point that it’s a given. How could it not be?

He hasn’t told you what his ship is like, but you assume it must have some basic comforts since he did say that he lives on it.

Your experience of space travel is limited to your journey to Endor - you took six different commercial passenger liners to get from Onderon to Corellia, worked on a long-haul cargo ship out to Kinyen, and then finally bought passage on two private transports and a trade vessel to reach your destination. With waiting time, negotiations, sublight hops, and stops at multiple destinations, it took you around a month and a half to get to Endor - your entire galactic travel experience jammed into a single multi-week span of your life. Nevertheless, you enjoyed the journey immensely, even on the less well-appointed vessels.

The idea of travelling with Din makes your fingers tingle and your stomach flutter with anticipation and excitement.

En route back to the hut, you run into Kirrat, who asks you to join him for a quick update with the Council of Elders, and he leads you to an impressive wooden lodge near the centre of the village. It’s easily quadruple the size of where you’re staying, with unusually high ceilings for an Ewok structure, so you don’t have to duck down to enter.

“Ninga ninga treeta dobra,” you greet the Council, offering the traditional words of respect. However, Chief Lyrfit waves off your formality and launches into an enthusiastic summary of the village’s efforts to assist you in your hunt.

The most tech-savvy scouts were dispatched at first light to the Death Star wreckage in the Oniantae Hills, with instructions to comb the area and record whatever data they can on any ships they come across. They’re accompanied by warriors and have been given permission to take a full rotation for the recon, so they’re expected to return by midday tomorrow with some news.

The villagers have been instructed to stay within a horn’s distance of the lake, with everyone out in the forest staying in groups and carrying an instrument in case of trouble. Additionally, warriors have been organised to guard the banks and patrol the main paths that lead to the village. Marfoo confirms that all weapons and defensive devices are being catalogued and readied (just to be on the safe side), and traps are being prepared (but not set at this stage) in case they may be of use. Finally, messages have been dispatched to the closest neighbouring villages to warn them of a potential threat in the vicinity, with requests to provide any information they might glean from their respective locations in the forest.

Grateful tears prickle your eyes while you thank the Council members, and Grallik then inquires about Din’s recovery. You happily tell him the medicine is very effective and that you’ll be applying your last bacta patch shortly. He promises to visit at sunset with the kolto you’ll need for the subsequent dressing changes.

Chief Lyrfit genially dismisses you and asks Kirrat to find you some food, and you’re once again floored by the generosity of your hosts.

When you’re finally on your way back to the hut with no more Ewoks in sight, feeling fresh in clean clothes and carrying a basket of fruits, nuts, and a jar of warm stew, the massive accumulation of gratitude and happiness that you’ve been collecting in your chest finally bursts.

With no way to stop them, you let the tears roll down your cheeks freely, tasting them in the huge smile you can’t wipe off your face. You probably look like a total idiot, but you don’t care. You’ve been content before, satisfied, sated, even amused and entertained. But you’ve never been this happy.

This… in love.

Is this it, then? Have you genuinely crossed from yesterday’s conclusion that you’re on that trajectory but haven’t yet reached the illusive but illustrious heights of actual love, to now being ensconced right in the midst of its wonders? It all seems so quick… can it be the real thing at this speed? Kriff, you wish you had some metric by which you could judge. All you know is that your heart swells to bursting whenever you think of your Mandalorian. And besides, he predicted on the bordok wagon last night that your love was ‘imminent’. Guess he was right.

As you reach the hut, you collect yourself and wipe your eyes on the cap sleeves of your clean shirt, then call up to Din through the closed hatch. “You decent?”

“Yeah, come up,” he calls back clearly, and you push open the covering and ascend into the coolness of the little circular nest with your basket of goodies.

Din looks happier. You’re unsure how you can tell with the helmet in the way, but he does. Or maybe it’s just because his armour isn’t weighing him down.

He has propped himself up against the wall again, and having utilised the various items you left him, he’s moved on to cleaning all the weapons and armour within his reach - basically everything except your lyaer’tsa, which is on the other side of the hut. Your shiv, vamblade, baton, petar and blaster are all laid out on his cloak, polished and, where necessary, sharpened (he must have a tool with him), next to his own vibroblade and blasters (huh, he has a smaller backup one apparently) and pieces of his beskar.

It’s then that you realise the positive glow you detected from him on entry might actually be because he’s polished his helmet and is literally glowing.

“All good here, I see,” you comment as you drop onto the mattress beside him.

“Perfect,” he agrees, and you’re not sure you’ve ever heard him use that word before. “Thank you for the privacy; I do feel better. Leg’s aching some, though.”

“I’ll make more of the medicine - do you want food first, though?” You start removing the items from the basket, but Din’s hand reaches out and grasps your jaw, making you freeze.

He tilts your face toward him and repositions his large bare hand against your cheek, his thumb swiping below your eye. “You’ve been crying.” His voice is soft with concern.

Ugh, kark, he’s too observant sometimes. “I’m great, Din, honestly… that’s why I was crying.” Words spill out haphazardly as you try to explain. “Everyone in the village has been so generous, and you’re just… so amazing, and I’m so glad I met you and that you actually like me back, and it’s been so long since I felt this good, and… it just got a bit overwhelming for a minute. So… they were happy tears.”

The helmet tilts, and you imagine a smile on the face you can’t yet entirely picture. Then Din slides his hand from your cheek to the back of your neck and pulls you down onto his chest, wrapping his arms around you. “I’m glad you like me back, too,” he rasps.

You inhale his rich scent, slightly fresher now but still carrying that comforting musk you love so much, and relax in his tight embrace.

He strokes the back of your neck and says, “I hope you still feel the same way after I’ve told you everything you need to know about me.”

Lifting your head and meeting his eyes through the obsidian black visor, you blink a few times, wondering how you can convince him your feelings are immutable. “I keep telling you, nothing you can say will change how I feel about you.”

Din’s bare fingers move to trace your features gently, reverently, skimming your eyebrows, down your nose, then softly across your lips where they come to rest, and you kiss them while they’re there. “I want to believe that,” he husks, “But I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever loved or cared about, and I can’t know for sure that I won’t lose you as well when you learn certain things. I need you to know who I really am before you decide to… commit any further.”

It’s so close to a confession. An allusion to his feelings being strong enough to carry the label of genuine love.

Part of you wants to say it, to tell him you love him and want to leave Endor with him, but the phrasing of his words stops you. Even if you say it, he won’t believe it yet - not until he’s revealed whatever secrets he has left and laid bare his past and his inner self so you can evaluate your feelings and make an informed choice about your potential future together.

It’s sensible, logical. And you think you love your Mandalorian all the more for insisting you navigate this new relationship with your eyes as wide open as possible.

So you swallow your urge, kiss the fingertips that still rest against your lips, and tell him, “I’m not going anywhere.” Then you stretch up and plant a tender kiss on the visor where it covers his mouth. Your lips are soft and dry from the sun, so your action doesn’t leave a mark on the polished surface. “And I can’t wait until I can kiss you properly to prove it.”

A low hum of agreement comes from the modulator, emphatic desire vibrating within its drawn-out note. Din returns his fingers to stroking your lips again, seemingly obsessed with them all of a sudden. His modulated voice falters slightly as he murmurs, “Maybe… while we’re here… we can explore those loopholes I mentioned.”

To say your reaction is keen is a gross understatement.

Eyes and grin instantly going as wide as possible, you manage, “Seriously? I know the hunt is on pause, but won’t it be too….” You consider how to describe the underlying concern you need to be sated before you can truly become excited about this prospect. “Yesterday, your opinion was the opposite. Are we sure it’s not gonna lead anywhere risky or be a distraction when we need to refocus on the bounty?”

Din gives a little shrug beneath you. “The medicine seems to dampen my physical responses, and… can’t kissing be about feelings sometimes, not just sex?” He sounds like he genuinely has no idea.

It’s a fair point, and you’d usually agree, but your feelings for him go much deeper than they ever have for any other man you’ve kissed. And that presents an unknown risk. Will holding back your urges become more challenging if you open the cage even slightly?

Hoping you have the strength to control yourself and not wanting to put him off the suggestion, you cautiously reason, “To be honest, Din, since I’ve never had these types of feelings, I don’t think I know any better than you in our situation. But if we frame it as a way to develop the right type of focus, I think we can avoid taking it too close to the line of distraction. And if we give you enough of that medicine, it should stop you from getting too excited.”

“Okay,” he says, and you’re as pleased as wampa in a snowdrift that you were able to string together something which sounded vaguely like logical reasoning there.

Delight washes over your face at Din’s consent, and your eyes instantly drop to where his mouth is hidden behind the beskar.

“Later,” he says, pressing one of his fingers more firmly against your lips, enforcing the current status of keeping your mouths away from each other - for now. “You were saying something about food….”

Reluctantly, you push yourself up from his embrace and retrieve the food basket so you can decant a cup of stew for him. Then you gather the supplies for his next batch of medicine and head to the ladder. “You enjoy that; I’ll go and brew this downstairs. Gotta figure out how to light the coals so I may be a bit longer, and you can eat in privacy.”

Din stiffly reaches to the side of the mattress for his belt, from which he extracts a small metal lighter and tosses it to you. You manage to catch it with a slight fumble and a smile.

It doesn’t take long for you to get the coals glowing again and brew up the mixture, and you bring the whole bowl back up with you, not wanting to make too many trips up and down this time. Din drinks his pain relief potion while you enjoy your own helping of the delicious stew with your back to him. Then as you both move on to some of the fruits in the basket, you fill him in on your meeting with the Council of Elders.

“If the scouts will be back by midday tomorrow, that doesn’t leave us much time to make a plan,” Din worries. “If Nantoogen maintains a direct path, he could reach this area by tomorrow night.” You hear him lift the helmet again for another mouthful of fruit.

“Well, the fob will give us enough warning, right?” When you hear his verbal acknowledgement behind you, you ask, “What are we planning anyway? In a general sense.”

He swallows his piece of fruit, and his voice drops into strategy mode once he’s lowered the helmet. “Right now, we monitor. I doubt he’ll come to the village, so we wait until he’s as close as he’s going to get, then we either go to him or bait him to come to us. We’ve got the support of the village’s warriors now, and they know the land, so if we have enough time to set something up, we can hopefully spring a trap. Then assuming the intel from the scouts is what we want to hear, it’s not too far to his ship, which we can commandeer to get him back to mine.” Then he adds, “You can turn around now.”

You spin back to face him. “The forest trails wind up through the mountains - fine on a speeder, but walking with his limp, he may think the longer path skirting the lake is the easier option, so we could get lucky. Let’s hope your leg is healed enough for you to walk by then, or it’ll be two limping old guys having a fight,” you tease.

Din snorts, seeing the funny side but not about to let it go by uncommented. “Jokes about my age are not getting you any closer to that kiss. There are barely ten years between us.”

“Barely, is it? Do you actually know your real age?” You ask, unable to harness your curiosity and wondering why you didn’t think to ask this one last night.

“Not exactly.” He hesitates, then explains, “I know I had just turned ten when I was rescued, but I don’t know if that was in Standard years or by the local calendar. Since I don’t remember what planet it was, I can’t work out what the likely difference might be. If their orbital cycle was shorter than Coruscant’s, I could be younger; if it was longer, I could be older. But I was small for my assumed age, so more likely younger. The tribe called me eleven once I’d been with them for a Standard year, so it seemed easiest to just count like that.”

Din? Small? You can’t imagine that. “Okay, going by that, you’re how old right now?”

“Thirty-nine and seven months. You told me you’ll be thirty at the end of this month, so that’s nine years, eight months. Like I said: barely ten years.” He seems inordinately pleased with his mathematical skills. Did you put in too much dlock leaf again?

Never missing an opportunity to press for info when he seems willing, you casually ask, “If you looked younger than the age they said you were as a kid, do you look younger than thirty-nine now?”

“I’m not sure,” he answers smoothly, with no hint of offence.

You thought that question might be met with more resistance since it was about his appearance, but he seems relaxed, so you carry on. “Any grey hairs?”

He chuckles, and you’re pleased it’s not an overstep. “Only a few. Not too obvious, I think. Is that… a problem?”

You grin as he once again reveals a little slip of self-consciousness. “Not at all; grey is distinguished. And I like older guys anyway.”

Suddenly, Din dips back into his earlier uncertainty about the future of your relationship. Sceptically he offers, “Give it time. Once I’ve told you everything, you might decide you don’t prefer world-weary and jaded.”

Kriff, you’re starting to wish you’d never brought up his age. Your first relationship ended when your ex decided you were too young for him, so you really don’t want your Mandalorian to decide he’s too old for you too.

Affectionately you respond, “Whatever adjectives you want to use for yourself, I can promise I prefer those to every aspect of every other man before you. Age is irrelevant to me. Now stop making my curiosity into a pity party, you lurdo. I like you for you, okay?”

He ignores both your insult and your compliment. Still, you can tell he absorbed your instruction to stop reinterpreting your questions because he then gives his own command, preceded by a short laugh to indicate his mood hasn’t soured too far. “Then change the topic of your curiosity. What else do you want to know?”

Musing on Din’s question, you clear up the leftover food, then fetch the clean bandages and last bacta patch, settling back down beside him and carefully unwrapping his thigh. There is a question you could ask, one he almost seems to be inviting with his frequent doubts about your long-term commitment, and it will hopefully lead him to reveal more of the things he’s both keen and reluctant for you to know.

Is now the right time for one of the ‘big revelations’?

You make a show of concentrating on your task, then genuinely become distracted by what you’re doing as you check out his wound, which is gradually starting to look a little better. Now that the infusion he drank has had time to effect some pain relief, you’re able to give it a good wash with the remaining mixture without him wincing.

Din doesn’t prompt you for an answer, waiting patiently while you tend to him and work up your courage. As you apply the last bacta patch, you decide to go for it and prompt the conversation you think he might have in mind.

Slowly, you venture, “You keep saying you’re worried I won’t like you when I learn everything about you. And when I asked you about habits and addictions, you said you’d done some ‘very bad things’. Then after you killed the Weequay, when I said you’re not a monster, you implied you might’ve been one in the past.” You pause to see if he reacts, but he continues to wait patiently for your question. “So… do you want to tell me what you think I should know about those bad things from your past?”

He lets you finish winding and tucking the bandage before he responds. He is quiet, careful, almost resigned - a galaxy away from the bright and buoyant man you saw when you came in with the food earlier. “I don’t want to, but I should. I just… I don’t want this to end.”

“You know my sins, and don’t judge me for them,” you reassure him gently. “I promise you the same consideration and objectivity.”

“Compared to me, you’re….” He trails off, changes direction and implores, “Sit next to me. What I need to say will probably upset you, and I don’t want to see the disappointment on your face.”

You move around to lean against the pile of blankets Din has propped against the wall behind himself, shoulder-to-shoulder but leaving him a little space. You realise you’re a tad nervous, but mainly due to his suspicion that you’ll change your opinion of him. How bad can it really be?

It takes a while for him to start talking, but you know this about him now. You understand he needs to figure out where to start, to find the right words, even if he knows what he wants to say. And he also needs to work himself up to being vulnerable. If what he wants you to know is truly as monumental as he seems to think it is, then it’s a real leap of faith for him to talk at all, even knowing that your feelings may be altered by what he needs to say.

You don’t prompt him this time, though. Encouragement doesn’t seem to be the right thing to offer here. Patience is what he needs. Understanding. So you wait patiently, trying to exude relaxing and supportive vibes.

And eventually, he begins. “I had a lot of reasons to let anger build up when I was younger. It started with losing my parents. I saw nothing but that massacre every time I closed my eyes for years. The Mandalorians put me in the fighting corps and started training me straight away, and they told me to channel it - to use it. I was older than the rest of the other foundlings. They were taken in as babies or young children, so they were adopted into clans and cared for until they started their training at eight. But I was already ten, so I didn’t get adopted, didn’t get buire, I just got thrown straight into training with kids who already knew how to be Mandalorian.”

When Din starts fiddling with the sleeve of his flight suit, you realise how difficult this is for him to say aloud. But you also want to give him space until you’re sure he needs your touch, so you stay still.

He carries on. “I barely spoke for months, didn’t make any friends. Just trained. I did what they said and channelled all my anger into learning how to fight. I told you that the other kids paired up when they turned fifteen or sixteen and started courting for their vows, while I kept my focus on combat training… but even if I had tried to go down that path, nobody would’ve wanted me. I was the quiet loner with a temper. But my tribe valued combat skills, so I was praised for it, encouraged to use it.”

What an awful way to grow up. Suddenly you’re less accepting of the tribe who raised him. To take a fragile boy and turn him into a weapon, indoctrinate him to believe he should kill or be killed, praise him for his anarchy, and give him no way to deal with his grief.

Kark, you were twenty when you lost your parents, and you didn’t even see it happen, yet it screwed you up and left you boiling with rage for years after - culminating with you almost killing someone in that last fight. You can only imagine what would happen to a ten-year-old who was present for his parents’ demise, then was ordered to relive it repeatedly and let it fuel the rage inside him until it burst.

Still, you let Din continue without touching him. He hasn’t even told you some of the things he did with that anger yet, though you’re glad he led with the reasons he carried it.

“We all swore the Creed around the same time and became apprentices, but my teacher took me straight out on my journeys while the other kids were still learning to be adults. He said it wasn’t because I was older, that it was my skill and competency. But it was just another way I felt different - another way to separate me from them.”

That you can relate to. Feeling different to those around you. When you first started your mechanical apprenticeships in Iziz, a curious girl from the Highlands with no formal education, you were an anomaly. You can empathise.

“I learned what I needed to about the galaxy, and when I finally left Concordia on my own, the Empire was occupying Mandalore. The Bounty Guild was barely operational because the Empire had its own enforcers, so the Imps were the only obvious employer besides crime families. My teacher made sure I wouldn’t buy into their propaganda and told me to steer clear of Mandalore, but otherwise, I was encouraged to find work wherever I could.”

Din goes quiet for a second. Is he about to say what you think he is…?

“The Imps only let a particular group of Mandalorians work for them, but… I got some jobs by approaching them in a different system and claiming I was part of that group.”

Holy shit, he did. He worked for them. You keep stock still, awaiting his justification.

Din shakes his head and then says, “You have to understand it was a case of finding work or letting my people suffer. I did a few retrieval missions, but then they gave me some… eliminations. I don’t know who I killed; there were never any pucks, just fobs. But they were probably good people… the Rebel Alliance hadn’t really started then, but in hindsight, those I killed and captured would likely have fought on their side.” He swallows and clears his throat. “I was taught to be impartial, to stay out of the galaxy’s politics, but I still knew I was helping the wrong people - even before the bastards destroyed Mandalore. And it was difficult to keep up the pretence of being a Protector to get jobs anyway, so I switched to mercenary work pretty quickly after that.”

It’s a shock to learn that your Mandalorian voluntarily worked for the Empire, even from an impartial standpoint. You’re aware of how quickly the regime sank its claws into the galaxy and occupied worlds (yours was one of them - the very reason your parents became Partisans), and you’re smart enough to know that it wasn’t always the sensible choice to resist, but actually killing for them feels especially tasteless. At least he only did it out of necessity, and it sounds like he came to his senses quickly.

“I don’t know what being a mercenary really means,” you confess. To you, the word is just synonymous with criminal.

“Basically, a hired gun. It’s a variety of work - could be protecting or defending someone, couriering valuable goods, fighting in someone else’s war… but there are no rules like in the Guild, and anything goes, so there’s the less-than-legal side too - stealing to order, smuggling, sabotage, taking revenge on people’s enemies on their behalf… assassinations,” Din explains with a sigh, though you know he’s not sighing at your question, rather at how he has to voice the words of his answer aloud and admit to the sort of behaviour he now brings people in for. “I tried to take jobs that were legal, but sometimes I just had to accept whatever was on offer to survive. I worked for a few crime families, did some jobs for the Hutts, got in with a few different groups and did some large operations. The Imps were morally the wrong people to work for, but it was always clean. Mercenary work gave me wider options, but it was… messy.”

You swallow. “Messy?”

Din pauses and glances at you sidelong, then fixes his gaze on the opposite wall again and lets out a sigh so deep it’s almost a growl. “Early on, there was a heist job on Alzoc III. I was with a group of mercenaries who were… causing me problems, but I needed the work, and it was supposed to be a massive payout.”

He’s suddenly being a little vague, which is suspicious given his detailed description of mercenary work in general. “‘Causing you problems’ how?”

Another irritated huff. “I was hired to do one job with this Twi’lek girl and didn’t think I’d see her again, so….”

Oh, kark, maybe you shouldn’t have asked….

After trailing off, you hear his intake of breath as he decides to say it as forthrightly as possible. “We fucked and went our separate ways. But then the guy who hired us decided he wanted us to join his crew more permanently, so I ended up on several more jobs with her. And when I refused her advances, she was pissed.”

Well, that doesn’t make you feel good at all, particularly Din’s crass description of his one encounter with her (the dlock leaf giveth, and the dlock leaf taketh away). However, it’s still not proving him to be morally a monster. You stay quiet, and he continues.

“The job on Alzoc III was supposed to be stealing a shipment of pearls from the mines, a stealth job. But Xi’an had an ego, and I’d already bruised it. She blew up one of the mines and incited the workers into a fight, and then she escaped and left me down there to deal with it. I had to choose between blowing up the other mine with the workers inside or being killed by them.” His voice cracks. “They were civilians… slaves of the Empire. They’d done nothing wrong, and I slaughtered dozens to escape, then killed many more when I blew it up to keep them from chasing me.”

There’s a heavy silence, and the air feels thick with both his regret and his fear of your reaction to his violent deeds.

You still feel like you shouldn’t touch him yet - like he might pull away - so you process your reaction aloud through your words. “If it was ‘kill or be killed’, then so many people dying was regrettable, yes. But it certainly doesn’t make you an evil person. You didn’t go down there thinking, ‘Hey, I feel like killing some miners today’. The person who put you in that position is the monster, not you.”

“But that wasn’t the only time something like that happened.” Din is adamant in his self-condemnation now. “How many times before ‘kill or be killed’ becomes normal, before taking innocent lives stops being a big deal?”

“Did it?”

“For a while. A long while.” You can still hear the hatred in his voice, but sadness accompanies it now. “I wasn’t being flippant when I told you I had blood on my hands. I was ruthless and heartless. I killed and captured people for credits, took out anyone who got in the way, and never stopped to ask whether they deserved what I did to them. I just told myself I was doing what I had to do, that a big payday meant I could provide better for my tribe. That I was doing what they’d trained me to do.”

It’s not what you want to hear. It makes you profoundly sad to learn about the despicable sins of Din’s past, although you can sort of understand how the events of his life inevitably led him to do such things. But you can also see who he is now, and you know he’s no longer that ruthless man.

“What changed?” you whisper.

He’s quiet for a moment as he considers his answer, not denying your declaration that he’s moved away from his former brutality.

“It started when the Empire bombed Mandalore, and my tribe had to flee Concordia. Not everyone escaped; we were severely reduced in numbers and had to split into smaller coverts - mine eventually settled on Nevarro. The fact that we only managed to get out because we were cloistered on Mandalore’s moon suddenly became a huge deal for the tribe. Our secrecy was our safety. So we only went out of the covert one at a time after that, and since I was the main provider of credits already, it was left to me to get all the jobs. Mercenary work was too unreliable, so my only option was the Bounty Guild. Not as highly paid, but with the Empire in disarray, it was up and running again, so the work was regular. Also, since any kills were sanctioned by the Guild, I was protected from any criminal liability - I didn’t realise how much of a relief that would be until I had it.”

Din trails off for a moment as if lost in thought. You know he doesn’t want you looking at him, so you simply shift a little, and it seems to bring him back.

He continues with shame rasping through the vocoder, “But I was still… unrestrained. The years of mercenary work had dulled my conscience, and I’d learned that the galaxy is brutal. So I didn’t care about collateral damage, especially with the Guild now protecting me from any consequences. If someone got in the way of the job, I still took them out, and I still didn’t ask questions.” He swallows audibly and releases a long breath, shaking his head. “That’s who I was for most of my life. Until last year.”

You think you know where he’s going with this. His foundling. His redemption.

“Guild jobs were drying up; people were going to outside contractors to avoid paying Guild fees. I was barely making ends meet, so I followed a tip for a big job - a private commission. The client turned out to be an ex-Imperial warlord, the payment was a camtono of beskar… this beskar,” he raps his knuckles on the pauldron beside him, “And the bounty… was Grogu.”

“Oh,” you say flatly, at a loss for anything else. Din got the payment… so he completed the job. He turned an infant over to the Empire. You feel a little sick.

“Yeah,” he affirms ruefully when he realises you’ve understood his meaning. “What’s worse is that the kid saved my life while I was bringing him in. And I still handed him over. That’s not something a good man would do.”

“But you got him back….” You say it with slightly desperate hope pitching high in your throat. You know he did; he described rescuing Grogu from the Empire and caring for him. But the revelation that he was the reason the Imps had the kid in the first place suddenly makes you want to confirm the details you thought you knew. You know Din wouldn’t lie to you, but you need to be reassured about the events regardless.

A knot of nerves in your stomach starts to smoulder.

“I did. Meeting the kid changed me, and I’ve spent every day since then trying to redeem myself, but I’m nowhere close to it, and I don’t know if I ever will be.” Before you can interject, he carries on. “Cyar’ika, this story still isn’t over. It gets even worse… I’m sorry.”

The knot of nerves in your stomach catches fire. How can it get worse? You nod and hope he can see the movement in his periphery.

The helmet thunks into the wall behind him, and Din stares at the sloped thatching of the ceiling as he drops the next bombshell. “When I took the kid back from the client, as we were escaping, we got pinned down. We were about to die. I knew I deserved it, but I just wanted Grogu safe. Other Guild members had us surrounded, and I killed as many as I could to keep him from being harmed. Some were good people, just following the Bounty Hunter Code - I was the one who’d broken it by taking back a bounty—”

“But it wasn’t a Guild job,” you interject. You’re unsure why you’re trying to justify his violent actions since you don’t know if you agree with them, but deep inside, you want him to be morally correct in his decisions.

“Not officially, but it was a Guild referral, and the other hunters all had fobs as well - that put me in the wrong as far as they were concerned. Guild members are supposed to follow the Code on all jobs, not just official commissions, but I broke it repeatedly. I cut a deal with another hunter to bring the kid in together and then put a blaster hole in him. I asked the client what would happen to the kid after I handed him over. I wiped out the client’s safehouse and killed all his soldiers to steal back the child. And then I slaughtered dozens of my fellow hunters while trying to escape. But… that’s not even the worst part.”

Your stomach churns at his list of sins. What else could there possibly be?

He clears his throat, but it doesn’t take away his rasp. “When we were pinned down, my tribe came out of the covert, all of them together, and they held off the hunters and helped me escape. I got the kid to safety, and we went into hiding.”

“O-okay… good…?” You don’t understand why this is worse.

Din continues to stare up at the ceiling and sighs heavily, and when he speaks again, he sounds almost choked up. “Later, when I returned to Nevarro, I found their armour - broken and piled up outside the covert. They had all been… slaughtered by the Imps. Because they revealed themselves. Helping me. My whole covert was killed… because of me. Their blood is on my hands too.”

The anguish in Din’s voice wrenches your heart open, and his pain floods into you like yesterday’s torrential rains. You finally grab his hand, desperately entwining your fingers and squeezing tightly.

At last, he pivots his helmet toward you, so you turn your face to meet his gaze and instantly hear a hitch through the modulator. When his fingers hesitantly brush your cheek and his thumb swipes beneath your eye like earlier, you realise you’re crying.

“I’m— I’m sorry….” Din chokes.

You shake your head. You’re not sure why, but you shake it no repeatedly, trying to figure out what all of this means. How it makes you feel. If your fundamental view of him has changed. If you still love him.

That last question is the first to be answered in your head. Yes, you do. Of course you do. Although you may need to revise your overall view of who he’s been in the past, you still feel love and loyalty for him in your heart. He is much more flawed than you knew, but you’re unable to pass judgment on him for those flaws. He is smart enough and moral enough to realise he’s done wrong, and the way he’s just woefully confessed his sins to you here is proof of that.

It’s difficult to hear, and you can’t deny that a part of you is repulsed by what he once was. Still, your own parents shared those same past flaws - they took lives and ignored their moral compasses for years, and you loved them despite that fact. So you can still accept Din for who he is now. You can still love him.

So why are you crying? It’s not about his admission of who he once was; yes, that makes you sad, but your tears only came when he held himself responsible for his people’s demise. He lost his parents as a child, chose violence to avoid dealing with it, and now blames himself for the death of his new family too.

You realise you’re empathising with him, feeling his pain as if it were your own because you’ve felt that same type of loss yourself. The agony of wondering how you could have changed things if only you’d made different choices. But he thinks you’re disappointed with him - too blinded by his grief to see what you can see…

A broken man, not a monster.

Din is waiting for your reaction, for you to put words to your tears. His terror is evident in his tensed muscles and how tightly he clings to your hand - like it’s the final tether he has to the intimacy you’ve built over the last few days.

There are so many things you want to say, reassurances you long to give, affirmations you know he needs to hear, and they swirl in your mind in a haphazard cloud of confusion. But despite the maelstrom of uncertainty that’s exploded around you from this whole conversation, somehow, your brain doesn’t fail you, blessedly providing you with the most succinct reassurance you could ever hope to utter.

You turn your shoulders toward him and slide your hand to his neck, pulling down his high collar and fitting your fingers against his bare neck, and you breathe, “I still feel the same way about you.” Then you pull him in for a Keldabe kiss. “And now I know you even better.”

And his ragged exhale sounds so close to a sob it breaks your heart, but you’re glad. Glad because now that you know his past and his pain, you can both mend your hearts together.

Chapter Text

Din doesn’t move or speak for some time after the heavy exchange. You keep your hand on his neck and your forehead pressed against his helmet as he works through his roiling emotions, stroking gently until his irregular breathing calms. You let your own tears dry as you soothe him.

He’s private about it. You hear no more gasping breaths that could be sobs; it’s only tense muscles and staggered inhales. Still, you’re not willing to move until he does, knowing that the simple act of staying with him will provide better support than offering more words for him to process.

You’ve heard him upset before, and you witnessed his agony when he was shot, but you’ve never seen him fight back tears from such a heavy unburdening. Having had a similar experience yourself of overwhelming emotions following Nantoogen’s attack, you’re considerate of his need to work through it slowly. If he’s anything like you were, he’ll want to minimise the embarrassment of exposing such a raw part of himself.

Eventually, he pulls back, and his fingers retrace the features of your face like he can’t believe you’re actually in front of him, knowing him, accepting him.

Din’s voice remains soft and quiet when he speaks, but it doesn’t waver. “I need you to understand some things. I’m not that ruthless man anymore. Partly because now I know how it feels to be hunted myself, and partly because I need to honour the sacrifice my covert made. But mostly because the kid changed me - he made me a better man. I started slipping when I lost him… but then I met you. And now you’re keeping me on my path.”

His hand falls from your face, and he moves it to press his thumb into your palm instead - a tiny offering of calmness to combat the frightening implications of what he’s about to say.

“But those instincts are still there, under the surface. They’re part of who I was… and still am when it’s necessary. My job… things will always go scud, and then I have to become that man again. I frequently need to make decisions with no good options, and I can’t hesitate just because my morals tell me all the choices are bad. I hesitate; I die.”

You gently nudge his thumb from your palm and link your fingers together instead. “I understand, Din. I know the galaxy is not all good versus evil; there are degrees and shades of both. But actions don’t always indicate values. I know that everything you’ve been through - the journey you’ve just described to me - it’s taught you the difference between necessity and convenience.”

The emphatic bob of his helmet tells of his agreement, and his gratitude for your acceptance comes via a squeeze of your hand, so you continue.

“So whenever you have to make an awful decision and do something terrible, I know you’ve done it because it’s unavoidable. You’ve shown me that you take responsibility for your sins and will always seek to atone.”

“Atone - that’s it exactly,” Din nods emphatically. “Everything I do now is to atone, to try and balance the scales. Most of my tribe died to save me, and I broke the Creed by removing my helmet anyway. It was the worst thing I could have done in their memory. So I need to respect it now and make sure my interpretation doesn’t carry me too far from the Way. I’ve been searching for survivors, I know of at least one, but I don’t know where she’s gone. So until I find them, my creed is all I have left of the people who saved my life. Twice.”

Okay, that does make sense. Although you still don’t approve of how ruthlessly Din’s tribe trained him, you recall some of the other things he’s mentioned about them - how they encouraged connections to foster the correct type of focus for battle. Presumably, he was supposed to find someone to mitigate his anger and help him focus. But when that didn’t happen, you can partially understand why they utilised what he had to offer and sent him out to do the sometimes unsavoury things needed to provide for a group of people in hiding. The survival of the tribe outweighed the emotional turmoil of a single member.

And ultimately, they gave their lives in gratitude, so you can understand and respect Din’s wish to maintain his loyalty to his creed. After all, you had parents who dropped the ball in terms of your own upbringing for the first half of your life, so you can hardly judge on that basis. You forgave your parents for their shortcomings; why shouldn’t he forgive those who raised him?

“The other thing you need to understand is how dangerous staying with me would be for you,” he continues. “You’ve already experienced it - you’d only known me for three days when you were viciously attacked by someone I should’ve protected you from. I promise I will always do everything I can to keep you safe, cyar’ika, but I’m only one man, and if you stay with me, there’s always a risk you’ll be targeted. Especially by those who may want to use you to get to me. I know you’re capable, but I need to be clear: being with me will be a huge and unavoidable risk to your safety because….” He pauses and draws your hand to his chest, laying it over his heart. “…As strong as my feelings are for you, I have… responsibilities that mean I can’t just give up what I do and settle down by a lake and live happily ever after with you—”

“That’s not what I want, Din…” you start to say, but he ploughs ahead, obviously keen to get all the tough stuff out as fast as possible.

“—And I would also never expect you to give up your life here and spend it travelling around the galaxy with me and shouldering some of my burdens. As much as I want you with me, it has to be your decision.”

“Is that an offer?” you ask, eyebrows high with hope. He wants you with him.

Suddenly he seems shy - as if he hadn’t meant to invite you to spend your life with him just yet. Perhaps he didn’t mean to phrase it quite like that.

“I… I want you with me,” Din repeats, “But you moved here to escape violence. Let’s just say I’m trying to set out potential paths and options… because we’re still only six days into this. I don’t want you to commit to anything without considering every angle first. So this is… information to help you decide if you’re interested in continuing this after we’ve got Nantoogen. Okay?”

“Okay,” you agree with a sly smile.

You both know what you’ll choose, but if Din wants to wait a more appropriate length of time before you verbally agree you’ll be leaving Endor with him, you’ll play along for now. Just another one of those things you’re both holding off on saying because the speed of your relationship makes it sound crazy.

Din nods, seemingly satisfied and at the end of his diatribe, but you think he might be smiling too. You’ve just confirmed to him that you have no intention of tying him down to a domestic life on a distant moon and that, despite his sinful past and the potential future risks to your safety, you’re highly interested in flying off into the galaxy with him. Even if nothing has been confirmed yet, it’s still a big step forward for the potential future of your relationship.

Then something he just said prickles in the back of your mind. “What do you mean when you say ‘responsibilities’ and ‘burdens’?” you ask.

He groans. “Was that not enough information for one morning?”

“Alright, fair enough,” you concede and lean back against the wall beside him again. “But next dose of painkillers, you’re explaining.”

Din mirrors your pose so you’re shoulder-to-shoulder again, then he gently bumps your upper arm with his and says softly, “Counteroffer: next dose of painkillers, there could be kissing… if you still want to….”

The flood of delight that washes through you at his words is enough to entirely cleanse you of the heaviness from the recent confessions, and your face lights up like a lantern bird’s tail.

“Yes, I still want to! Sounds like a brilliant idea to me,” you assure him, enthusiasm gushing from your lips. “Grallik said he’d bring the kolto at sunset, and Ykeeni is washing the gurreck blood out of my top for me, so once she’s dropped that off—”

“Ykeeni?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you - I made a friend when I was out earlier. Suriee’s niece. She’s lovely, nothing like her aunt,” you laugh. “I sat with her on the docks for a while and played with the Woklings while she was cleaning fish.”

Din looks at you when you mention Woklings but doesn’t say anything. It’s definitely too soon for that conversation, and you’re a little jarred by the realisation that the thought crossed your mind just as it must have crossed his. Though you suppose the most recent discussion has proved that given the massive differences in the way the two of you have lived your lives (despite some uncanny similarities, too), if you’re going to be together, it’s essential to figure out precisely what your expectations are and how you can make it work - if only to prevent it from ending in disaster if or when you discover something that one of you is unable to compromise on.

It’s a weirdly logical approach, but once again, you feel it suits the two of you much more than the bumbling, blind exploration that usually constitutes a new relationship. You’ve always fantasised about meeting someone willing to engage in such honest dialogue, and it seems you’ve found that person in Din.

“So,” you move on, “When Grallik and Ykeeni have been by, we can settle in for the evening and think about that whole kissing thing. In the meantime, how’s the leg doing?”

Din nods and tells you, “No pain. It’s been nearly a day, so the bacta will hopefully have almost healed the bone by now. The ache is more muscle-based now, and that goes for the rest of me, too… not used to staying still for this long or sleeping somewhere so soft. At least on long flights, I can stand up and walk around the cockpit.” He sits forward and rolls his shoulders, stretching his back, and you watch the planes of his muscles shift beneath his flight suit.

“I can help with that,” you say without hesitation, and in a move so quick you barely process the action in your brain before it’s done, you grab a handful of the blankets piled behind him and extract them, then insert yourself in the gap you just made, kneeling behind him with you thighs splayed either side. He barely has time to move his helmet to try and work out what you’re doing before you place your hands on his lower back on either side of his spine and press upward, massaging his dorsal muscles through the fabric as best you can.

He releases a low sound, both relaxed and pained, all ‘A’s and coated in static through the vocoder, then says, “Dank farrik, mesh’la….”

“Do you want me to stop? We have clothes on, so hopefully this isn’t too sexy.” You slide your hands up to his shoulder blades and firmly press your thumbs into his lower trapezius muscles, massaging upward until you reach his neck, then changing direction to manipulate the broad muscles along his shoulders.

Trailing another moan, your Mandalorian manages, “Don’t you dare stop…ah, fuck, this is good.”

“Have you never had a massage before?” The knots beneath your fingers suggest he hasn’t recently.

“Ngh… no,” is all he can get out between groans of agonised bliss.

His vocalisations are both surprising to you and something of a turn-on. Is he this loud during sex? Kriff, no. If you think like that, things could get out of hand, and you’ll be left high and dry again. Be professional. “Well, I’m not an expert, but it sounds like you need one.”

Din agrees, and you work your way across his back and shoulders, learning where he aches the most and loosening the stress and tension he carries in those spots.

As you ascend his spine and get as far under the helmet as you can while working his neck muscles, he drops his chin to his chest, and your fingers are just able to reach his curls. You can’t resist raking through them a few times, using the excuse of the pressure and motion of the massage to tug on them gently, and the moan he lets out is sinful.

Chuckling gently, you retreat your hands and breathe, “I’ll remember that for future reference.”

“Please do,” he implores, his voice sounding utterly wrecked.

Eventually, you conclude your soothing rub down of Din’s back and shoulders, falling against him and slipping your arms around his front, an echo of your speeder journeys over the past two days. “Mm, this is much more comfortable without the armour.”

His sigh is large enough to raise you up behind him. “It is,” he agrees. “But it’s also more of a temptation… I can… feel more of you…”

Oops. You move back a little so your breasts aren’t pressed against Din’s back anymore, then slowly roll out of your position behind him and fall on your elbow and hip at his side. “Sorry,” you say coquettishly. “We really seem to be pushing the boundaries now the hunt is suspended.” He nods but doesn’t indicate any negative opinion of that assessment, so you continue, “As long as you’re okay with it, and as long as we don’t cross the lines, I’m enjoying this little… intermission.”

Another nod. “I’ll let you know if anything becomes a distraction. Like I said, the medicine seems to help keep me from getting too… carried away.”

“Good,” you smile. “Okay, so how are we spending the afternoon? You’ve cleaned nearly all the weapons and armour already, and I doubt you’re up for more deep and meaningful discussions about yourself. What would you normally be doing when waiting for a bounty to arrive?”

“Strategising, usually.”

“Want me to see if Marfoo can come by and discuss stuff with you? I can translate….” you offer, keen to ensure he’s not bored during his convalescence.

Din enthusiastically accepts, so you pass him your lyaer’tsa to polish and sharpen, and then you head out again to seek the tribe’s head warrior, enjoying the feel of the sun on your arms since today is warm enough to not need your jacket. You eventually locate Marfoo with the help of two fishermen, and the little grey Ewok happily agrees to accompany you for a strategy meeting with Din.

The next few hours are spent discussing the village’s defensive capabilities, the lay of the surrounding land, and various techniques and traps that the Ewoks are familiar with. Both warriors are clearly impressed by each other, and after a while, Din starts picking up some Ewokese words thanks to your repeated translation of certain concepts, much to Marfoo’s delight.

The meeting is helped by the presence of a holomap which the villagers had scavenged from the Death Star wreckage and figured out how to use once they had wrapped their heads around the concept of replacement power cells. Using the map, Din and Marfoo divide the local area into a grid, and plans are made to monitor every route Nantoogen could feasibly take. Din also shows Marfoo the bounty puck and explains how the tracking fob can indicate the criminal’s approach.

It’s early evening by the time the two warriors are finished strategising, and Din seems to be in exceptional spirits. “He’s skilled,” he compliments after Marfoo departs. “I didn’t think Ewoks would have much battle experience.”

You grin at his assumption. “There are other sentient species on Endor, though much more primitive. Duloks are marauders, and they’re the main foe if you don’t count Gorax, who rarely come down from the mountains. But the Ewoks fought in the Battle of Endor with the Rebels, plus they were helping the New Republic round up stray stormtroopers for a few years after. There have also been historical conflicts between some of the villages. Even if they don’t have modern weapons, they’ve been defending themselves for as long as they can remember. Training warriors is just part of their culture; I’m not surprised you get along with Marfoo so well.”

Din hums in agreement, and you’re pleased he seems to be developing just as much of a fondness and respect for Ewoks as you have yourself.

Ykeeni is your next visitor, and when she calls up from the dock in guttural Basic, you’re shocked - your Ewokese teacher, Tenal, is the only other Ewok you’ve met who has managed to master speaking it as well as understanding it, and your earlier conversation with her was entirely in Ewokese.

“Come up,” you call back, glancing at Din with wide eyes. He’s clearly surprised too.

Ykeeni ascends with a little one clinging to her, and the Wokling immediately starts tearing around the hut and exploring everything he can get his paws on. Din quickly grabs the weapons and wraps a blanket around them. Then he skilfully appeases the frenetic ball of fuzz by allowing him to use one of his pauldrons as a rocking cradle, splayed on the inner curve and giggling to himself as your Mandalorian pushes it back and forth with an occasional spin that delights the youngster even more. A fond chuckle escapes from beneath the helmet as the broad and muscular hunter entertains the tiny baby, making you smile and wonder if he’s reminiscing about Grogu.

Ykeeni presents you with your shirt, clean and dry with no trace of the gurreck blood, together with an evening meal for you to enjoy. You gratefully accept both offerings as you inquire how and when she learned to speak Basic. Her pronunciation and sentence construction are crude, but that doesn’t surprise you. You suspect your Ewokese accent is equally dire.

Evidently, Ykeeni managed to befriend one of the humans from another salvage team a few years ago. Tasked with removing the bulkier components, your own team had stayed in large transport vessels close to the wreckage, whereas this team were salvaging data and computer tech, and they accepted the village’s hospitality instead of camping. One of the salvagers had enjoyed the village’s ambience so much that she’d stayed on for several months after her colleagues had left, and Ykeeni is a fast learner - just like her aunt.

“After Eemic grow, I wish I join Suriee in compound for work,” Ykeeni explains in broken Basic, and you tell her you think she’ll make an excellent addition to the vehicle hangar’s crew.

You chat a while until she eventually relieves Din of his babysitting duties, and your soft Mandalorian scratches Eemic behind the ears before handing him back to his mother.

Before leaving, Ykeeni extracts a wrapped package from a pocket in her mottled bluish-grey hood and passes it to you. “Grallik give this one for medicine. He visit tomorrow when suns appear.”

“Teeha, Ykeeni, may the night be restful for you and Eemic.”

Din holds up his gloved palm to the Wokling and softly says, “Yeha,” having just learned how to say goodbye as Marfoo left. The little one squeals and performs an enthusiastic three-fingered wave, making Din chuckle again. It’s so cute you think you might burst.

“You’re a good dad,” you can’t help commenting once Ykeeni has made her farewells and exited down the ladder.

“Took a while,” he admits. “When I was with the tribe, the best way I could provide for them was hunting and earning credits, so I never did any rotations caring for the foundlings. I had no clue what to do with Grogu at first. He kind of taught me, though. Kids will find a way to tell you what they need, even if they don’t speak.”

“Grown-ups too,” you muse wryly, and Din snorts as he removes the gloves he put back on before Marfoo arrived. Glancing at the rapidly descending suns through the hut’s window, you lick your lips and say, “So. Food and medicine?”

And kissing, your brain adds.

“Food and medicine,” he echoes, and from the pause immediately following, you know he’s thinking exactly the same.

This evening you’ve been given freshly cooked meat (not dried) and some kind of warm and dense loaf, either bread or cake. There’s a variety of fruits as usual, and Ykeeni has even made you a batch of cookies - and you love the acorn flour cookies that Ewoks make. It’s a veritable feast. Noticing a sealed jar at the bottom of the basket, you open it only to have your senses assaulted by the pungent odour of fermented grava berries. Suddenly you’re even more grateful to your new friend, a wide grin overtaking your mouth.

“Dank farrik, what is that stuff?” Din asks as you re-lid the alcoholic beverage.

You debate how much to tell him. Grava brew is the only alcohol you’ve allowed yourself since all but giving up booze after your heavy drinking days in Kayuin, though it’s only ever been a few sips here and there. You don’t want him to think you’re so nervous that you need to be drunk for this. Still, he’s already figured out what it is from the smell, and he saw your positive reaction to it, so you decide to just play it down as much as you can and move on.

“Just a tiny bit of liquid courage,” you say, giving him an innocent shrug and grabbing the next batch of ingredients for his pain potion. “You start eating; I’ll get this stuff brewing.”

You ignite the two lamps with Din’s lighter, lower the drape over the window, and then adopt the same routine as you did at breakfast, leaving him to tuck in first, then getting him to drink the medicine while you’re working through your own dinner with your back turned.

When you’re done, you unwrap the kolto package to find a glass vial of the liquid. “This stuff’s probably decades old by now. I don’t know if it expires,” you tell Din, and he shrugs too. “I know it can be injected, but I think it’s safer to do it topically. At least until we know you won’t have a bad reaction to it. Have you ever used it before?”

“Yes, my tribe used it before bacta became widely available. But only topically, so I agree we should stick with that.” He unwinds his own bandage this time - a little hurriedly, now you think about it.

Someone’s keen to get this out of the way and move on to other things.

You clean his wound with the brew you made earlier, then cut a square of cloth with your petar and soak it in the kolto, laying it over the puckered skin like a bacta patch and then re-wrapping his thigh with clean bandages. He’s not wincing at all anymore, which is a very encouraging sign.

The atmosphere is sparking, to say the least - both of you aware you’re about to take a big step in your relationship.

Usually, kissing is no big deal for you. You enjoy it a lot and have made out with your fair share of people, most notably during your somewhat wilder days of drinking and bar fighting on Onderon. Sometimes it was a straightforward way to indicate no hard feelings to an opponent you had beaten. It’s not a story you’re willing to share with your jealous Mandalorian, but it proves that kissing and sex aren’t intrinsically linked for you, so you’re quietly confident you can be restrained enough this evening and avoid crossing any lines.

Then again, you didn’t harbour deep feelings for any of your prior kissing partners, so there’s still an element of uncertainty about how this will go.

Once you’ve cleared up the supplies and ensured the panels for the exit hatch and centre grate are closed, you dip a cookie into the jar of grava brew and wolf it down. The fermented juice tastes like engine fuel, so the sweetness of the acorn cookie helps. It should also prevent the alcohol from lingering on your breath. You limit it to a single serving as you don’t want to be drunk for this, just a bit more relaxed.

The angle of Din’s helmet as you munch the last few bites of the sodden cookie tells you he’s watching you with either amusement or suspicion. Either way, once you’ve swallowed, you explain, “You have the benefit of your painkiller potion to chill you out, so it’s only fair.” You punctuate your assertion by popping a berry in your mouth to make absolutely sure you won’t taste like grava brew.

“Why do you need to chill out? You’ve done this before.” This meaning kissing. The upcoming event seems to permeate and resonate around the entire hut like a breeze across the lake, filling both of your thoughts with nothing else.

“It’s not that,” you say, trying to work out how to explain your nerves. “I think it’s sort of a big deal for two reasons. First, because we’ve had to wait, it’s been built up into this huge event we’ve scheduled to occur, which makes it more nerve-racking. And second, it’s… the first time you’ve… and I… I want it to be good, and if I overthink it… I just, it….”

Explaining your nerves only magnifies them, and you lose your ability to form words.

Din raises his arm and beckons you to him. “Come here, mesh’la.”

A little embarrassedly, you slink over to the mattress and drop down near him on your knees, chewing on your lip which he immediately stops you from doing, grazing his thumb over the skin instead. You wait for him to speak, but it takes him a moment.

Finally, he says, “I would prefer this to happen spontaneously too, but because of my creed, there’s… preparation, so right now it’s the only option. I’m sorry if it makes you more nervous. If it helps - I’m not nervous. So, to your second reason: I’m not a kid, this isn’t a scary new concept for me. I understand what’s involved, how it’s done. My helmet allows me to see more than people know, and I’ve had plenty of opportunities to watch. For, uh… data gathering, I mean… not to get off on it.” He regroups from his tangent. “So I don’t need you to… take the lead or anything, okay?”

Kriff, Din’s confidence in the face of inexperience is beyond sexy. More than that, he’s remembered what you said during your discussion on sex about preferring your partner to be the one in control, so he’s exerting some here to make you feel calmer. Gentle control… exactly what you like. Damn it, he’s so considerate, and you’re so fucking lucky.

“Thanks, that actually helps a lot. You’re amazing, you know.” The compliment comes out without you even realising it. Still, you don’t think you could’ve stopped it if you’d tried, so you just sit there with a slightly stupid smile on your lips and cartoon hearts in your eyes, waiting for his orders.

He gets the technical stuff out of the way first. “I’ve been thinking about the best way to do this. My helmet has a pressure seal against my chin to stop it from moving and to keep the modulator in place - that’s what you hear releasing when I lift it. I can fully pressurise it too, but there’s limited oxygen, so I just use the seal to keep the helmet steady. I tried this earlier when you were outside - if I lift it to my forehead and engage the seal, it’ll stay there and won’t be in the way, but technically I still won’t have taken it off.”

“Like a hat!” You grin brightly as the soft tendrils of relaxation from the grava brew finally begin to weave through your mind, giving you just enough placidity to tease him light-heartedly.

“Like a hat,” Din chuckles back, then becomes serious. “It’s a fucking razor edge loophole because I know the meaning of the affirmation is not literally ‘have I ever removed my helmet’ - they mean ‘have I ever shown my face’, but at least it takes care of the literal interpretation.”

“Din, are you sure—”

“I’m sure,” he says quickly. Then with a sly smile you can hear through the vocoder, he drops his voice into a lower register and adds, “And don’t interrupt.”

Wow, he’s really nailing the gentle control thing. You press your lips together in a knowing smile to let him know you appreciate it, then gesture for him to continue.

“As for the non-literal interpretation….” Din reaches into the pants pocket of his flight suit, usually hidden by the tassets of his armour, and extracts a piece of dark material. “While you were making friends with Ykeeni this morning, I was making this.”

He passes it to you, and you immediately realise it’s a long, narrow strip of his cloak, cut cleanly and neatly from the bottom edge. The short edges have been split into thin strips and then braided and knotted to stop them from fraying, giving four trailing ends at the corners. It’s clearly a meticulously and considerately made blindfold. It makes you go fuzzy on the inside, knowing he’s been planning this all day - even before he suggested it.

“Are you comfortable with the idea of wearing it?” he asks carefully.

“Yes, of course,” you tell him, touched at the amount of thought and kindness he’s put into this. “Can you tie it for me?”

Din nods, and you raise the fabric to your eyes, turning away and holding it there, and you feel him pick up the trailing ends. He ties the two upper braids together and pulls until the material sits flush against your forehead, double-knotting it just below the crown of your head. Then he does the same with the lower braids, tugging them down so they pass underneath your ears and knotting them at the base of your skull. He’s cut it just far enough that it doesn’t cover your ears at all. “How’s that?”

Turning back to him and adjusting the fit over your eyes, you tell him, “It’s perfect - secure but comfortable, and I can’t see a thing.”

“Good.”

Then you hear the pressure seal release, and it feels like the air is sucked from your lungs.

This is happening.

With your eyes covered, your ears pick up the tiniest of sounds, and you can track the progress of how far Din lifts the helmet. This is the highest it’s ever been in your presence, and when you hear his unmodulated inhalation, you can guess his eyes are uncovered. He re-engages the seal, and there’s silence for a moment.

Then he slowly declares, “Gar bid mesh’la,” and the rich unfiltered baritone sounds like honey and warmth and destiny.

“Stars, your voice… Din, it’s….” Breathless, you whisper, “Say more things.”

So he husks your name, and something inside you transcends.

The tiniest whimper escapes you, and you feel him lay a gentle finger against your lips. “If you keep making noises like that, mesh’la, this’ll get outta hand real fast.”

You can hear in the pitch of his voice that he’s now making an effort to avoid speaking in his lowest register; you know it goes deeper (and sexier), but this isn’t the time for that. Still, hearing the full unmodulated resonance of his words is breathtaking. There’s a richness to it that you hadn’t picked up on until now, having only caught an occasional muffled syllable here and there before.

But with effort, you sharpen your focus and rein in your yearning thoughts, dipping your chin to show you understand, and he rewards you by saying more things as requested.

“My helmet has a few filters, but none compare to seeing you with my own eyes.” Din’s warm hand moves from your mouth to stroke your cheek. “Perfect…”

It seems he’s just as captivated with your unfiltered features as you are with his unfiltered voice, and his compliment makes your cheeks burn delightfully. Your hand comes up to where his own rests on your cheek, and you run your thumb across the back of his wrist. You’re both only using one hand to touch each other, an unspoken agreement to limit the contact.

“I’m sorry I have to take away your sight for this,” he laments. “I wish I could show you my face, too; this doesn’t feel like a fair exchange.”

You slide your hand fully over his. “It’s okay. You’re giving me more than enough.”

“Disagree,” he says, then goes still for a second. “But…” And he readjusts his large hand around yours and brings it forward, laying it on his cheek in a mirror of where his rested on your own face a second ago. “I can show you like this, at least.”

Oh, stars. For a moment, you’re just frozen - body, hands, even lungs - but when Din presses his fingers against yours, encouraging you to explore his warm skin, your lips curl up into an awed smile, and you give into the temptation he’s offering.

You’ve never had to ‘see’ through touch before, and you’re unsure what to make of the sensations. Some things add to the picture in your head of this man, whilst others just raise more questions.

You slide up to begin where the helmet meets his forehead; his skin is soft but not entirely smooth, and since the helmet covers a lot of it, you can’t tell if it’s from scars or frown lines. He definitely has a couple of deeply etched lines between his eyebrows, though, even relaxed like this. Those brows seem relatively tame, which you’re pleased about, and as you explore lower, you feel long eyelashes flutter against your skin like the butterflies in your stomach.

His nose is aquiline with a beautifully smooth curve, ending subtly without a prominent hook. Your fingertips pick up the dip of a small scar across the bridge on one side, confirming your suspicion that his helmet doesn’t protect him from everything.

Beneath his nose, his moustache is soft and feels almost kempt, though you don’t think he has a groomer with him. You fan out across his cheek again, seeking the lines where his facial hair begins and finding marginally unruly whiskers growing down past his ears and hugging his jawline until they end in adorable smooth patches which separate them from where the slightly more coarse stubble of his beard begins again across his lower chin. He could do with a shave, but you’re definitely not complaining.

Finally, you come up to his mouth, tracing the outline of his smooth lips - an echo of how he’s been touching you all day. As you run your thumb across the velvety soft skin of his lower lip, you whisper in awe, “Din… you’re fucking gorgeous.”

You feel him smile shyly, giving you a new mental picture of a happier version of the man before you.

His warm hand slides up to envelop the back of your neck, and he breathes in and out, drawing you ever closer with the motion until you can feel his exhalation on your face. Your fingers return to his cheek, making room, and then slowly, like the sands of time itself, Din softly brushes his lips against yours.

And the universe stands still.

There is nothing but the two of you and the electric force of destiny that binds you together in this tiny instance of perfection. Your soul sings as his lips press more fully against your mouth, gentle but purposeful, and you respond in kind, knowing nothing but how right this feels. You fit together as though you were made for one another.

It’s warm and soft and everything you’d hoped, and you move against him gently, showing him how to subtly deepen the kiss without going too far too fast. He gets it instantly, mimicking the motion and moving his lips across yours in subtle undulations that make your heart pound and your brain spark with bliss.

The fleeting thought that perhaps this is as far as it will go vanishes when you feel Din part his lips slightly, and you welcome the move and mirror it, opening for him and deepening the kiss as his fingers tremble on the back of your neck. Your thumb strokes his cheek encouragingly, and after a moment, he hesitantly licks forward with his tongue, a test, a question, a declaration. You answer it willingly, and as your tongues meet gently, you both inhale at the sensation, breathing each other in like you exist on nothing else but this connection, and you’re both starved.

You feel the shudder of bliss that runs through him as he relaxes into a languid rhythm with you, as sure as a planet’s perpetual orbit and as beautiful as the birth of a new protostar. He tastes like the fruit you ate together earlier, mixed with comfort and eternity.

As Din’s confidence grows, he starts leading the kiss more assuredly - using his hunter’s instincts to collect more data than his observations alone gave him, exploring, experimenting, varying pressure and angle, noting when you inhale at something you like - and very soon he’s absolutely living up to his promise to be the best you’ve ever had.

Nobody has ever kissed you with this much care and attention, this much love and affection. He’s pouring himself into you, and you’re soaking in his devotion.

With his confidence, however, comes risk. You can feel the moment the tender passion transmutes into raw desire, into a need for something more - it happens to you both almost simultaneously. His fingers on the back of your neck tighten, though not uncomfortably; in fact, it’s probably what tips you over the precipice yourself. For a few seconds, you both hungrily chase your desire in each other’s mouths, hotly wet and deliciously deep and forbidden. You almost reach forward with your other hand, temptation making your muscles tighten in anticipation.

It’s when Din lets out a low whimper into your mouth that you manage to rein yourselves in, and again you do so together, like sharing this kiss means you’re also sharing one mind. You’re still locked together, but the pace slows, and your tongues return to gentle caresses instead of urgent thrusts. You stroke behind his ear, careful not to tug on his hair, feeling him release some pressure on your neck and caress you there in response.

The two of you are still virtually glued together at the mouth when you’ve all but come to a stop. When you finally separate, your lips press back together several times in little aftershock kisses as if they’re magnetised, slowly re-acclimating to being without the warmth of the other.

Eventually, you’re both able to keep yourselves from falling back into the repeated kisses, though you stay pressed together, foreheads touching, noses slotted beside one another, breathing gently into each other’s mouths like you’re absorbing and committing to memory the feeling of being this close. You both know it’ll have to end soon, but you’re both going to enjoy it as much as possible first.

Stars, the feeling of being this close, of having direct access to the one part of him his creed says he cannot show, of his steady breath on your lips and the heat from his skin seeping into you… it’s phenomenal. You’ve never felt such a connection with anyone.

When the warmth of his hand finally falls away from the back of your neck, you take it as your cue to break your close contact, and you slowly and reluctantly withdraw, the sheer bliss you feel emblazoned in your features. He strokes your face from your temple down to your jaw, and in a husky whisper, he declares, “Gar ner jate’kara.”

You don’t know what it means, but you don’t have the words to ask. Din will translate if he wants you to know. Instead, he picks up your other hand and softly kisses your knuckles with a more contented sigh than you’ve ever heard from him.

Then you hear the helmet seal disengage, and he repositions the beskar over his face again before untying the knots of the blindfold and restoring your sight.

You blink the room back into focus, and reality comes flooding back, though the feeling of his lips on yours remains a delightful ghost sensation.

Din is sitting before you with the helmet tilted and his hands twisting the blindfold in his lap. His positioning makes him look nervous, and it causes the corner of your mouth to quirk up in a small smile. You still have no words, so he is the first to speak again, simply asking, “Okay?”

He could mean, ‘Are you okay’ or, ‘Was that okay’. You decide to respond to both and leave no room for interpretation, hoping his opinion and state of mind match yours. “I’m great, and that was incredible.”

“It was,” he agrees, his body relaxing.

As if there was any doubt, though. For his first kiss, that was… unbelievably skilled.

You start to wonder just how thorough his data-gathering observations have been over the years, but he derails your thought by adding, “Thank you.”

Your eyebrows raise at his gratitude. Nobody’s ever thanked you for kissing them before. Though to be fair, this whole experience has been nothing like anything you’ve ever known before meeting him. So you respond in kind. “Thank you for trusting me enough to do that.”

“If we were on my ship, I could leave my helmet up longer,” he laments. “Although then I might never stop kissing you.”

“Well then, I look forward to when we get to your ship,” you say coyly. “And to when we’ve got Nantoogen and don’t have to restrain ourselves so much anymore.”

Din hums, agreeing, but offers, “I shouldn’t have allowed myself to get so—”

“Hey, it’s fine - good, even.” You interrupt him with a reassuring squeeze of his forearm before he can let his guilt escape. “We both got a bit carried away, but we managed to control it. I think we just proved we can handle this little holiday from the rules we’re giving ourselves without actually breaking any, just… redefining them for a while. I’m proud of us. And you’re a kriffing fast learner, by the way.”

He huffs a small laugh but ignores your last comment, focusing on your main point and glancing over at his empty cup from earlier. “I don’t feel more distracted. Hopefully, that’s not just because of the medicine. If we wake up tomorrow and I can’t keep my hands off you, or if I can’t focus on the hunt when the bounty gets here, I’ll blame it entirely on that kiss.” Another short laugh follows his statement, and then he says, “Would still have been worth it though… fuck.”

Matching Din’s amusement, you reach back to where you left the cookies and grava brew earlier. As you dip another in the hooch, you comment, “I like it when you curse like that. You only do it when you’re very emotional about something.”

“Explains why I only do it around you,” he retorts, then considers something. “You swear more now too. It was limited to ‘kriff’ when we met.”

You nod as you nibble your cookie, the flavour a poor substitute for the sweetness of his mouth. “Like most people, I was taught to use the soft curses - ‘stars’, ‘kriff’, ‘kark’ and your favourite ‘dank farrik’ - and avoid the hard ones.”

Din nods, and you can tell he was taught the same, at least in Basic (you’re pretty sure he’s uttered some Mando’a expletives).

“But my language devolved alongside the fighting. Eventually, I was swearing so much in everyday speech that I must have sounded like a pirate. So when I moved here, I tried to switch back to the soft curses. The patterns are still there - that’s why I’m always throwing ‘kriff’ into my sentences - but I try to limit the less socially acceptable stuff. They come out more around you, I guess.” You grin cheekily and finish the saturated cookie.

He nods in acceptance of your explanation, then points at the grava brew jar and advises, “Go easy on that stuff - don’t wanna have to fend you off.”

“Don’t worry, it relaxes me; it won’t make me horny. Alcohol is another thing I pretty much gave up when I came here, I’m very aware of my limits, and this is just a tiny sniff.” You reseal the jar and exchange it for a small bowl of berries, then shift back up the mattress to him, and he leans back against the pile of blankets and opens his arms for you.

Precariously balancing the bowl on the angled plane of his lower stomach, you snuggle against him as his comforting hand slips around your waist. You reach down for a berry, savouring the gentle buzz of the grava brew in your brain, the warmth of his palm through your shirt, and the sweetness of the fruit on your tongue.

“You gonna share those?” Din asks, and you realise that with his arm around you, he can’t simultaneously lift his helmet and feed himself, so you pick up another berry and hover next to the base of his helmet, begging entrance. His other hand comes up to lift the beskar slightly, and you swoop under and up, finding his mouth and pressing the berry between his lips. He gives your fingers a little kiss before they recede.

With his chin almost to his chest and the dim lighting of the two small lamps on the walls, you can see nothing but shifting shadows when he lifts the helmet, but it’s still somewhat thrilling that he’s allowing you to look while it’s raised. And with your hand underneath, no less. Aside from when he first kissed your fingertips out in the forest and maintained complete control of your hand position, in almost every other instance, at least one of you has been turned away. It feels like another huge step forward. He’s trusting that you won’t push up his helmet from below, and it warms your heart.

Your thoughts about his helmet make you want to know more about the rules, but you’re not sure you should just blurt out questions about this one crucial barrier that seems to be central to the Creed. So instead, you say, “Will you tell me more about Mandalorians? I’ve picked up a lot over the past few days, but we’ve never really discussed your culture, and I started with zero knowledge, so my picture of it all is still kind of patchy.”

“Sure, what do you want to know?”

Considering where to start, you decide to summarise your current understanding. “Well, I know you’re a… warrior culture, I guess you call it?”

“Yes,” Din affirms. “I don’t know much about the history except what we were taught in song, but I know there were constant civil wars between the clans and that they fought against other races for many years. They were conquerors. That’s why the Mandalore sector got so huge and included so many systems. And probably why the Empire wanted to control us.”

“What else do you know?” you ask, hoping to get some more general background so you can tie it into questions about the armour.

Your Mandalorian thinks for a moment and then offers up piecemeal information, pulling titbits from his memory as requested. “I know they over-mined Concordia for beskar, although the forests were growing back by the time I lived there. I know the clans on the planet were more closely allied with the Empire than those on Concordia were - at the end of the Clone Wars, they installed an Imperial Governor of Mandalore. Those of us on Concordia stayed outta the way; I don’t think they even knew we were there. That’s what started our drive for secrecy, as far as I know.”

So he’s been taught caution and privacy all his life, hiding his face behind a helmet and his very existence on an isolated moon. No wonder his walls are so difficult to breach.

“Then there was… a coup of some sort. I don’t know exactly what happened. The clans on Mandalore started resisting the Empire, and the Imps got pissed, which led to them firebombing the cities on the planet. There was still bad blood between the clans, and we were taught not to get involved in politics on the surface, so my tribe chose to get the kids and foundlings somewhere safe and go into hiding. That wasn’t long before Yavin. I’ve told you the rest.”

It surprises you how little Din knows of Mandalorian history, but you press ahead with your inquiries. “I guess decades… centuries… of fighting between clans and all the civil wars explains the need for the armour and the helmets.” He doesn’t react, so you carefully phrase your next question. “Do you know how the helmet rules ended up as part of your actual religion?”

From his silence, you deduce he’s a little less comfortable discussing the religion side compared to the culture and history, but it’s unclear why.

Unless…. “Is this another ‘big thing’ to tell me?” you ask gently. He did say there were things you needed to know about his creed, after all.

“It’s not ‘big’ so much as….” He shifts a little so you rub your palm across his chest soothingly, enjoying the feel of the muscles beneath the softness there until he continues. “When I talk about the Creed - about Mandalorians - I’m referring to my own tribe,” he admits cryptically. “The way I was raised, what I was taught about the Creed - I wasn’t given any reason to think it was any different from how all Mandalorians were raised. But I found out last year that not all of them interpret it the same way.”

You pick up another berry and chew thoughtfully, giving him time to expand on his statement.

“Most of my tribe were gone by the time I heard about this, so I haven’t been able to ask - but I found out some of the clans on the surface of Mandalore were more… liberal.” Din says the word carefully, like it’s a dangerous admission.

Gently you ask, “How so?”

“I…” Whatever he was about to say is lost in an exaggerated exhale. Instead, he hedges, “This might make you pissed at me.”

“Din, I have no right to be pissed off by varying interpretations of a creed I don’t follow or even really understand,” you assure him, firm yet gentle. “I’m just trying to learn more about your beliefs.”

He pauses, then admits, “I don’t want you to think less of me for believing it when there are other interpretations.”

Ah, this again. You sigh and give Din a pointed look, reminding him with a long-suffering expression that you will accept him as he comes and never judge him - a fact you’ve told him multiple times already. How long is it going to take for him to understand that?

But it works, and he echoes your sigh. “I met a group last year, and they… remove their helmets all the time. Growing up on Concordia, I had no idea how it was down on the planet, but one of this group apparently ruled Mandalore, I think. Or was supposed to… I’m not sure. She and her followers want to take back the homeworld and reinstate their way of life there; she wants to lead our people again.” Then he adds quietly, “She called my tribe zealots.”

“Why do you think this will piss me off?” You understand his hesitance now, but it changes nothing for you, and you give him calm and reassuring logic. “You are the only person with any right to question your beliefs. Do you seriously think I’d insist you rip off your helmet just because this woman takes hers off? If she can’t accept the varying choices made by all the tribes, then she’s clearly not fit to rule all Mandalorians.”

Din is quiet for a second, then you feel his hand squeeze you tightly at your waist, and he pulls you partially onto his chest, narrowly avoiding knocking over the bowl of berries that still rests on his stomach. You reposition them on the mattress beside him and burrow into him, finding the most comfortable angle.

He says nothing further, which leads you to suspect there’s probably a lot more to say about this liberal former leader of his people, but you don’t press him on it. There have been a lot of heavy revelations today already, and whilst you might feel confident enough to probe a little, you don’t want to demand information if he doesn’t give it easily.

You attempt to return the focus to the topic you were initially angling to ask about. “It makes sense that a long-running need to keep your identities hidden from the Empire and other clans eventually worked its way into your religion; you don’t have to justify it to me.”

He shakes his head and says, “The Way of the Mand’alor is ancient.”

Hmm, okay, at least it’s not a new age ‘fad’ religion then; that’s good to know. Perhaps Din’s tribe were simply more traditional than the others.

When he doesn’t expand, you wonder if that’s the extent of his knowledge, so you decide to stop dancing around your real question and just ask about the helmet rules.

“So, um… how does constantly wearing the helmet work with, you know, dating and families and stuff? Do people never get to find out what their partners look like?”

A little puff of air comes through the modulator, and he sounds slightly amused. “I wondered how long it would take for you to ask this. Six days,” he muses.

“It’s a valid question, isn’t it?” You’re confused about why he’s making it seem like such a big deal.

“You’re not asking about my creed in general, cyar’ika; you’re asking if there’s a way you can ever see my face.”

He doesn’t sound upset - still sort of amused, actually - but you splutter a little at his perceptiveness. You weren’t even aware of it, but he’s right. That is what you really want to know. And the implications of that in relation to the potential future of your current relationship instantly weigh down your words.

Your embarrassment at being caught considering how serious things could become between you makes you backtrack. “I-I didn’t mean… you don’t have to answer if—”

And then your Mandalorian shuts you up with one monumental statement, and your stomach drops as the words leave his mouth.

“You can see me if you marry me.”

Kriff.

Chapter Text

‘You can see me if you marry me’.

Amidst the immediate shock and alarm that floods you, the first clear thought that runs through your mind is, ‘It’s not a proposal, it’s not a proposal, it’s not a proposal’.

Because logically, you know it’s not. It’s just the way Din personalised it by using ‘you’ and ‘me’ instead of speaking in general, and how he decided to phrase it with those last few words stuck together like that… if he’d used a rising inflection at the end to indicate a question mark it would’ve sounded like a suggestion, and that would kriffing well be a proposal!

Then you feel your Mandalorian chuckle beneath you, and it suddenly hits you that he’s having fun with you. He’s deliberately trying to fluster you to highlight the ridiculousness of the notion that either of you could possibly consider such a permanent commitment after knowing each other for less than a Standard week - just so you could see his face.

You haven’t even agreed you’ll be leaving Endor with him yet. This thing is moving fast, yes, but a lifelong vow would be idiotic, and it’s definitely not something you can wrap your brain around right now.

Suddenly your bewilderment is recast as indignation, and you narrow your eyes and swipe your palm against his chest. “Not funny,” you pout.

“It was a little funny,” he insists, though he curbs his amusement. “It is true, though. If, after a lot more than six days, our relationship were to ever progress that far, I could remove my helmet for you once vows were exchanged.”

Ah, much better - he’s switched to hypothetical now, though you’re still reeling from discussing marriage, even theoretically. You decide to steer into the skid and go with the joke. “Well, I’d expect a much better proposal than that, anyway.”

“Of course,” Din assures, and oddly he sounds genuine.

Thinking again about what he’s told you of his tribe so far, you muse, “Okay, so this makes the ‘helmet always on’ thing seem less arduous. Kids don’t have to wear helmets all the time, but they do it as practice. Then when they’re thirteen, they swear the Creed and the helmet stays on. Then by the time they’re sixteen, they’re marrying the first person their teenage hormones deem most worthy of them being able to take their helmets off for, so it’s only three years that nobody sees them, right?”

Din laughs again at your description, and you’re pleased he’s letting you talk so flippantly about something important to him without taking offence. “Parents can see their children and vice-versa, so there’s never really a time when nobody sees them.”

“So why do you have to atone for Grogu seeing you then? You were his father.”

“I never adopted him,” he says a little quietly. “I was his guardian under the authority of my tribe, but I never said the vow because my task was to reunite him with his own kind, so he never officially became my child. A clan or a house or even an individual can care for a foundling without adopting them. During my training, I was looked after by the house that ran the fighting corps. I was assigned a teacher after I swore the Creed and became an apprentice, but the clan never adopted me. So I broke the Creed when I removed my helmet for Grogu.”

Suddenly you’re overwhelmingly sad for him. The kids around him had families who could see their faces, and they all ended up in relationships and getting married (albeit stupidly young) a few years after swearing to wear their helmets all the time, giving them another loophole. Yet Din was apparently already too old to need adopting when they rescued him, and he managed to be socially awkward enough to put off attracting any of his tribe for marriage.

So he’s gone almost twenty-five years without showing his face to anyone.

You rest your chin on his chest and gaze at his visor sympathetically. “I didn’t realise how… different your experience was from the rest of your tribe. Nobody’s seen that gorgeous face in a quarter century.”

Din begins to stroke your hair as if you’re the one who needs calming reassurance. “It was different for me, yes, but Mandalorians also consider foundlings in my situation to have an opportunity. Those who don’t join existing clans through either adoption or marriage are expected to create their own. That requires a signet - a symbol of something that makes you worthy of being able to start a clan of your own. Grogu helped me find mine; I told you the story about the mudhorn….”

You remember that one. Sitting in your little shelter in the storm, Din had told you about having to steal a mudhorn egg to trade with Jawas for parts to repair his ship. “You said Grogu used the Force to save you from it,” you recall. It had sounded far-fetched, but you hadn’t thought it right to say so then, nor does it seem appropriate now.

“Yes, but I was… deliberately vague when I told you about it,” he admits. “It happened while I was taking him to the client - when he was still my bounty. I accepted the beskar as payment and took it to the covert to be forged into new armour, and the Armourer asked why my old cuirass was damaged. When I explained that I’d killed a mudhorn, she offered to make it my signet, but I refused because Grogu had helped me and I’d still given him to the Empire. It’s partly what made me realise I had to return for him. He’d saved me, so I needed to save him if I ever wanted to be worthy of having a signet. The next time I saw the Armourer, she insisted I had earned my signet, forged it for me, and named us a clan of two. But she tasked me with returning him to his own kind, so the adoption vow was never said.”

You’re quiet as you consider this. Eventually, you say, “So if you’d adopted Grogu, you could have shown him your face without breaking your creed?” Din nods, and you skip summarising the marriage loophole in favour of a general overview. “So there are ways your helmet could come off… in the future?”

“Yes. But I’m in no hurry,” Din adds, sounding mildly amused again. He seems to think your discomfort about discussing lifelong commitments is a source of humour. “Taking it off felt right in the moment, but the guilt that came after was… unbearable. The fact that I want to show you my face is a completely separate and theoretical urge because of its implications within the Creed. Right now, the only thing on my mind is if I can justify removing it fully while you still wear the blindfold, not if our relationship will ever get to the stage of you actually seeing me.”

“Six days,” you agree, a little relieved. “Glad we’re on the same page.” You momentarily acknowledge the tiny abstract surge of hope that flutters alongside the relief. Too soon, you think, but his acknowledgement of the potential longevity of this new relationship is… intriguing… pleasing. So you wet your lips and allow, “But it’s nice to know there’s a possibility somewhere far in the future.”

Your Mandalorian hums in contented agreement, and you snuggle against his warmth. A harmonious peace settles between you. The sounds drifting through the window from behind the curtain relax you: the lake outside lapping against the docks, the hauntingly beautiful songs of the munyips in the trees by the shore.

Eventually, you’re mellow enough to let more of your thoughts spill out randomly.

“That first night we ate dinner together when I asked you to describe yourself, I said it would help me trust you more if I could visualise what you look like underneath the helmet. I believed it at the time because seeing someone’s face was how I connected with people before I met you. But things have changed a lot since then. I trust you even though I’ve never seen your face because you gave me other ways to see you.”

Din says nothing, but you feel his eyes on your face, the visor tilted toward you. You pause for a second to order your thoughts a little better before they leave your mouth.

“I want you to know that my feelings for you aren’t lessened by not seeing your face. I honestly don’t think seeing you would change anything at all because… I already know you. I know your body language, how you think, what you feel, the cadence of your voice, and all the meanings you infuse in how you speak to me. You aren’t that open with other people - I know that from when we first met - so I realise how lucky I am to see as much of you as I do.” As an afterthought, you stroke his chest again and add with a smirk and a suggestive raise of your eyebrow, “Though even if the helmet doesn’t come off, I’m still looking forward to when the clothes do, and I can see more of you elsewhere.”

Din’s fingers are still in your hair, tugging gently in silent agreement, making your heart flutter at the contact. He seems content to listen to your musings without needing to interrupt.

You can only blame the grava brew and the positive mood surrounding you both for loosening your tongue as you continue to ramble through every thought that pops into your head. “But even though the helmet is a physical barrier, and even if there are ways to get around that fact, I think it represents something else too. Like it’s this last little thing that, once removed, means you can see your partner’s face but also their… their soul or something.”

You look away, a little surprised at your own earnestness. Din is quiet, thinking, and you rush to minimise how immature that sounded coming out of your mouth.

“That sounds stupid, I know….”

“It’s not stupid.”

You glance up again, hope glittering behind the embarrassment in your eyes, but you scoff anyway, still trying to move away from what you suddenly feel was a somewhat overly emotional little speech.

“It’s not stupid,” Din assures you, and you cock your head to the side, waiting for him to elaborate.

He is quiet for a while longer as if working out how to explain it, visor still focused on your face, but eventually, he continues.

“That barrier you mentioned, your description is exactly right. It’s only supposed to come down with marriage vows; that’s the point of the marriage vows. When Mandalorians exchange them, they can remove their helmets and really see each other… like you said, see each other’s souls. That’s why it’s not stupid to say that - relationships for those who follow the Creed are based on that exact concept. It’s the final step in truly knowing each other.”

You’re beyond pleased that you’ve meandered your way into grasping an essential concept of how relationships work within the Creed. This is definitely the sort of thing you set out to discover when you brought up this topic.

You carry on musing, bolstered by your new understanding. “I think there are good things about saving that bit for last. I love that I can read the subtleties of your body language and understand subtext and meaning by listening closer to how you say things, not just the words themselves. I think I see more of you than anyone I’ve ever known.”

You’re getting into the swing of your argument now, as if you’re trying to convince him exactly how well you comprehend it.

“We’re such a visual galaxy,” you continue. “Even when we send messages, we record holos of ourselves speaking. Stories are made into holoshows more often than they’re written down. But when you take away the visual, you get to know someone in different ways… more detailed and nuanced ways.”

Din nods emphatically, seemingly just as pleased at your understanding as you are.

“That’s why it was developed into a courting ritual,” he states. “Sixteen-year-olds, even Mandalorians who have sworn the Creed, are not necessarily mature enough for marriage, so getting to know each other through the barrier of the helmet is a way for them to experience a different type of intimacy before their vows. To make sure they truly want to commit to that person for reasons other than just liking how someone looks. With the helmets in the way, a slightly different courting process from the rest of the galaxy is needed.”

You snicker. “‘Courting’ makes it sound so old-fashioned.”

Din matches your amused noise with one of his own. “I guess it does. Although the specifics of Mandalorian courting are my only real reference for how relationships should be conducted.”

Kriff, he keeps giving you new things to wonder about. “Specifics? What exactly does ‘courting’ involve?”

The lamplight flickers a little as he considers this, dancing flames reflected in his shining helmet. “That first night when you asked me questions over dinner - do you remember giving me an opportunity to ask you some back?”

“Of course. You wanted to ask about my weapons, but you didn’t.”

Din seems momentarily stunned that you could read him that early on. Then he buzzes an agreement through the modulator before continuing. “The reason I didn’t ask… the reason I’ve been slow to directly question you about certain things… is that asking personal and intimate questions is the very basis of the courting ritual for Mandalorians.”

Oh! Finally, you have an answer to why he’s been so reluctant to ask you outright questions, and the revelation is phenomenally welcome. But as you examine it further, you realise it also seems a little odd. “What, so you’re all just strangers to each other, and you don’t make friends unless you plan to get into a relationship?”

“Not exactly,” he hedges with a puff of mild amusement. “Friendships and alliances are made by offering information freely, though it’s rarely intimate detail. Generally, you don’t ask about another person; you let them offer up as much as they’re comfortable with, so they can control how close you get.”

You release a drawn-out hum of comprehension, bobbing your head in appreciation of the straightforward explanation.

He smooths his hand along your back and continues, “That’s why when you first mentioned your combat experience and you wondered why I hadn’t asked about it, I said it was none of my business unless you wanted to tell me yourself. I desperately wanted to ask you, but that’s not how I was raised. You made it easier when you gave me outright permission to ask about personal things, but it still took some getting used to. Even now, it’s difficult - even with how close we’ve gotten. For me, asking someone about their life, their past, their likes and dislikes… it’s incredibly intimate. I’ve never done it before, so it feels… forbidden.”

This is kriffing fascinating; Din’s sudden willingness to disclose all of this and the influx of understanding resulting from it has you virtually floating as if gravity has been suspended. You carry on quizzing him. “Is there a particular reason your people have that rule? Surely there’s no point in being so secretive with members of your own tribe?”

“It may be that it’s particularly pronounced with my tribe because of our privacy rules, but there are things that make me believe it’s a deeply ingrained cultural thing for all Mandalorians,” he explains, seemingly considering something with his helmet cocked to the side.

After a moment, Din puts on his ‘professor’ voice, and you know he’s trying to explain a slightly more complex concept, so you listen closely.

“It’s even in our language. The Mando’a word taylir means ‘to hold’. The word kar’ta means ‘heart’. Put them together, and you get kar’taylir… literally ‘to hold in the heart’. But when said together like that, the definition becomes ‘to know in the heart’. Knowing someone so deeply describes… a strong emotional attachment. The sort of emotional attachment you’re supposed to build with the person you intend to exchange wedding vows with.”

Oh. Wow. As the conversation comes full circle, it suddenly hits you that all your questions and Din’s consequential revelations have been much more than just regular ‘getting to know each other’ talk. He has bared his soul to you, despite only having known you for such a short time - something he’s never done with anyone else in his entire life.

The understanding barrels into you like a blaster bolt, and you’re momentarily speechless, a single thought echoing through your mind: right from the beginning, before you’d even realised you had feelings for him, he apparently liked you enough to welcome your inadvertent courtship behaviour.

“So basically, what you’re telling me is that I’ve been… courting you since we met?” For marriage, your brain offers.

Din laughs again, still amused at how thrown you get when the concept of marriage comes up in a less-than-hypothetical context, even if the actual word wasn’t said. “Another way to look at it is that I’ve been letting you court me. If anyone else had asked me the type of questions you were, I would’ve shut them down. But like I said, whatever we’re doing here, I’m not doing it with a Mandalorian wedding as my goal.”

You relax again, and he goes back to stroking your hair. When he speaks next, it’s with a lot more weight to his voice.

“I ran away at first because it was… a lot to process. But I still came back for more. And even though I had trouble asking questions back, I encouraged you to ask about me. To know me.” Din’s voice almost cracks through the vocoder as he reveals, “I’ve never wanted anyone to know me the way I want you to.”

Holy fucking fires of Mustafar. If that isn’t a confession of something deep and meaningful, you don’t know what is. Shit, how the hell do you respond to that?

But whatever he’s trying to say, it’s still euphemistic, so it’s probably best to continue the metaphor. “I— I feel the same, Din. I want to tell you every little boring iota of my life and learn every detail about yours until we know everything about each other.”

He tightens his arms around you at that. Whatever that confession was, it seems to be some kind of commitment declaration in his culture. Are you… formally courting now? And if not for a Mandalorian wedding, then for what? Perhaps it doesn’t matter; all you know is that you feel awed and overjoyed at the same time.

The awe comes out verbally. “How has this happened in only six days?” you breathe.

Din seems to take your question literally and starts calculating an answer, his brilliant brain always at work. “Well, we’ve spent the last three days and nights constantly together; that’s fifty-four hours by Endor’s clock. And we’ve talked a lot. Add the time we were together on the first two evenings, subtract the hours spent sleeping - or unconscious in my case - and that’s still a considerable amount of time put into getting to know each other.”

You jump on his train of thought, very much liking where his justification is taking you. “So you’re saying, what? While the rest of the galaxy is going on dates and spending a few hours together each week and slowly finding out stuff about each other, we’re already halfway through some kind of… intensive relationship-building forest retreat, where we spend a week together non-stop learning about each other and fall madly in love in a fraction of the time it takes everyone else?”

Oops, you didn’t mean to mention the L-word. Where are your euphemisms when you need them?

But Din takes it in his stride. “Sounds correct.”

A flood of joy washes through you. This is so close to admitting real feelings. You’re both dancing around it like a delightful game, and you’re enjoying the thrill immensely. Staying on topic but still skirting the as-yet-unspoken declaration, you offer, “I definitely prefer our way. It’s kind of intense, but that just makes it a lot more fun than traditional dating ever was.”

He nods his agreement. “Well, I have no experience of ‘traditional dating’, but I guess while other people are making small talk and trying to present the most favourable versions of themselves, we’re learning true and intimate details about each other. It explains why we feel so close so quickly.” He brings his hand to your mouth and gently strokes your lips again. “We know each other already.”

He keeps coming back to this courting concept of learning about each other. He claimed a wedding isn’t his goal, but you know he’s using it as a metaphor for something. He said knowing someone deeply describes a strong emotional attachment… so is he trying to tell you he loves you?

The notion sends a smooth and warm feeling from your chest to your extremities, flooding through you like fire and silk.

Unable to resist his fingers against your lips, you kiss them and delight at how it makes him shudder. Recalling his earlier explanation of the nuances of his language, you attempt to subtly gather more information. “What was the word? Tie…leer?”

Din’s fingers move across your cheek and beyond to trace the shell of your ear before settling at the back of your neck. He seems to like that location. “On its own, taylir means ‘to hold’,” he explains. “We use kar’tayl for ‘knowledge’ because it’s something felt in the heart as well as the head - literally ‘held in the heart’. So the verb ‘to know’ is kar’taylir.”

Fascinated, you ask, “What are the pronouns for ‘I’ and ‘you’?”

“‘Ni’ and ‘gar’.”

Hoping you don’t butcher the pronunciation, you venture, “So ‘I know you’ would be, ni kar’taylir gar?”

You hear the grin in his voice as he says, “The final ‘r’ is removed for speech unless it’s being spoken formally or as a command - so, ni kar’tayli gar - and then technically, yes, that’s the literal translation. But its definition changes when you add pronouns, so it means more than just ‘to know’. Don’t forget the word’s origin is ‘to hold in the heart’, so once you personalise it, the meaning changes to a much more… poetic version. Mando’a is a very… interpretative language. Context matters.”

Oh, now that’s very interesting. And curiously relevant. You can’t let that one go without learning more, especially given Din’s mix of adorable hesitance and unmistakable joy that you’re discussing this with him. “How do you mean?”

He adopts his ‘professor’ voice once again. “Well… okay, taylir is used for other verbs too. When applied to objects, they take on a figurative meaning. But when applied to people, they take on a third more abstract and poetic meaning. The word for ‘hand’ is gaan, so you have gaa’taylir, which literally means ‘to hold in one’s hand’. If it’s applied to an object, you get ni gaa’tayli ibic, which means ‘I help with this’. But for a person, it’s ni gaa’tayli gar, which is ‘I support you’.”

He pauses to check you’re keeping up with his explanation, so you give him an enthusiastic nod to continue. This is kriffing fascinating.

Encouraged, Din resumes his lesson with further examples. “The word for ‘truth’ is haat, so haa’taylir literally translates as ‘to hold one’s truth’. For an object, ni haa’tayli ibic means ‘I see this’. But for a person, ni haa’tayli gar means ‘I believe you’. And like I said, the word for ‘heart’ is kar’ta, so kar’taylir literally means—”

“—to hold in one’s heart,” you provide delightedly, recalling his earlier definition with a much greater understanding now. “I get it - it’s beautiful. So for an object, it means ‘I know this’. What does it mean for a person if it’s not ‘I know you’?”

Din nods eagerly at your contribution, clearly thrilled you’re following his explanation of this concept. “Exactly. To hold something in your heart means you know it, but to hold someone in your heart - ni kar’tayli gar - the definition becomes ‘I like you’.” He pauses, then quietly gives you something you weren’t expecting. “But that form is rarely used on its own… since it’s a poetic interpretation anyway, we more commonly add darasuum - eternal or forever - to the end to change it from ‘like’ to ‘love’.”

Karking hell, he’s explaining how to say ‘I love you’ in his language! And what a beautiful concept, too - expressing love through words that literally translate to ‘I hold you in my heart forever’. The grava brew is not the only thing making you feel fuzzy now.

When you don’t respond (mainly because you’re trying to commit that phrase to memory for future use), Din inhales deeply as if he’s worried he’s given away too much, then says, “So you see why courting is intrinsically linked with learning about each other - to know is to… to have feelings for. But if you want to apply the literal meaning to a person, you have to use the noun form with a more generic verb like ‘to have’ or ‘to be’, which don’t have abstract interpretations. Ni gana kar’tayl be gar means ‘I have knowledge of you’. Maybe… until the time is right for anything more… poetic, it’s safer if we avoid the verb form.”

Ouch. Well, that burst your bubble. Though Din’s voice did sound slightly disappointed - as if he wishes it were the right time already. But to be fair, it is still remarkably early to confirm anything verbally, even if this conversation has clearly demonstrated that you’re both considering it seriously now.

“That’s too many words to remember,” you settle on as a response, infusing your voice with a bit of sass to avoid echoing his disappointment.

Din chuckles and concedes, “Well, we’ve both admitted where this is heading. Assuming your prediction for the outcome of this intensive relationship-building experience is correct, I expect we’ll be using the poetic version soon enough.”

Fuck, yes! You know he can see the hope that flashes in your eyes at that.

“But until then,” he continues, “We can just carry on ‘avoiding the verb’ for now.”

His choice to use a metaphor to describe an agreement to continue using metaphors is artfully axiomatic, but his intent is valid, you think. It’s clear you’re both getting there fast, but you’ve only just had your first kiss, so the euphemistic references are still better for now. And especially since he’s now given you this delightful new figure of speech to express the Mandalorian concept of love using Basic.

His frequent return to the courting concept of learning about each other, alongside those words he said to you earlier - that he’s never wanted anyone to know him as much as he wants you to - make perfect sense now. You knew his declaration represented a commitment, but now you understand precisely what. Your suspicion was correct… Din is telling you how deeply he feels in the best way he can manage right now. And you need to say it back in the wake of his explanation, so he knows how deeply you feel too.

“Well then,” you smile. “I guess… I just want to know everything there is to know about you, Din.”

Once again, his arms tighten around you, and if you weren’t already hauled halfway across his chest, you think he’d pull you even closer. “The feeling is mutual, believe me.”

The two of you rest in comfortable silence for a while, both thoroughly talked out from the numerous weighty conversations you’ve been having, communicating now simply through the occasional soft stroke of each other’s bodies.

And for once, your brain is quieter than usual. The plentiful sleep the previous night, the positivity and contentment from your growing relationship with an incredible man, the serotonin from the kiss, the notion that each new thing you learn about each other brings you closer to true love, the warm fuzz of the grava brew - these things all combine to provide a peace you haven’t felt in years.

Oddly enough, even though you slept late this morning and Endor’s days are frustratingly short, a yawn breaks forth from you, and you try to bury it in Din’s shoulder, drawing him out of his own reverie. “You wanna get some sleep?” he asks.

“I shouldn’t be tired already; I’m from Onderon. We do nineteen hours awake, then nine asleep. I can normally stay awake for a whole rotation on Endor with no problems.” You blink rapidly to try and focus your eyes and push away the unexpected sleepiness. It’s nothing like the lagging feeling of the rolling fatigue you usually experience.

“Maybe you’re just relaxed for once?” he suggests. “I could sleep a couple hours too - the medicine helps - and it’s probably a good idea to get whatever rest we can if we’ll be setting traps and monitoring the bounty’s approach tomorrow.”

“We?” You reach over and touch the side of Din’s bandaged leg, well away from the wound, but your meaning is clear.

“Let’s see what Grallik says in the morning, but I feel like I’ll be okay getting up and about tomorrow. The bone should be healed by now, and if the muscle is repaired enough, I’ll need to start moving it soon anyway.”

He pats your hip to indicate you should move off him so you can reorient yourselves properly in the bed, and you obey his gestured command without contradicting his assumptions about his health. You’re sure he’s had a lot of injury experience, so he probably knows his own body and recovery times pretty well.

After extinguishing the lamps, you settle back down with Din, plastered along his right side as usual. This time, he doesn’t haul you onto his chest, nor do you attempt to snuggle in that far, both of you aware that the closer position last night ended up with you inadvertently crossing a few lines. But with his arm around you and your head on his shoulder, the comfortable exchange of body heat is still sufficient to lull you into a restful sleep, undercut by the glow of your mutual feelings being - metaphorically - acknowledged.

You dream of his face, though you still don’t know it fully. Maybe one day.

This time, Din wakes before you do, and he gently brings you around when the soft glow of Endor’s first sun begins to filter through the curtain. It’s probably only been about four hours, but it’s more than sufficient, given how much sleep you got the night before and how little energy you expended during the day.

You’re pleased to note that you’re not tangled in any inappropriate positions this morning, and Din doesn’t seem to be battling another inconvenient hard-on. Although the thought crosses your mind that he could have waited for it to subside before waking you.

The extra-raspy grate of his voice through the vocoder shows he got some sleep, too, at least.

“Grallik is supposed to be coming at sunrise, right?” he asks, but before you can even respond, you hear the healer’s voice call up from the dock below the hut.

“Kark!” you exclaim, rolling to your feet and stumbling a little, making Din snicker. You scowl at him and call through the closed hatch for Grallik to wait. “Fudana, gyeesh!”

Once your companion has sat up and pulled his gloves back on, shoving the blankets into a pile he can lean against comfortably, you raise the hatch and welcome Grallik up the ladder, apologising for the delay. The ebony-furred Ewok simply apologises in turn for the early hour and explains that he’s keen to see how his patient is doing, scurrying over to the mattress and croaking delightedly when Din greets him in Ewokese.

You translate as Din explains there’s no longer any actual pain, only a lingering dull ache in the muscles, and when the bandages are unwound, you can see that the thin layer of new skin has begun to thicken now, meaning the bacta and kolto must have done an excellent job on the bone and muscle tissue beneath.

Din is as pleased as a beldon in a plankton swarm when Grallik announces he can start to put gentle weight on his leg again, recommending he engage in some simple stretches to maintain blood flow and help prevent the muscles from seizing up as they continue to repair. The healer adjusts the doses of the root and leaf-based infusion, reducing the quantity of the painkilling fgir root and dlock leaf while increasing the amount of antibacterial kata-wata stem and cambylictus root to speed along the healing process.

Once again, you’re truly thankful to your Ewok hosts for everything they’ve helped you with. You don’t think your gratitude could get any stronger until Grallik beckons you down the ladder with him, where you see he’s already lit the coals of the fire pit and is heating an urn containing some kind of broth for your breakfast.

You can’t help crouching down to hug the furry fellow, which he returns with the Ewok equivalent of a chuckle. His species are very affectionate and physical creatures, so it’s perfectly acceptable to display your appreciation so enthusiastically now you’re no longer strangers, even toward a professional such as this village healer and council member.

You set up the bowl of water with the revised quantities of ingredients for Din’s potion on the flat stone next to the broth, then jump back up the ladder, waving goodbye to Grallik.

“He brought us breakfast. Wanna have it outside?” you enthuse as you climb back into the hut. Then you laugh as you see Din is way ahead of you - his boots already on and his stomach padding already fastened around him - and you give him a hand with the heavier pieces.

He insists on fully equipping himself again - the only items not going back on yet are his jetpack and the cuisse for his injured thigh. Even the vibroblade, blaster and cloak are back in place as he prepares to exit the room he’s been confined to for over a day and a half.

You place the bandages, cloths and kolto in an empty bowl to bring down with you and descend the ladder first, then check the two bubbling containers on the coals once you’re on the dock. Din manages to descend in an impressively smooth manner, though it’s probably because the distance is literally from about his head height. All he needs to do is sit at the edge of the hatch and hold on to the ladder as he hops down onto his good leg, cloak fluttering out behind him with a flourish as if celebrating his return to the ambulatory world.

You approach him with the bastons he used as crutches when he first arrived, but he waves them away, rumbling, “You’re all I need, cyar’ika,” then placing his arm around your shoulders. He doesn’t put any weight on you - it seems you’re mostly there for balance and probably to share his delight at being able to move about again too.

With the first sun just beginning to pierce through the trees and make the water glisten and sparkle, you and Din limp three circuits around the hut before you insist he sits on one of the low benches surrounding the fire pit so you can clean and re-dress the wound, and so you can both have breakfast. Even you bossing him around doesn’t seem to diminish his good mood.

Once his injury has received more kolto and been covered again, he limps toward the end of the dock. He carefully lowers himself down to sit on the edge of the wooden pier, facing out across the lake.

“You don’t wanna sit on the bench? You can stretch out your leg better there,” you comment, handing him a cup containing the remaining medicine, then returning to the fire pit for the now sufficiently heated breakfast.

“Helmet needs to come up to eat and drink, so I need to face the lake,” he explains, and you make a disparaging noise aimed at yourself for not realising how obvious that fact is.

You let him drink the potion while you face the fire pit, focusing on decanting your now-warmed breakfast, turning back only when you hear your name fall gently through the vocoder.

“Come sit with me.” He pats the wood beside him.

You wander over with two bowls of the broth and hand him one. “Maybe you should eat upstairs? Or I should at least have my back to you,” you say cautiously, feeling almost like he’s leading you into a trap or something.

“You gonna try and look?”

“Not on purpose…” you hedge, a little uncomfortable at how incautious he suddenly seems. Does the new mix of ingredients lower inhibitions?

Din turns to you as you sit next to him, swinging your feet off the pier with a metre or so between your boots and the water, and in his most reasonable tone, he justifies himself.

“I’m used to doing it quickly, and I know the best angles to cover myself. This bowl is wide; I can use it to hide my face. I’m facing away from the village, there are no boats out this morning, the distance to the other side of the lake is far enough that nobody could see me without binocs, and I trust that you won’t look. Plus, the suns aren’t even fully up yet. I told you I’m okay with lifting it around you; I’ve weighed all the risks and taken sufficient precautions in line with the Creed.” Then he baits, “Or do you want me to go away?”

“Kark, no! Please stay. It’s nice being out here together. A beautiful lake, a pretty sunrise, a Mandalorian who is inexplicably happy despite his next dose of happy medicine being severely reduced in strength… all very, very nice things.” You beam at him, but you can’t help yourself from asking him one last confirmatory question. “What if I accidentally look? Should I put the blindfold on?”

“You won’t look at me, cyar’ika; I know you won’t. Relax,” Din assures you, then adds, “But please focus on the pretty sunrise so I can eat now.”

“Sorry,” you turn back toward the picturesque panorama before you, invigorated by his level of trust in you. “You’re just so kriffing gorgeous that I can’t help myself.”

“Ha ha,” he deadpans, then lifts the beskar slightly to take a quick gulp of the broth straight from the bowl while you sip yours daintily.

When you’ve both finished your breakfast (thankfully without any accidental glances), you sit together and watch the suns rise high enough to clear the treeline. Leaning against Din’s pauldron, you silently bemoan being unable to feel his body now that the armour is back on.

Din soon picks up on your disappointment and makes up for it by placing his large hand just above your knee and running his thumb back and forth, squeezing gently. Given the last time he touched your thigh was on the speeder when it led to the whole conversation about restraining yourselves, it’s bold of him to do so now. Still, his gloves are on, and it’s hardly high enough to be considered sexual. It seems you’re both successfully learning where the lines are and navigating them with increasing skill and aplomb as the days go by.

“This has been a fun interlude,” you tell him dreamily. “Part of me is so content I just want the bounty to stay away for longer so this can carry on, but then another part of me wants him to get here quickly so we can deal with him and then… have our celebration.”

He tightens his gloved grip on your leg at that. “Better to get the difficult stuff outta the way and properly enjoy the victory and rewards than to keep thinking about a future but doing nothing to get there - as nice as it’s been.”

And his take on it is absolutely right. Now is the time for action.

Shortly thereafter, you begin to prepare for the day ahead. Din confirms that the current speed and directionality of the tracking fob suggest Nantoogen is still likely to arrive after dark tonight - unless he takes a hard turn into the mountains, which wouldn’t be logical. The sensible thing to do is to use the remaining daylight hours to ensure the traps are set and the village is readied before then.

Keen to keep himself moving, Din reluctantly accepts the baston-crutches and accompanies you to see the Council of Elders, who are thrilled to see him up and about. Both Kirrat and Grallik look immensely proud to have been able to help in his rescue and recovery, and Marfoo is itching to take Din to view some of the traps being set. Since you get the feeling that by now, he’s probably desperate to pee somewhere other than a clay bottle, you wave Din away and hope he’ll be able to manage without you translating for him. He limps off after the silvered Ewok, promising to return when the scouts arrive.

Luckily, it’s only a few hours before the scouting party returns bubbling with excitement. You and Din are there to meet them in the Council hut as they report their findings, and you translate for your very hopeful Mandalorian.

“They say the ship is right in the middle of the wreckage, in a… I think they mean landing bay. So we’ll have to go up into the wreck to get to it, but they found several routes that don’t appear dangerous.”

Din is clearly pleased with this news, his arms dropping from their crossed position, thumbs hooked into his belt.

You continue interpreting, “They couldn’t access the ship, but three stayed behind to continue trying. They’re attempting to get through the hull, and they seem to know enough to avoid the integral mechanics, so they won’t totally wreck it. But they may cause enough damage that it won’t… I think they mean pressurise. Sorry, they don’t have the vocabulary to say exactly - they just keep saying the wind will come in.”

Din chuckles in response. “That’s good - excellent, actually. It means we can still fly it in atmo to get to my ship, but Nantoogen won’t be able to escape off Endor in it.”

With the knowledge that no plan adjustment is needed to get the bounty back once he’s caught, everyone’s attention is now focused on covering all contingencies for when he arrives.

Over the next few hours, you and Din slowly tour the village’s perimeter, resting whenever he needs to take his weight off his leg. You meet and speak to all the warriors who will be stationed at different positions along the routes, which you also check out. Din gives each Ewok his attention, asking how they prefer to fight and what they consider their strengths to be, then explaining how they might use those to their advantage against an enemy like Nantoogen.

For someone who hunts alone, he’s awfully good at being in command of a group.

Marfoo travels with you, fortifying Din’s encouragement with additional battle strategy, and the warriors are left feeling confident and ready. The whole process infuses you with a similar feeling.

As the oncoming evening eventually bruises the sky purple, you find yourselves back at your little hut for your own final preparations.

You’re busy strapping your blaster holster to your thigh when Din holds out the blindfold to you again, making your heart thud against your ribcage as if suddenly desperate to break free. He is standing in the very centre of the hut over the panel that covers the grate, the tapered peak of the ceiling’s centre being the only place he doesn’t have to hunch over (though his helmet still almost brushes the thatching). He’s been like that for a few minutes, silently watching you scurry around to stash your things in your backpack, refill your water flasks, and gather your weapons for the fight.

“Won’t it be a distraction this close to the hunt?” you wonder with knitted brows. “Given how our last encounter with this guy went, I want you totally focused, Din.”

The helmet shakes, hypnotically reflecting the flickering flames from the wall lamps. “Then let’s show each other how much we mean to one another so we’re reminded of what we’re fighting for. Narrow our focus.” He carefully lays the blindfold across your eyes and begins to tie it. “Tell me what you’re fighting for, mesh’la.”

Your mouth pulls words from your brain unconsciously as your vision is taken, and you murmur, “To prove I’m not weak, that I haven’t grown soft while I’ve been hiding on Endor, that I’ve got a purpose again.”

He finishes tying the knots.

“To make my parents proud, and you proud, and myself proud.”

You hear the helmet release, and he lifts it to his forehead, re-engaging the seal.

“And because taking him down will be the start of my new life - the one I’ve always wanted to live but never realised until you came along and unpaused me.” You feel his exhale against your lips as he leans toward you. “Din, I—”

He kisses you hard, and you instantly surge into him, drinking in his affections like liquid fire scorching your soul. It’s not sexual, not in the slightest, but it’s a lot rougher than last night - a different type of desperation.

Whilst last night Din carefully and studiously learned precisely what to do and how to do it for your maximum enjoyment, this is simply two people colliding on some abstract plane of togetherness. It lacks the mutually easy rhythm and pace of your first kiss - messy and unpredictable, angle and timing slightly askew - but it’s no less enjoyable or meaningful because of it.

This kiss is a seal of dedication, a pact to fight, and a promise of everything you will share in the wake of the bounty’s downfall. Din pledges himself to you with his lips on yours, searing and wonderful and more beautiful than any vista this moon can offer. He is your future, instinctual, intrinsic, inevitable.

You grip each other’s shoulders as you simultaneously feed off your combined energy and nourish yourselves in the knowledge that standing together makes you the mightiest force in the galaxy.

Pulling back a little, Din breathes sincere words into your mouth between smaller kisses.

“Everything you just said,” kiss, “I’m fighting for that too,” kiss, “Because you deserve to have everything you’ve ever wanted,” kiss, “And I’m gonna make sure you get it,” kiss. Din drops his hands from your shoulders to your waist and pulls you against him, but his lips leave yours a moment later, and the kisses are exchanged for a crushing hug with the same message. “You don’t need to prove anything to me, and I’m already proud. But I will fight by your side until you believe it yourself.”

His words fill you with determination and devotion, a glowing white energy that centres itself in your chest and crystallises your very existence. This is meant to be.

You withdraw your arms from where they had snaked around his neck when he hugged you, but keep your lower half pressed against him, allowing his arms to lock you together. It’s an unusually close position, but somehow nothing about it is distracting, so focused are you both on mentally preparing for the upcoming battle.

Then your hands seek his face, stroking his cheek and giving him the brightest, most loving smile you can summon to your lips. You feel him return it, and your heart skips when you notice he has a dimple on his cheek. As if you could love this warrior any more.

After a moment, your hand drifts up higher to the base of the helmet sitting upon his forehead (kriff, this must be aching his neck since he has to lean forward to avoid it hitting the ceiling), and you feel for the latch to release the pressure seal. You’ve seen him do it, so you know its location and that he can do it with one thumb. He lets you find it, and you balance the helmet with your other hand as you release the seal, gently lowering it back over his face. As you cover him, he slips the blindfold off you, one set of eyes exchanged for another.

Then you lean up and gently kiss the base of the visor where his lips were seconds before. “Let’s take him down,” you avow, and Din’s forehead dips to touch yours in agreement.

And you’re ready.

Chapter Text

The lake is on fire with the second sun’s descent behind the far shoreline’s trees. The village is strangely quiet as the Ewoks pray not only for the forest spirits’ protection from the night but also for a successful battle.

When the shimmering twilight shifts to dusk and they conclude their supplications, you and Din make your way to the Council hut for a final meeting. Earlier, Din’s leg was re-dressed, and Grallik gave him a carefully weighed dose of his medicine to ensure he’ll feel no pain yet keep a clear head. That means zero dlock leaf but an abundance of fgir root.

Following the fortunately swift improvements over the last two days, he’s been able to fix his cuisse back on his thigh over the bandage and now walks with barely a limp anymore, using only a shorter baston as a rarely needed walking stick instead of the two larger crutches. You can feel his relief at his progressive recovery, and even though he can’t run, he seems pumped for this fight.

Din’s mood circulates amongst those in the Council hut, each warrior proudly proclaiming their intent to catch the threat hiding in the forest. Additional fighters have joined the cause since your tour this afternoon, a neighbouring tribe having offered to bolster your ranks after receiving word of the threat. Your Mandalorian’s hand rests on his blaster in its holster as he stands next to you with impressive authority and provides a few final instructions for the entire troupe, speaking in short and clear sentences so you can translate easily.

“It is vital that this man is caught alive. Do not inflict damage that may mortally harm him.” He waits for you to translate and then looks to each individual Ewok for their nod of understanding. “He is about one hour from the village right now, but he may decide to wait before trying to pass the lake. This could be a long night.” Another pause for translation. “We have mapped the direction he is approaching from, and the traps are set. But do not underestimate how clever he is or what an accomplished fighter he is. He will use many tricks to outsmart us, and he is very dangerous. Disarming him is the priority. Traps first; only engage if necessary.”

As you translate his last few sentences, some of the warriors look a little uneasy, glancing at each other, but Din notices and reassures them.

He points to you and himself. “We will go now and relieve Kirrat at the head of the trail. We will be the first people he encounters as he approaches. Only if he gets past us will we need you to hold the line and prevent his escape.”

When Nantoogen’s signal became strong enough for the fob to show an accurate direction, you were pleased to note he was approaching from the forest trail, not the river trail, just as you suspected he would, so you know his current route. Accordingly, you’ve planned your ambush at the point where the path he’s on splits.

In one direction, it begins to slope up and over the low mountains, away from the village and river, directly toward the Oniantae Hills on the other side where the wreckage sits.

In the other direction, it stays flat, veering back toward the river trail, meeting it close to where the river spills into the lake, then carving a meandering route around the mountains to skirt past the lake, finally rejoining the first trail on the other side of the low peaks.

Both paths have their advantages and disadvantages. However, since the bounty doesn’t know you’ve allied yourselves with the Ewoks (nor even that Din survived his injury), you’re both confident he will choose the objectively longer yet flatter route past the village rather than risk limping up the much more precarious mountain trail in the dark. The two options are guarded by warriors with traps consisting of pits and snares farther along, so all possibilities are accounted for, just in case.

If all goes to plan, you and Din can surprise him before he even needs to choose anyway.

The two of you will be at the intersection alone since if Nantoogen sees any Ewoks fighting on your side and manages to get past your front line, that would influence him to choose the path away from the village. You want to keep him on level ground that’s more familiar to the warriors.

Once the company is in agreement, everyone is dismissed. While Marfoo sets off with the group who’ll be stationed up on the trickier terrain of the mountain path, you confirm with Chief Lyrfit that your supplies have been loaded onto the wagon you’ve been given permission to use to transport the bounty to his ship once caught. You thank him again for all of his help, holding in the gratitude as much as possible in case it interferes with your combat-ready mindset.

Then, with the group who’ll be stationed on the lake path trailing five minutes behind you so they can start setting the traps once you’ve passed, you and Din make your way to the intersection carrying enclosed flame lanterns like you had on the wagon to ward off any predators in the dark. It’s a twenty-minute walk, meaning Nantoogen should still be about forty minutes away when you arrive.

You’re keen to relieve Kirrat as soon as possible since Baplim (who you now know is his grandson) needs to get safely back to the village and tucked into bed. Given his advanced years, the elder Ewok currently holds no formal role in the tribe aside from Council member. You’ve discovered, though, that he’s had many occupations over the years - medic, animal handler, farmer, chef - and in his dotage, he enjoys passing his experience on to the younger generation. This explains why his grandson is practically glued to his side now that he’s old enough to start learning tasks and responsibilities. An apprentice of sorts.

Having hung his lantern from the baston you’ve insisted he keeps using to maintain his strength for the upcoming battle, Din holds your hand with his free one as you walk along the trail toward your designated confrontation site. You appreciate the little gesture of support, but he seems quiet. Is he worried or focused?

“Is everything okay, Din?”

He grunts an affirmation and nothing more, but you know him well enough by now to realise that it isn’t focus you’re seeing. You squeeze his hand, encouraging him to open up.

“I wish you had some armour,” he admits eventually with a sigh.

Ah, so he’s worried about you. “I have my bracer.” You hold it up to illustrate.

“Not good enough. Nantoogen is an accurate shot with a blaster,” Din complains, gesturing at the leg he’s still limping on a little. “He got me in the leg from underwater, and he’s hit my beskar three times. And one of those shots was meant for you. Given the number of times he’s fired, that’s a high accuracy percentage. Plus, we sank his boat, so now he’ll be looking to kill. This guy’s been avoiding capture for three decades; he’s smart and dangerous. And I’m worried,” he admits.

“I get it,” you say, understanding his concern because you share it; you’re pretty karking scared yourself. “But the plan is you disarm him first, then I come and help. I promise I’ll stay hidden until his blaster is gone. Please don’t let your concern for me distract you - the best way to protect me is to stay focused and get his gun out of his hand. Then it’s just two old guys with limps plus a badass girl who can fight well hand-to-hand.”

You feel how your joke makes him relax fractionally, and he runs his thumb along your knuckles. “There’s a word in Mando’a - ramikadyc. It means a state of mind where you’re absolutely confident you will achieve what you set out to do no matter what. It… sort of describes the ruthless attitude I told you I used to have. A singular mindset, utterly focused, knowing you’ll win because there’s no other option, and doing whatever is necessary to get there.”

A thought strikes you about how he must be feeling right now. “I know you need to channel that, Din; seeing you like that won’t scare me. You’ve taught me a lot over the past few days. Your feelings for me give you purpose and focus, but when you’re in battle, you need to narrow that focus further, which may require a little more… mercilessness.”

“I’m glad to hear that, but it’s not what I’m getting at,” he reveals. “I never got the chance to learn to balance this since I never had a riduur - a partner,” he explains. “I achieved ramikadyc and was unstoppable alone, but when I fight with others, I tend to just… do my own thing. Plans never go the way you want them to, and I make split-second decisions. The point of knowing your partner so intimately is that you’ll be able to… basically read their mind on the battlefield and anticipate each other’s actions. We know a lot about each other now, and I know you prefer to fight defensively. But beyond that, we still haven’t trained or fought together aside from the gurreck.”

You start to see where he’s going with this. You contradicted him with the gurreck - you told him his plan was wrong and gave him new instructions with the animal mere metres away. Although it worked on that occasion because you had superior knowledge of the beast, he needs to be sure you won’t do it again during this hunt, where he is the expert.

Din’s next words confirm your theory. “Will you promise me you’ll follow any command I give without question? Even if it’s to do something you’d rather not do? I know you don’t want me ordering you around - outside the bedroom, at least - but tonight, I need to know you’ll react instantly if I give you an order I think is in your best interests. Then I can focus.”

“Yes, I swear I will,” you emphasise. “Even if you ask me to do something I don’t like, I’ll still obey. You have more experience here, so you’re in command. Until we can read each other’s minds on the battlefield, I’ll follow your orders without question in fights where you have the expertise, like this one.”

Walking right next to each other with your hands entwined, you can feel how your words infuse your Mandalorian warrior with the relief and confidence he was searching for. Instantly he walks taller and exudes an aura of absolute certainty that he will be victorious. It’s a kriffing glorious thing to witness, and it gives you a similar conviction about how this whole encounter will go down.

You’re going to win.

Soon enough, you reach your destination, and Kirrat rushes up to you in a panic, chittering wildly. You calm him down and translate for Din as Baplim hovers nearby, absorbing Kirrat’s alarm and looking like he’s about to cry.

“Chief Lyrfit’s daughter, Pamiti, hasn’t come back - she’s been out all day,” you report once you’re sure you’ve understood the cream-furred Ewok’s panic correctly. “She’s a warrior in training, so she’s been scouting the vicinity but isn’t involved in tonight’s arrangements. She was with another Ewok, but he said she’d stopped to let her bordok drink, and she hasn’t come back through this way. She was due back at sunset.”

Din curses in another language (Mando’a, you assume) and thinks for a second. “Tell him to take the kid back to the village. It’s too dark to send anyone out after her, and the bounty is too close. If she’s training to be a warrior, we have to hope she’s made a decision that keeps her safe but far away from here. We’ll send her home if she comes this way.”

You translate Din’s instructions, emphasising that Pamiti’s training means she knows what to do if she’s caught out in the forest after dark, and you promise to hurry her home if you see her. Then you tell Kirrat that Baplim needs him to stay calm so they can be careful to avoid the traps being set up en route back to the village.

The elder Ewok is still devastated but accepts your assurances and advice, scooping up the youngster, who is probably too old to be carried now. Still, both seem to need the supportive gesture. “Thees azar,” he tells you as he departs - Ewokese for good luck.

Once you’re alone, you turn to Din. “How far is he?” Your voice is steely, and it shows exactly what you’re thinking. You’re worried for Pamiti.

He glances at you and holds your gaze for a second, then nods. He agrees. He doesn’t like it either. He slips the tracking fob smoothly out of his belt, last checked at the Council hut twenty minutes ago when Nantoogen was showing up as being an hour away.

The pulse is rapid.

Din flicks the small switch on the bottom, muting the pulse but leaving the red light to continue blinking. “About ten minutes,” he says grimly.

“Pamiti’s bordok?” It’s your best guess. Unless Nantoogen’s limp is suddenly gone and he can run again, he can only have made it this close if he found a faster means of transport. The obvious source is Pamiti and her bordok.

“Likely,” Din agrees, sounding grave. “But we can’t make adjustments without more information. We continue to monitor right now. Worst case, he’s either killed her or taken her hostage. The first is devastating for the village, but our ambush remains the same. The second means we need to adjust to keep her safe. But until we know more, let’s hope she’s fine and just stuck in the forest without her ride because he stole it.”

The familiar feeling of dread sits low in your belly, though it has risen enough times in the past few days for you to know how to keep it at bay by now. Drawing on the sum of Din’s teachings, you centre yourself and calmly ask him, “How do we adjust if he has her hostage?”

Before answering, Din leads you to the mouth of the trail where you had agreed you would conceal yourselves and await the target. He stops at the edge of the path and turns to you, one half of him lit by the flame lantern hanging off the baston at his side, fire dancing in the beskar while his other side is cold and dark.

“When someone takes a single hostage, they will rarely kill them because it eliminates their leverage. He will try and wound her rather than kill her. That makes you more vulnerable than her. This is not like back at the compound; he will try to kill you if he sees you. So your role stays the same: you hide until he’s disarmed. I have the armour, so I will try to get between him and any attempt he makes to hurt her. Once it’s safe for you, getting her out of the way is your first priority. Then you return and help me fight. Clear?”

His explanation comes as an order, and you’ve promised to follow those. So as much as you dislike the idea of him putting himself in harm’s way, you concur. “Clear.”

So agreed, the two of you conceal yourselves in the brush just off the trail and extinguish your lanterns, the scene of the anticipated battle now lit only by the blue glow of the gas planet in the sky above you and the dim red blink of the tracking fob’s light. Din keeps his blaster in hand, and you hold your shock baton at the ready.

The atmosphere is thick with apprehension, and every rustle in the forest around you makes you tense up. The memory of the gurreck is still relatively fresh, and now there’s a different kind of beast lurking in the darkness too.

However, you don’t seek reassurance from the Mandalorian beside you; you know he needs his concentration entirely on the hunt. Instead, you channel everything he’s given you in the past few days, all the encouragement, all his belief in your abilities, all his words of support and affection. They focus you.

Five minutes go by, and nothing changes. Checking the fob, Din speaks. “He hasn’t come any closer. We could be here for a while.”

As you process the idea of standing in this state of readiness for several more hours, suddenly, there’s an unusual noise… and it comes from Din’s belt. It sounds like static.

Static that resolves itself into a word.

“Mandalorian.”

You both glance at one another in shock, otherwise frozen in an attempt to make sense of this new sound.

“I know you can hear me.”

Din thrusts the fob into your hand and fumbles at his belt. Your eyes widen as he unclips a pouch and extracts the communicator he took off the Weequay two days ago, turning it over to examine it in the dim light.

“How does he know we have it?” you ask, stomach in knots.

“Because, little schutta, it’s set to permanent transmit, so I’ve heard every fuckin’ word you and your boyfriend have been sayin’ to each other for the last two days.”

The dark forest suddenly seems to loom oppressively as you both violently react to the gloatingly delivered bombshell.

The fob falls from your grasp as you clamp your hands over your mouth, both to prevent the bounty from hearing the gasp of utter disbelief, terror and betrayal that instantly tries to escape you, and as a physical deterrent for the vomit that threatens to rise in your throat at his words. You take several steps back as if the comlink represents the physical presence of the bounty himself.

Din simply boils and seethes in barely controlled rage, his fists curling tighter around the device in one hand and his blaster in the other, visibly shaking with the desire for vengeance that clearly washes through him.

Nantoogen’s voice continues its taunting as you shake your head with tears in your eyes, trying to clear it as your mind desperately revisits every interaction you and Din have had since picking up that communicator.

All the things you’ve shared… confessed.

“You two are fuckin’ tragic. Waitin’ to fuck until you’ve caught me, dancin’ around your feelings like teenagers. Grow the fuck up! Woulda thought a legendary Mandalorian who’s done all the ‘bad things’ he’s told you about woulda just ripped your clothes off, bent you over and fucked that little cunt raw by now, schutta. But I guess he isn’t that much of a man after all. I coulda shown you a better time. You shoulda let me when you had the chance—”

As your desperate gasps become loud enough to make it through your hands clamped over your mouth, and the tears start to fall, Din’s last tether snaps, and he roars into the comlink, “What the fuck do you want from us, you piece of shit?”

The scornful laugh that crackles through the device makes your insides freeze and boil simultaneously. “Glad you asked, Mandalorian. I have the Ewok girl you’re so worried about - and her animal. Useful of you to send out patrols. Finally gave me an advantage after havin’ you fuck up most of my options since I left the compound.” Through the vortex of terror that rips away the last vestiges of your composure, you detect a measure of bitterness in his voice, especially as he says, “And I don’t know how the fuck you got a fob on me, but I’ll be off the grid soon so it won’t matter.”

To his credit, Din manages to rid his voice of rage as he responds confidently, “Leave the Ewok out of this. Let’s you and me settle this.”

“I don’t think so, metal-head. I’ve got a better plan. First, you’re gonna calm your girlfriend down - I can hear her hyperventilatin’ over there. YES, that’s how much the comm picks up. She’s a key part of my plan, so I’ll switch off for five minutes while you get your woman under control. That should be enough time. Do it now.”

There is an audible crackle and muted beep, and for a second, Din just stares at the device in his hand. Then all at once, he comes to life. Holstering his blaster, the hunter tears off his glove and shoves the comlink inside it, then takes a few steps to the edge of the path and tosses the leather article, letting it skim along the ground several metres away from your position. Then he turns to you.

You’re still in shock, frozen with your hands clamped over your mouth, short sharp gasps coming through your fingers as your erratic breathing continues with no ability to control it due to your rapidly unravelling state.

He heard everything. All of it! You feel utterly violated.

Din approaches you, exuding a type of calm you don’t understand. How is he not worked up? Where did his anger go?

Carefully, he grips your wrists and runs his thumbs along the backs of your hands until you look up at his helmet. In the dark, you can only see a faint reflection of the planet in the sky on the shiny beskar, the visor as black as the rest of the forest. He takes several deliberately deep breaths, and after a few seconds, you understand he wants you to copy him like when you first reached the river. So you try.

It takes an enormous effort, but you manage to sync your breathing to the rise and fall of his cuirass, albeit still a ragged version through your fingers. When you finally remove your hands from over your mouth, he moves a bare finger to press against your lips. He doesn’t want you to speak. That makes sense. He doesn’t trust the bounty and probably suspects the comlink is still broadcasting despite the apparent reprieve.

You nod that you understand, and Din’s large hand moves up to cup your cheek. You can almost hear him say it. Good girl.

Then he does something you don’t expect, something that instantly snaps your attention back to him entirely yet confuses you even more. He depresses the latch on his helmet, gloved thumb beneath the beskar, though he doesn’t lift it. Your eyes widen, wondering what the hell he’s about to do, but he circles his bare finger at you with an instruction for you to turn around.

With both your brain and willpower completely muddled and dissolved by everything that’s happened in the last few minutes, you mindlessly comply as you continue taking shuddery but slow breaths.

Din steps up close behind you, his cuirass pressing into your back, his helmet appearing over your right shoulder. He takes a moment to run his ungloved left hand over your upper arm, giving it a gentle squeeze of support before slowly raising his wide hand to your face and covering your eyes.

Oh. You get it. You understand what’s going on even as Din lifts the helmet, and some small part of you makes a note to thank him later for each of the small careful gestures he did to move you into this position which, in other circumstances, might be intimidating. An armoured man grabbing you from behind and covering your eyes could send anyone into a further panic when not in their right mind, and despite your close bond, he wanted to ease you into it.

You assume he has only raised the helmet as far as he does when he eats or drinks. Still, his mouth is uncovered as he breathes soft whispers into your ear, starting with your name, and as you hear him say it, you relax slightly. He’s bringing you back.

When he’s sure your focus has returned, he breathes those two words you wanted to hear from him just now, his lips so close to your ear that it would be an immense turn-on in any other setting. “Good girl.”

You take a fuller, deeper breath at that, showing him how much it restores and revives you. The terror, disbelief and feelings of violation are becoming hazy now that your focus is returning. His proximity and willingness to rescue you from the abyss are fuelling your reversion to the concentrated state you had achieved not long ago.

Din starts speaking quite quickly then, obviously cognisant of your limited time, still breathing his words in whispers. “He’s playing mind games, cyar’ika, don’t let him win. What he’s done is unforgivable, but we’ll get past it. He hasn’t heard everything - you’ve said my name enough that if he’d heard it all, he wouldn’t be calling me Mandalorian. So right now, you assume - or pretend or whatever helps you stay calm - that he’s lying. Comms are not that sensitive, he may have gotten the gist of some things, but he can’t have heard every word. He’s just had a few lucky guesses from snippets.”

Equally as quietly, you breathe a short question that tumbles from your lips and out into the forest’s darkness yet manages to reach his ears. “So why are we whispering now?”

“Good sense. Precautions should be taken against improbable situations - like I should’ve taken that comlink apart already to see if it was broadcasting anything, but I didn’t. I thought the hunt was suspended, but it wasn’t. So now I’ll do everything extra carefully, as will you. Right?”

You nod in agreement, reluctant to speak aloud when a gesture demonstrates both your understanding and compliance with his order.

“We’ll hear his demands, and you’ll follow my lead. Clear?” When you nod again, he makes an approving sound in his throat. “Close your eyes.”

Your eyelids follow this command without you having to consciously think about it. Din slides his hand away from your eyes down to your jaw, turning your face toward him, and then you feel his lips on yours.

It’s just for a few seconds, a short but resolute kiss in which he transfers some of his strength to you. The angle is awkward, and the rim of his helmet presses into your cheek, but his gesture grounds you and reminds you of everything you pledged to fight for earlier in the hut. A callback of sorts.

Then he’s pulling away. The beskar descends, and he takes a step back and uses both hands to spin your body to face him again.

When your eyes flutter open, he tilts his head at you, asking in helmetese if you’re okay now, and you nod to confirm you are. Then he gives your arm one last squeeze and returns to the path for his glove and the communicator before rejoining you.

Once Din has fished out the comlink and replaced his glove, you both stand staring at it for another minute before it beeps again and then crackles back to life.

“She calm now?”

“What do you want, asshole?” you answer, trying for a confident tone, keen to show his psychological attack hasn’t shaken you as much as he’d hoped, though there’s desperation still.

“State your demands,” Din growls, phrasing your question somewhat better, his visor meeting your eyes in the dark.

Shit, you literally just agreed to follow his lead. But he doesn’t seem annoyed by your immediate failure to obey his order. Presumably, he’s willing to give you time to adjust when the stakes aren’t yet life and death, though you need to get better at this.

Nantoogen laughs again, and the sound takes you back to the night of your attack, but you harden yourself against the feelings of nausea and set your jaw.

“I know you’ve got those hairballs to set traps on the paths, and I know exactly where you are right now. Here’s what’s gonna happen, Mandalorian. Now that she’s stopped freakin’ out, you’re gonna send your girlfriend to call off the Ewoks and clear the trail through the mountains. I’ll give her one hour to make the arrangements. She’s gonna deactivate the traps and lead the Ewoks back to their village, and you’re gonna give her your weapons and wait for me in your current location alone and unarmed. Once they’re gone, you’re gonna escort me to my ship, and if you try anythin’, I’ll kill you and cut off this Ewok girl’s hands.”

You seethe with anger, and Din raises his hand to your shoulder, squeezing gently to calm your reaction before you can say anything else.

Follow his lead. You press your lips together and nod exaggeratedly so he sees your agreement in the dim light.

Din leaves a long pause before he responds to the bounty’s frankly ridiculous demands. “Your ship’s damaged; it won’t be able to leave Endor. You’re stuck here.”

“Wrong. Before you killed her, my lieutenant arranged for an associate to wait in a neighbourin’ system. Just need my ship’s long-range comm unit to contact them, and they’ll jump in, land and pick me up. You and the Ewok girl will be my hostages until they arrive, so your girlfriend and her groupies better not try to rescue either of you.”

Once again, Din utilises silence to draw out Nantoogen’s anticipation of his response. You know he’s not seriously considering cooperating, or at least not entirely, but you can see how his delayed reply makes it appear that he’s chewing over the terms. Presumably a tactic for negotiating.

Eventually, he sighs heavily, clearly for the benefit of the communicator, and then says in a resigned voice, “Switch off while I make arrangements.”

“Do you think I’m fuckin’ stupid?” The bounty sounds livid. “You don’t get to speak to her privately again, so you can work out a new plan now.”

Din matches the angry tone and growls back, “Listen, hut’uun, if I’m agreeing to your demands, you will give me five minutes of privacy with her to say goodbye. I give you my word that she will call off the Ewoks and take my weapons with her, and if you know anything about Mandalorians, you’ll know we’re honourable… unlike you.”

‘To say goodbye’? Hmm, you think you know where he’s going with this.

You lean toward the comlink in his hand and start to breathe raggedly again as if you were on the verge of tears, keeping your eyes on the beskar helmet so Din knows it’s only for show. He gives an eager nod, and you sniff for extra realism.

The bounty’s only response so far is to laugh at Din’s insult, so the hunter presses harder. “If you’ve heard everything that’s gone on between us over the past few days, you’ll know exactly why I need to speak to her. I don’t trust you not to shoot me when your contact arrives, so you need to let me reassure her, convince her to do what you ask, and say goodbye in private.”

You let out a fake sob at his final words, which does the trick.

“You get ONE minute for each of those three things.”

Din has his glove off the second before you hear the beep of the comlink, stuffing the device inside. As he does so, you close your eyes and turn your back to him in readiness for another whispered conversation. He doesn’t cover your eyes this time, trusting you’ll keep them closed - it’s so dark anyway it barely matters.

Instead, your companion presses against you from behind, sliding his right arm across your stomach and his left across your chest, resting his ungloved hand against the bare skin of your collarbone above your shirt. The position is an odd mix of dominant and caring, but he leaves you no time to wonder as he lays out his plan in hasty breaths.

“Go to Marfoo and explain what’s happened. Clear the first three traps but leave the last one. Then lead everyone back except Marfoo and his best warrior - they stay hidden by the final trap as insurance.”

You start to ask a question, but he gently shushes you, so close his breath tickles your ear, but it isn’t sexy because of the circumstances.

He continues swiftly, knowing you have little time, his instructions succinct and not to be argued with. “You come back down with them and collect my weapons. He’ll probably be watching, so you start heading to the village with the Ewoks, but then you cut through the trees back onto the mountain trail.”

As he says the last instruction, Din slides a glowrod into your pocket with his right hand, and you nod your understanding. You’ll have to abandon your lantern when you go off the trail; you need to blend in and risk the dangerous wildlife, or he could spot you, which could be manifestly worse.

“I don’t think we’ve mentioned aloud that I can walk without the stick now, so I’ll lean on it to slow him down and give you time to get ahead. It’s about twenty minutes before the trees thin out - when it gets too open and rocky. You find a wide stretch of the path before that point where you still have trees to conceal yourself, and you wait for us. I’ll be scanning for your heat signature.”

Then Din pauses and takes a shuddering breath, sliding his bare left hand up a few centimetres to your neck. There, he performs another weirdly dominant yet caring gesture, laying his fingers on one side of your throat and his thumb on the other, gently smoothing his thumb across your skin. It’s that gesture of comfort he offered over and over after your attack, but it’s in a curiously controlling location, although there is no pressure whatsoever.

But the words he follows with make you understand why he adopted this powerful stance. He’s giving you absolutely no option to refuse his subsequent command.

“Watch for me. I’ll give a signal, so watch my hands. I have two tasks; you have one. I will get the Ewok girl away from him and keep him distracted. At the same time, you will use my laser sword to disarm him. You come from behind, and you cut off the fucker’s shooting hand, blaster and all.”

You tense up instantly, the idea of doing such a violent thing immediately abhorrent to you. You’ve dealt with the fact that you’ve stabbed another person now, but this is different - this is spilling blood.

The first time you sank a blade into someone, you nicked an artery, and it almost led to his death. You vowed never to spill that much blood again. Aside from that, the extent of blood you drew with blades back in your fighting days on Onderon was mild compared to severing a limb. Cuts heal; hands don’t grow back. And you know what extreme blood loss can lead to.

Plus, you’ve never used a weapon like that. You still don’t know where Din got it, and all your speculation surrounds half-remembered campfire stories of Jedi with lightsabers.

But despite your less-than-happy reaction, you don’t refuse his order. You promised him you’d obey, and you know he wouldn’t ask this of you if there were another way.

“It cauterises as it cuts, so it won’t kill him. And you’re better than me with a sword,” Din continues, and you feel somewhat mollified by his reassurance and compliment. At least the blood loss will be minimal. Then he repeats your joke from earlier. “Once his blaster is gone, it’s just two old guys with limps and a badass girl who can fight well.”

It makes you breathe out in mild amusement, a gesture he detects in how he’s holding you, and he eases up a little, knowing you’re not refusing his instructions.

“I’ve had about thirty seconds to come up with this, and it’s the best I’ve got. I don’t want to put you in danger, and I don’t want to force you to maim someone, but this is our only option. I’m sorry, cyar’ika. But… plan agreed?”

“Agreed,” you breathe back. “But if you’re gonna walk in front of his blaster again… please kiss me again, Din - properly. It’s dark, and I promise I’ll keep my eyes closed.”

It’s at that moment that you realise he’s got both arms around you, which means the helmet must be sealed on his forehead, or he’d need one hand to hold it up. You missed the sound of it resealing - other things on your mind. Looks like he had the same idea as you.

Din’s mouth crashes against yours, and your tongues tangle together in a deep and desperate exchange of energy, chasing that reassurance you gave one another through your lips earlier this evening. It’s an awkward angle, and it’s over all too quickly, barely ten seconds of contact, but you both make the most of it and pour yourselves into each other.

Then he tears back, his arms recede, and you hear him drop the helmet back into place.

As you spin back to him, he says a single word to you through the vocoder at regular volume once more. “Focus.”

You give him a resolute nod to reassure him that the kiss hasn’t distracted you, hoping the same is true for him. He mirrors it before retrieving his glove and the comlink from the path, and the device is already crackling to life as he extracts it.

“Time’s up.”

“We’re ready. She’s leaving now,” Din says.

“Good. The comm stays on, and you report everythin’. I want to know the fuckin’ instant the path is clear, understand?”

“We understand,” you say, making your voice waver deliberately like before. As you pick up your lantern and relight it, you say to Din, still loud enough for the bounty to hear, “I’ll be back with them within the hour.”

At his nod, you turn and head toward the mountain path, refusing to look back as you walk away from your Mandalorian, holding in your mind the strength and resolve he infused in you with his lips as you depart.

It takes you much less than an hour to carry out your task, the Ewoks nervously but efficiently getting to work disassembling the two snares and uncovering one of the pits under Marfoo’s direction as soon as you explain the position. Barely forty minutes later, you approach the intersection again with the troupe of Ewoks, minus the two who stayed hidden up on the mountain trail as insurance.

Your heart swells when you see Din again, a salve for the nervous nausea you’ve been resolutely trying to ignore since you left him. It boosts your resolve as you jog to the middle of the path where he stands in a circle of light cast by his lantern, relit and set on the ground by his feet. He’s already leaning heavily on the stick, and you both reach out and clasp each other’s hand, stopping short of the intense hug you wish you could give him. You know you both need to retain focus.

Squeezing your hand in his, you feel Din press the communicator into your palm, inviting you to report. Your confidence swells from the little gesture of trust he’s giving.

“Nantoogen.” You address the device calmly and directly, not wanting to aggravate the criminal with hysterics or name-calling.

“That was quick, schutta. I hope you’re givin’ me good news.”

“All the traps are uncovered and disarmed,” you lie.

Din subtly taps on his belt, drawing your attention to the tracking fob retrieved from where you dropped it earlier, now suspended outside of its pouch with the audio still turned off. You see the red light blinking rapidly and realise the hunter is telling you the bounty is extremely close by and could be watching - you need to make sure any lies match what he might see. That’s why Din is leaning on the stick again.

You focus on his visor and blink once, very slowly, telling him in the soft glow of the lanterns that you understand. “The Ewoks are with me, and we’re heading back to the village now.”

“And you’re gonna stay put once you get there and not try anythin’ stupid, or I’ll have to kill your boyfriend.”

“Don’t kill him - I promise I’ll stay there!” It comes out much more desperately than you intended, but that just makes your lie sound all the more true.

Nantoogen laughs again, and you wonder how he’s maintaining such confidence after having his boat destroyed, his ship disabled, and his options reduced to this final insane push for his freedom. Though you suppose if he’s been on the run for over three decades, he’s probably used to such setbacks by now.

“Give her your weapons, Mandalorian, and you’d better not keep any hidden back. I’ll know.”

Din rests the baston walking stick against his good leg, directs you to set down your lantern, then begins disarming himself by unclipping his belt, lifting it and the bandolier over his head and settling the whole thing over you. It’s heavy, fits poorly, and the blaster in its holster falls against you in an uncomfortable position, but it’s not so inconvenient as to restrict your movement.

As you settle the new weight in the least awkward location, Din extracts his vibroblade from his boot. It usually sits between the layers of his leather greaves, so there’s no sheath. Instead, he slides the knife into the fob pouch on his belt, where it rests comfortably enough, following it up with the fob itself to keep it still.

He looks at his vambraces and hesitates, then says, “She has all the weapons I carry.”

But the bounty is astute. “And the ones you wear in your armour.”

Din sighs in tandem with you, then deactivates and removes one vambrace, carefully clipping it around your non-dominant forearm. Compared to your own vamblade, the beskar is heavy and cumbersome, and your natural reaction is to hold your arm away from your body to avoid the buttons, even though it’s deactivated.

Brief panic rushes through you when you realise you’ll need to try and disarm Nantoogen with all this unfamiliar weaponry attached to you. Then again, maybe you can shed it before you lunge? Hopefully, Din won’t mind if you set it down somewhere for the duration of the fight.

The other vambrace is off and in his hands, demonstrably not deactivated. As he takes back the comlink and passes you the beskar, he subtly presses something on it, tapping his finger on it a few times to draw your attention to which button he has depressed. You make a mental note, not really understanding.

But as you carefully cradle it in your arms, Din straightens up and rolls his shoulders, moving his head around and stretching as if removing some of his armour has lightened his burden. Then he rotates his body slightly and taps his stomach padding twice with an open palm, once with two fingers, and then points his thumb at himself.

Now you understand. Din has activated his helmet’s thermal scanner and has detected Nantoogen in the trees directly behind him, about twelve metres away. You assume he’ll want you to deactivate it before he starts fighting.

With his scanner on, you’re presumably now just a glowing blob to him, so you find a secure one-handed grip on the vambrace in your arms, then reach up and squeeze his bicep beneath the pauldron - an acknowledgement you’ve understood, but to Nantoogen, it’ll just look like you’re comforting him for having to give up his weapons.

“That’s all of them,” he says to the communicator.

“And the jetpack.”

“I can’t carry that, too,” you protest.

“So give it to one of the Ewoks.”

You turn around and see the last of the troupe just entering the trail back to the village and lake, and you summon the young Ewok at the back of the line, telling him to take the jetpack to Chief Lyrfit to go with the rest of your belongings. The little brown warrior puffs up in pride at being given an Important Task after being pulled off the earlier plan. As Din passes it to him, he cradles it like a holy relic, assuring you it’ll be safe.

You’re not sure how much of the exchange your Mandalorian understands from what he’s learned over the past two days, but you repeat the Ewok’s pledge back to him, emphasising the word ‘zeekee’, hoping Din remembers it means ‘safe’. He’s picked up a decent number of words and appears calm now, which is a good sign.

“It’s done,” the hunter growls into the comlink, voice quiet, yet with the hardness of a cornered animal preparing to fight for its freedom.

“Good. Listen, schutta. If you try anythin’ with your new arsenal - if you don’t go straight back to the village - I’ll end your boyfriend’s life. And I’ll spare yours for just long enough to watch him die before I cut your throat. Understand?”

Your reply comes out choked, and it’s only partially for show. “Yes, I understand.”

“Leave. Now.”

Din grasps your shoulder and bends his head toward you, and you lean in to meet his helmet with your forehead in a brief Keldabe kiss. But you can’t give in to sentiment right now; it’ll shatter your already tenuous focus. So you take a deep breath and pull back, turning and heading toward the village path, your heart heavy. You can’t carry your lantern as well as the vambrace, so you need to follow the Ewoks quickly or be left stumbling in the dark.

As you reach the trees, you can’t help glancing over your shoulder this time. Your Mandalorian, stripped of his weapons, stands forlornly in the circle of light cast by the two lanterns, once again leaning on the baston walking stick. His other hand hangs by his side, fingers curling and uncurling into a fist with no weapon to occupy them and no belt to hook into.

A wave of fear bubbles up at seeing him so vulnerable.

But he nods, and you turn back and head down the gloomy path before you, focusing on the wavering glow of the lamplight up ahead where the Ewok caravan makes its way back to the village, shoving away your nausea and drawing on the techniques Din has taught you to focus yourself.

You have a plan. You have to stay positive, and you need to channel that confident state of mind he mentioned.

A tear runs down your cheek, but you breathe in deeply and blink the sorrow from your eyes. Everything you’ve done over the past few days, everything you’ve learned in your life up to now - the training, the fighting, the ways Din has shown you focus can be maintained - everything has led to this. And you won’t let anyone down.

When you can no longer detect the glow of the lanterns from Din’s position behind you, you step off the path into the thick undergrowth. Fumbling for the glowrod in your pocket, you crack it and slide it snugly into the empty ammo loop in the bandolier across your chest. The faint light is just enough to see where to put your feet. The glowing ends on either side of the leather loop look (to you, at least) like bioluminescent insects hovering around each other as you move.

Then, with tenuous confidence, you turn toward the mountain path and wade ever deeper into the ominously dark forest.

Chapter Text

The trek through the thick undergrowth off-trail is uncomfortable, to say the least. Several times you stumble in your haste to reach the other path ahead, the glowrod not nearly bright enough to give you much of an idea of what’s beneath your feet, merely casting a faint outline of the surrounding trees and preventing you from walking directly into one.

The worst part is dealing with the ascent. The trail you’re trying to reach starts curving gently upward at the intersection, and though the slope seems shallow enough when you’re on it, approaching from the side much farther along means you have to scramble up a steeper incline to get back level with it.

In a way, though, you’re glad it’s a challenging hike. Contending with the environment keeps your mind occupied - stops you from catastrophising about what the bounty will do to Din without his weapons. You know he’s a phenomenal fighter; at least, you assume he is. You haven’t seen him fight much, though he wouldn’t be alive if that weren’t the case. But he’s also unarmed and injured. You can’t entirely ignore the worry that Nantoogen will simply blast another hole in him out of spite and malevolence - wound him further to keep him subdued.

You’re also somewhat frightened that you’ll meet another predator in the trees. Though you carry Din’s weapons, you know you can’t take on another gurreck alone, and even a boar-wolf would be a ridiculous challenge to outrun with reduced visibility. Not to mention that the closer you get to the mountains, the more likely you are to encounter one of the several arachnid species that live up in the caves and sometimes hunt in the forest. Bone gnashers and rearing spiders are fearsome, and a three-metre rakazzak beast would surely be the death of you.

Every screech, howl, and rustle around you makes you tense, and you hurry as fast as you can with your vamblade extended not only to cut through thick foliage but also as protection.

The beskar vambraces are heavier than anticipated, the extra weight making you sweat (how the hell does Din function with all this karking metal weighing him down?), and his blaster keeps hitting your knee as you walk. Still, you push through the discomfort, fear, and anticipation, focusing on your task as you scramble up a steep bank where you finally see the mountain path ahead.

Kriff, yes! You’ve made it.

You recognise the location from having walked this trail several times today, and you estimate you’re around fifteen minutes up from the intersection. It’s probably taken you somewhat more than that to reach it on your diagonal dash through the forest, but you’re reasonably confident that with a heavy limp, Din can slow the pace enough for it to take them almost double that.

Plus, you doubt Nantoogen would have emerged as soon as you departed - he’ll have wanted to wait for you and the Ewoks to get farther away before he risked revealing himself.

At least, you hope.

Then you remember you’ve got the tracking fob, so you don’t have to rely on hope. A quick check confirms he’s still in the direction of the intersection, and though you’re not yet an expert at reading the speed, you estimate he’s around ten minutes away (or more if moving slowly), so at least you know you’ve got some time to find the best hiding spot.

You quickly look around and decide that this location itself works well for the planned assault. The ground is reasonably level here, and it’s a relatively wide part of the trail with no canopy cover, so it’s well-lit by the glowing planet above. Plus, it’s comparatively straight, meaning Din should be able to accurately pinpoint your position from a fair distance away. All these things are good for Din’s tasks of distracting the bounty and shielding Pamiti. It’ll also give you a good view of whatever signal he said he’ll send you.

As for your single macabre task, you’re far enough along that the opposite edge of the raised pathway is already becoming mountainous. Plenty of large rock formations alongside the trail opposite the bank you scaled provide cover much closer to the path than the trees - a perfect location for you to strike from, plus an easy-to-find-again place to stash Din’s weapons safely while this goes down. You know the bounty is right-handed since you’ve seen him waving his blaster around more times than you care to mention, so if your target is his shooting hand, then using these rocks as cover will put you on the correct side of him as he approaches.

Carefully, you set down the still active vambrace in your arms behind a distinctive rock, taking care not to jostle any of the controls - another fear that’s been sitting low in your belly since Din passed it to you, knowing there’s a flamethrower and who knows what else contained within. The deactivated one on your arm soon joins it. Then you shed the belt and bandolier from your body with a relieved sigh, adding the straps to the collection nestled against the rock.

Next, you reach down and unclip Din’s laser sword so you can examine it. In all the campfire stories you’ve heard about Jedi, they were called lightsabers, but you remember that this one’s blade is black, which doesn’t fit with the descriptions of the bright ones in the legends.

Is it really the same thing?

Din had revealed Grogu’s unbelievable Jedi origins as you’d sheltered from the storm, and his somewhat emotional state had made it feel inappropriate to ask Jedi-related questions then. His only mention of the blade itself was when he told you after the gurreck that there were still other things he needed to explain to you first. For that reason, you’ve avoided asking about either Jedi or laser swords, waiting for him to decide when the time is right to discuss those topics.

Nevertheless, you’re intensely curious. Perhaps wielding it today will earn you the chance to ask him? Force magic seems unbelievable, despite Din’s story about Grogu and the mudhorn, and how much stock can you put into folktales, anyway?

As much as you’d love to take some practice swings with it, you know it’s not sensible to risk the light or noise, so you familiarise your hand with the grip and the location of the controls and then settle into position behind a large rock to wait. A minute later, you quickly slide the glowrod into your pocket to cover the light, chastising yourself for almost forgetting to do so. Crouching in the shadow of the rocks, you once again become over-conscious of every sound around you, whether loud or quiet.

You watch the tiny blinking light on the fob get gradually faster, but it’s a further hideously tense fifteen minutes before you hear them.

A low buzz comes distantly from the lower end of the path, and within another minute, you can identify it as a voice accompanied by a gradually brightening glow of lamplight. Straining to hear, it’s even longer before you can make out the words being said, though when you can, you wish you hadn’t tried.

Nantoogen’s deep and spiteful voice echoes along the path as he taunts Din about you. You catch snippets of him questioning his manhood based on his inability to bang you into next week, and in almost the same breath, he disparages you with vulgar slurs, the likes of which you’ve never heard in your life. It makes your blood boil, so you can only imagine how Din is feeling, likely having been subjected to similar diatribes the whole way here.

Slowly, they come into view, and you peek through a small gap in the rock that gives you a slim aspect of their approach, allowing you to gauge the situation.

Nantoogen sits atop the bordok with Pamiti in front of him, bound and gagged. The poor animal is only young and is clearly straining beneath the weight of the extremely heavy human, clopping ahead at a very sedate pace. It’s just as well since Din is slowly limping a few paces behind, leaning heavily on the baston walking stick as planned, though you hope to the stars and back that he hasn’t been genuinely injured any further by the bounty.

He isn’t bound, though, and you thank the stars for Nantoogen’s arrogance. He sees no threat from an unarmed and injured Din, assuming he’ll be too concerned with the hostage’s safety to try anything. The man is so sure of himself that he’s even allowing Din to trail behind him a few paces, assuming regular but quick glances over his shoulder will be enough to keep tabs on him.

But this criminal’s arrogance is his biggest mistake yet, and it will be his undoing.

One of the enclosed lanterns has been shoved into Pamiti’s arms, and the frightened girl hugs it to her chest behind her bound paws. However, it still throws sufficient light to highlight Nantoogen’s blaster pressed to her neck on your side.

You adjust your grip on the laser sword, taking several deep breaths and quelling your fear, readying yourself for the gruesome task ahead.

It’s obvious (to you, at least) when Din spots you. His helmet has been moving from side to side, clearly scanning for you, although since you’re not the only warm-blooded creature in the forest, you pace a little behind the rocks to draw his attention, hoping he can detect you through them. When you peer back through the gap, his helmet now points directly at you, and he gives you a nod. You take it as your cue to deactivate his heat scanner via his vambrace.

Your racing pulse throbs an anxious rhythm in your ears as they approach.

Din drifts steadily to the far side of the bordok to give you room to strike but stays behind a few paces, and when he draws almost level with your position, you watch his hands as instructed. The stick is in his left hand - appropriate for his injury - and in the dim light, you see him hold his right hand against his thigh, the dark yellow leather fingertips of his glove easy to make out in the gloom. As he passes, he curls in his thumb, followed by each of his fingers one by one. And as the last one disappears, you ready yourself to pounce from your hiding place.

Then it starts.

Din straightens up quickly and takes two silent steps forward, reaching for Nantoogen’s shirt and yanking him back sharply while using his stick to whack the bordok on its hindquarters.

And then several things occur simultaneously, though your brain processes them slowly, wading through the events as if underwater.

The bordok brays a loud and panicked protest; the bounty yells and fires his blaster; you ignite the laser sword and begin your dash out from behind the rock.

As soon as Nantoogen’s weight is torn off its back, the bordok gallops ahead at speed, taking Pamiti and the lamp farther up the trail, where hopefully Marfoo can intercept. This, coupled with the strength and suddenness of Din’s tug, means the blaster shot meant for the hostage simply sails up into the night sky, a tiny red shooting star as Nantoogen crashes heavily to the ground on his back.

You cover the distance as he falls, leaping forward to bring down the deadly weapon on his outstretched arm that holds the blaster. It’s close to you and should be an easy vertical chop, but the bastard is fast. The instant he’s on the ground, he rolls toward Din, snatching his hand away as the blade comes down, and the crackling dark laser impacts the dirt instead of its intended target.

Kriff-shit-fuck!

But Din is just as fast, reacting to Nantoogen’s dodge and lunging forward to intercept his shooting arm, dropping the walking stick and grabbing his wrist before he can bring the blaster around. The two men snarl at each other and grapple for a second. Though Nantoogen is bigger, Din’s heavy armour means they are likely evenly matched in weight, both sporting injured legs.

For a moment, everything seems to pause…

And then the battle begins.

They clash like gladiators in an arena, one-handed and violent, snarling gods of warfare, striking lightning to any unguarded location.

As you stand poised behind them, the crackling weapon throwing a dim glow over the proceedings, you watch helplessly, knowing you can’t risk lunging with the sword while Din is holding on to the bounty’s arm - he’s not wearing his vambraces so you’ll likely take off both their arms.

And as much as you want to throw yourself in hand-to-hand and assist your partner, you know you can’t - your only instruction was to sever Nantoogen’s hand. Otherwise, you must default to your original promise: stay back until the target has been disarmed. Din implied you could be a distraction if you got involved - that you’d just be another thing for him to worry about. So you can’t help him.

Nevertheless, your Mandalorian holds his own, and you finally get to see some of his fighting finesse - ducking, punching, weaving, kicking, using his body and limbs as weapons interchangeably, all the while keeping his opponent’s wrist gripped tightly.

With the lantern carried away on the bordok, everything is cast in nothing more than the glow from the sword and the dim blue light from the massive planet above, eerie and cold, the forest in shadows. But the path is wide with no canopy above, meaning much more of the bright planet’s glow reaches the ground than it did deeper in the forest, illuminating the fight in an achromatic pallor.

The violent dance the two men are engaged in, locked together hand-to-wrist, briefly slows enough for Nantoogen to scream, “Fuckin’ scum! I’ll kill you!” And he lunges forward again, but Din maintains his grip on his wrist and blocks the wild punch being levelled at his throat with his other arm, then uses his good leg to deliver a swift kick to Nantoogen’s injured one, bringing the bounty to his knees.

You can see Din is trying to manipulate the wrist he’s grasping to either break the bone or cut off the blood flow so the blaster is dropped. However, Nantoogen keeps twisting his grip on the weapon and still squeezes off shots, some coming dangerously close to Din and forcing him to lean away from the arm he’s trying to hurt, lessening the available power in his grip.

From his higher vantage, Din distracts Nantoogen from his wild shooting with a punch to his face and then tries to pivot around fully behind him. But the bounty takes the blow to his jaw like a pro and strikes out with his left hand, going for his opponent’s injured leg, and you can almost feel the tangible impact even though Din stays silent. It drops him too, and now both men are on their knees.

Din twists Nantoogen’s arm again and heaves his body into him, his number one priority clearly still disarming him, likely thinking the bulk of the beskar will throw him over so he can pin the criminal to the ground. But the other man is incredibly well-muscled, fast, and an accomplished fighter too - scrappy in his techniques despite his massive bulk, and he uses the Mandalorian’s velocity against him and ducks low to throw him over his body.

Din lands heavily but manages to keep hold of Nantoogen’s firing arm, his hand locked tightly, but it twists the bounty around, and the change in orientation has switched their positions. Now the criminal faces you. He growls and yells, “Die, schutta,” and he squeezes the trigger on his blaster.

Although it’s not aimed directly at you, it clearly panics Din, who roars, “Move!” and rolls to his knees, driving his body forward again with a desperation that borders on rabid.

Before Din even barks his order, your instincts have kicked in, and you’ve retracted the sword and dived to the side to avoid any shot he might be able to line up. Thanks to Din’s vice-like grip, it would have gone wide even if he hadn’t tackled the bounty, but acting on instinct saved you from the gurreck’s pounce before, and this time it gives you a new idea.

When you roll sideways, your shock baton digs into your thigh. You immediately drop the sword hilt and draw the metal cylinder from your belt, flicking the switch on the end to electrify it. If you can shock the bounty unconscious, the blaster won’t be a problem anymore.

The issue now is how to do it without electrocuting Din too.

Your Mandalorian has expertly grappled the target to the floor, but a swift strike between the legs gives Nantoogen the upper hand again. How dare that fucker punch your man there! Din sinks to the ground next to him, somehow still holding his blasting arm, and for a few moments, the two men simply roll around in the dirt, trying to land blows.

Well, it started out impressive, but it has now genuinely descended into two old guys with limps. You totally called it.

But as if he realises how ridiculous the brawl now looks, Din rolls up and manages to twist the bounty’s arm behind his back. You momentarily think he might have done it, but Nantoogen takes a risk and fires the blaster from its position right in the small of his back. The bolt narrowly misses Din and gives the criminal the distraction he needs to untwist and try and land another blow to Din’s injured leg above his cuisse, though he once again evades it.

The two men are so evenly matched it’s a balanced tug of war, and something has to change for Din to come out on top. You’re fully aware of the danger as long as Nantoogen has that blaster in his hand - the one that put the hole in Din’s leg - so you keep well back as you consider what to do. You don’t want to be a distraction for your partner.

If you yell for Din to let go of him, there won’t be enough time for you to shock the bounty before he can get a shot off at one of you, so that won’t work.

Then a memory hits you, a desperate optimism surging through your mind.

In the storm, you asked Din if his armour would attract lightning, and he gave you some convoluted explanation about beskar. You don’t remember it all, but you do remember him saying it’s saved him from being electrocuted a few times - that he gets thrown by the charge’s impact but is protected from the other effects of electricity entering his body.

Did you remember that right? Can you risk it? Will he forgive you?

You’re sure that’s what he said. But what if he was lying to make you feel safer?

Plus, he made you promise to follow his orders on the battlefield… technically this contradicts his overarching order to stay back until the bounty is disarmed.

Oh, for kriff’s sake. You only have three options here…

You can follow Din’s command to stay out of sight and maybe watch the man you love die - that’s not a viable option.

You can put yourself in harm’s way by attempting to help wrestle the gun out of the bounty’s hand - but you know Din will be angry and distracted if you risk your own safety.

Or, you can put Din in harm’s way by simply shocking the bounty from behind and hoping the beskar protects in the way you want it to - and Din is more likely to agree with that, especially as it’s unlikely to be fatal. This old weapon was designed for crowd control, so when used correctly, its primary function is to stun and immobilise, not kill.

You’ll have to time this right - both your strike itself and the length of time to shock for.

The two men have managed to get back up now, and once again, Nantoogen’s mouth hurls insults alongside his punches.

“So much for Mandalorians bein’ the galaxy’s greatest fighters,” he taunts, kicking out at Din’s injured leg and landing a heavy blow, bringing him to one knee and allowing the bounty to get his massive arm across your man’s throat. “You’re no match for me, you fuckin’ mudcrutch! Can barely fight back; won’t even talk back.”

Vibrating with adrenaline from your half-hidden position by the rocks, your heart is in your mouth as you fear Nantoogen will get the best of Din before you can find an opening to safely intervene. The rage bubbles up inside you, and you let it; it’s preferable to fear. It oils your muscles as your brain and eyes examine the battlefield for an advantage. But they still face you, and the path has no cover. You can’t move without drawing the bounty’s attention.

“Think I’ll fuck your girl before I kill her. Got anythin’ to say about that? Or are you too much of a coward to even defend her?” the heavy man snarls. The threat adds a poisonous edge to the anger inside you, and you utterly reject the notion of that ever becoming a reality, certain you would claw out the bastard’s eyes if he ever tried it again.

Din still grips his opponent’s wrist, even as the bicep tightens across his neck, but he can’t push it away since Nantoogen has locked it in with his other arm. So he utilises his one advantage: on his knee like this, the bounty’s injured calf is within range. The jab is executed hard on the stab wound, drawing an agonised growl from the criminal, loosening his grip enough for Din to pivot out of the headlock and drive his shoulder into his stomach.

“I’m saying plenty,” Din growls. And then he begins to absolutely pound the shit out of the bounty’s face as he holds the other man’s shooting arm up in the air.

It surprises you how much of a beating the criminal can take, but he continues to sneer through his split lip and now extremely crooked bloody nose as he lands his own jabs on his opponent’s exposed sides. Your Mandalorian seems to be working out some issues, an action that you wholly approve of.

Even better, pivoting out of that headlock has left the two of them side-on to you, so at last, you have an opening to move out from your cover.

While they’re relatively still and simply clobbering one another, you cross behind the rocks and carefully creep out onto the path from the other side until you’re directly behind Nantoogen. Then you begin to advance closer, your electrified weapon poised, hands inexplicably steady as you clear your mind and prepare yourself to strike.

You’re unsure whether Din has noticed you, busy demolishing the bounty’s face as he is, until suddenly your Mandalorian yells, “Do it!”

You lunge forward at his words and shove the electrified end of the baton into the bounty’s lower back, and for a few seconds, the electricity visibly surges through the man, making him seize violently. Din tries to let go quickly, but before he does, to your horror, you see some of the electricity jump to him and make its way up his arm.

Alarmed, you pull back and sever the connection, and the electrostatic charge throws both men several metres, impacting the path hard.

They land motionless on the ground, and you’re frozen for a second, your hammering heart suddenly the loudest sound in the emptiness of the night.

Then you come to life with two thoughts: disarm the bounty, check on Din.

The first is easy; Nantoogen’s blaster now lies on the ground next to his unconscious form, and you scoop it up. You should check on him too, but you need to know if Din is okay first.

You skid to his side, tearing off your jacket to be ready to use it to touch him in the unlikely event the electricity hasn’t exited his body. But there’s no visible trace, and you’re reassured to note a substantial singe mark near his pauldron. An exit wound.

Then, to your joyous relief, he groans and shifts slightly.

“Thank the Force!” you yell, voicing an old-fashioned phrase your parents often used that meant nothing to you yet seems oddly appropriate here.

With no risk of residual electricity, you paw at Din, but he pushes you off him.

Oh. Is he mad?

“Cuff him,” he croaks weakly. “Binders. Back of my belt.”

Oh, right.

You hurry back to where you left Din’s belt and bandolier, heaving it out of the shadows to locate the binders quickly, then taking great pleasure in yanking Nantoogen’s thick arms behind his back and snapping on the cuffs, remembering how he had cuffed you similarly. There’s a substantial blackened burn on his wrist where the electricity exited him and jumped to Din, and you hope the binders fucking hurt because of it.

The huge man’s face is against the path, and you note that the copious blood drawn by Din has attracted the dirt. He looks awful. Quickly, you press two fingers to his neck and detect his pulse, taking a second to verify he’s also still breathing, though your checks are cursory.

Then you call to your partner, “He’s alive; I guess I didn’t fry him too badly.”

Din is still laid out flat on the path, recently electrocuted, exhausted from the fight, and undoubtedly enduring a new ache in his old wound, plus several new places. He’s rolled slightly sideways to watch you capture the bounty he’s been hunting for so many weeks, and as you look back at him, you’re rewarded with that slow nod of approval he does when he’s really impressed by you.

But your attention is split. You want to go to your man, but things aren’t finished with Nantoogen yet. You have two goals.

First, you need to stop him from running and talking if he wakes up.

You dart back to the treeline with Din’s helmet tracking you, though he doesn’t ask questions. Pulling down a length of stranglevine from a nearby tree, you carve it free with your shiv since your vamblade doesn’t vibrate, and you need the extra cutting power. The fibrous vine is what Ewoks use to make their snares, and you’re familiar with its durability.

Heading back to Nantoogen again, you bind his ankles with the vine, ensuring it’s tight and inescapable. You’re unsure how long he’ll be out, but you should do this as quickly as possible.

While you’re tying his ankles, you take a good look at the wound you inflicted in his calf. No longer covered by the filthy rag he’d tied around it at the compound, you can see that although it’s not large, it’s evidently very deep. With no bacta, on the run in rustic surroundings, and with his seemingly less-than-hygienic personal care practices, the ragged laceration looks angry and puckered, very likely infected.

Serves the fucker right. You’ve accepted that stabbing this criminal in self-defence was worlds away from your rock bottom moment in Kayuin when you almost killed an innocent man. In this case, his consequential suffering is warranted and just.

You refocus on your tasks. With his ankles now tightly bound, escape is no longer possible. Now to ensure his vitriolic voice can’t spin any more lies or find ways to make you feel violated and terrified.

Unsheathing your vibro-shiv again, you start cutting a strip from the lower hem of your shirt, from front to back on both sides, until you’ve trimmed off a wide strip all the way around the garment.

You’re now showing some skin, but… fuck it. The bounty’s been caught, and you need to make a gag. Din’s seen your bare arms plenty, so hopefully, your bare midriff won’t be too alarming. He looked when you exposed it the other day in the forest, only averting his eyes when you were about to uncover your breasts. And whilst he seemed insistent on remaining fully clothed during your first night at the village, you’re confident he can manage seeing a little more of you without too much discomfort.

Next, you sit on the ground and remove your boot, quickly followed by your sock, before replacing the outer footwear.

Stalking back over to Nantoogen, you relish the karmic retribution brought by yanking back his head by the hair and shoving your sweaty sock into his mouth, before tying the gag over it and around his head to keep it in place, not caring one bit when you catch a clump of his long greasy hair in the knot. When he captured you four days ago, he gagged you with a dirty rag; now you’re getting your own back with the aid of your sock.

Which brings you to your second goal.

You’ve held two promises from Din in your mind over the last few days. When he rescued you and told you that you could come with him into the forest to track down your attacker, he said it was because you deserved to see the scumbag lying in the dirt with your boot over his neck. Then, before the storm hit, he told you to focus on capturing the bounty so you could kick him in the head as retribution.

The mental images of these two potential actions have spurred you on since Din conjured them. And now that you’re finally standing above your bloody and bruised attacker, you place your boot over his neck. You don’t press down, that’s not what this is about, but you take a deep breath as you finally get the real visual to replace the imagined one that’s been keeping you going since this despicable creature held you hostage.

It’s not about giving back violence (though you could); it’s about a power shift.

This criminal reduced you to almost nothing, weeping in the arms of a man you barely knew then as your safe and secure world fell apart. Now, you’ve bound and gagged him, and you know that putting your weight onto your leg could potentially cause severe or even fatal damage to his spine. And yet you don’t. The idea is enough - violence is no longer necessary.

You hear your parents’ voices telling you, ‘Defend, don’t destroy’. You’ve defended yourself today, and now the violence can stop.

That’s also why you don’t kick him in the head. You don’t need to. Din pounded him in the face so many times that you think he’s delivered enough pain to equal what both of you have received from this bastard. You also feel a certain amount of proportionality since he knocked you unconscious with his boot, and now you’ve knocked him out with your baton. The scales are balanced to that extent.

Plus, you need to bring him in alive, and you don’t think you can consciously take a life in any case, even one as wretched as this.

You lift your foot away from Nantoogen’s neck and step back.

You don’t think it’s hit you yet - the fact that the hunt is over. The adrenaline is still coursing through you, and you’re more than a little muddled from all the highs and lows you’ve experienced in a short space of time.

You assumed you’d feel joy as soon as the bounty was caught, but the reality is that you barely feel anything at all. All your thoughts are coming through very logically - you can acknowledge the emotionally laden decisions you’re making, but you’re not feeling the emotions that should be associated with them. Everything is… muted. Devoid of colour like the monochromatic light from the planet in the sky above.

You know you were consciously trying to remain emotionless during the fight, but it’s over now. Is this shock? Is it normal? You could ask Din…

Din.

You look over at him, and suddenly emotions return. They flood into you, bringing colour back to your life, sensation back to your body.

Your Mandalorian still hasn’t moved from where he fell. However, he’s sitting up fully now, his injured leg outstretched with the other drawn up, resting his arm on his knee as he watches you carry out the tasks you’ve set yourself, quietly trusting that your actions are things you simply need to do.

For a moment, you’re overwhelmed as a dam within you bursts, and your emotions suddenly peak and overflow. The terror you’ve been repressing from the events of the last few hours catches up with you, the relief from finally having caught Nantoogen rises in your belly, and numerous other complex and unnameable feelings pummel into you, clamouring for focus.

You find yourself next to Din, your feet having taken you to him without your mind’s conscious input as it tries to deal with the emotional onslaught. In another second, you are on your knees before him.

For a few moments, you just look at each other, the still and silent gazes you exchange reminding you of the first time you met when he barely moved the helmet, now so much more expressive around you.

But the stillness doesn’t prevent the banks of your composure from breaking, and after a few seconds, you begin to cry. It’s not full-bodied gasping crying like after your attack; this is just your emotions seeking to escape. Apparently, your body thinks they can do so via your tear ducts, making your cheeks wet and causing you to sniffle slightly.

Your partner simply nods and reaches out for you, dropping the leg he had propped up and pulling you into him, letting you dampen his cloaked shoulder for a while as he rubs your back gently. He’s so good to you.

It’s not long before you’re able to compose yourself, and you lean back from him, dozens of things you want to say all fighting to be the first words from your lips. Really, you should apologise for electrocuting him, but what comes out is something else.

“I promise I won’t cry after every fight. I’m just not used to repressing all my emotions to keep a clear head, so they all kind of come back up at the end.”

“It happens,” Din says gently. “Even to me.”

To him? But he’s an expert hunter. Does he mean now? You didn’t feel any movement or detect any sniffs. Then again, your own crying was more eyes leaking than body shaking.

You give him a curious look, raising your eyebrow, asking for more.

And Din simply picks up your hand and tilts his helmet slightly, bringing your fingers underneath so you can feel the dampness on his cheeks. Oh.

The simple admission and gesture cause another tear to roll down your own cheek, and he removes your hand from his helmet, releasing you so he can wipe the wetness from your face with a soft gloved thumb.

“I didn’t think you would still get emotional over a hunt after so many years,” you shrug, giving him a warm smile through your own watery eyes, twisting your fingers in your lap.

“Not about the hunt,” Din husks.

Then he repeats what you just said to him but gives it an entirely different context.

“I’m not used to repressing emotions to keep a clear head either. Don’t usually have many during a fight. But now I’m….” He trails off but regroups. “It’s going to take me a while to get used to this new type of focus. When I was hitting him… it was as much about what he did to you as it was about him shooting me. More so.”

His voice is gentle and a little raspy; it sounds like he’s been shouting, but he was surprisingly quiet during the fight save for one or two growls of anger and his sporadic commands.

It occurs to you then that this is the first time he’s fought a bounty with more than just a payday as motivation, so it’s no wonder he’s feeling overwhelmed too. You worry your lower lip between your teeth, then say, “Did I distract you?” (You still haven’t apologised for electrocuting him yet, what the hell is wrong with you? It needs to be the next thing out of your mouth.)

He shakes the helmet in answer to your question, then hesitates.

You wait as he collects his thoughts, and eventually, he says carefully, “How I feel about you… your life is so much more important to me than my own. You’re not a distraction; you’re an extension.” Din takes your hand and looks you right in your tear-filled eyes. He swallows so heavily you can see the movement via his helmet, then softly says, “Ni kar’tayli gar darasuum.”

You recognise the words immediately, and the jolt of emotion that runs through you is transcendently terrifying but the most beautiful thing you’ve ever experienced. New tears form in your eyes, happy ones now - joyous, overwhelming, soulful.

He loves you.

You take a ragged breath, trying to respond, and you have to gulp down the lump in your throat before you can summon the words. They come out small but sincere, a truth you simply can’t hold back any longer. “I love you too.”

Din echoes your ragged inhalation and moves his large hand up to the back of your neck, pulling you into him, even as you’re already sinking forward. Your arms snake around one another and tighten with the intensity of the exchange. Together, you simply sit there for long moments, bathing in the glorious glow of the feelings you’ve admitted to at last.

Blissful minutes pass with no additional sound or movement. This is enough for now. There are other things to say, but you let yourself revel in this moment for as long as possible.

When his fingers eventually move on your neck, not releasing you but stroking gently and pressing unpause on the perfect moment in time, you nuzzle his cloak a little and finally mumble that apology you owe him. “I’m sorry I electrocuted you. And for disobeying your order to stay out of the way.”

You feel him laugh gently, and he responds, “I ordered you to do it. You had a good idea, you conveyed it to me with your position on the battlefield, and you followed my command to go through with it. You did everything right. I’m proud of you.”

“You said the beskar protects you from electric shocks, so I thought….”

“It does if the charge hits the beskar,” Din clarifies, “But this ran from him to me where I held his wrist.”

Oh shit, you hadn’t thought about that. It seems obvious now; you’ve worked with tech for years, and you understand how electricity works. Stupid.

You start pulling back a little, but he clamps you to him and reassures you, “It wasn’t skin-on-skin - my glove protected my hand, and the duraweave gives some protection too. My pauldron stopped it from going any further into my body, and it dissipated the second I hit the ground, so it didn’t reach my heart. I just got a burn, and I’ve had much worse, believe me. It was a good idea, mesh’la. I couldn’t beat him without my weapons - he fights like a fucking Mandalorian. You stayed safe like I asked and found a way to save me… you’re badass.”

You grin into Din’s cloak at his reference to your earlier description of yourself and return the compliment with added sass. “You’re pretty good yourself for an old guy with a limp.”

A fuller laugh comes from his chest, and he promises, “I’ll put on a better show for you next time - when my leg is healed, I’m properly armed, and I don’t have to avoid killing the guy. It was hard not to just use my helmet to smash his skull, but that could’ve killed him. I usually use my whipcord if someone I need to bring in warm resists.” He sounds a little regretful as he adds, “I wasn’t in my element today.”

Your thoughts snap to his other injuries. “Did he do any more damage to you? Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Din assures you. “A lot of bruises, and my leg aches like hell, but nothing I can’t handle. Seeing you get your revenge on him makes any discomfort worthwhile. Nice touch with the sock.”

You hum into his shoulder, content with his answer and not feeling a need to respond further. Another perfect silence envelops you both, still in each other’s arms, just drinking in the victory together.

After another minute or two, you pull back a little, and he lets you go. Still, your hands find each other, fingers entwining, the connection maintained.

“We have things to do,” you say, and he nods in agreement.

Before you stand up, you lean toward him and give him a Keldabe kiss. You wish it were a real kiss, but that will come later.

Your first action is to recover Din’s weapons for him, and he gratefully reattaches everything to himself. Now isn’t the time to ask about the laser sword; that will come later too.

Nantoogen is still unconscious on the ground, but Din uses his med tool to check the criminal’s vitals, confirming he’s otherwise okay.

Your next task is to summon your allies from farther along the path. They’re only about five minutes ahead, and the forest is quiet, so you simply yell out as loud as you can, “Tyatee noot, pata pata zeekee.”

Always ready to show off his language skills, Din correctly translates the last few words as ‘It’s safe’.

“Yup,” you confirm, “And the first bit means ‘come now’.” You’re still unbelievably impressed at how quickly he’s picked up so much vocabulary, and you enjoy reinforcing his learning.

Marfoo and his fellow warrior hurriedly arrive at your location a few minutes later. You’re overjoyed to note they’re escorting a much relieved-looking Pamiti on her bordok, and the girl effuses her gratitude to Din. Although he doesn’t understand much of what she says, he simply nods and pats her furry shoulder, a universally understood acknowledgement of her thanks and an indication that he’s glad she’s okay.

The final part of the plan is organised in swift and efficient order. Each group leader was given a vial of potent sedative from Grallik, and Marfoo hands you the one he carries. This will ensure the bounty stays unconscious until you get him to his ship. Hopefully, there’s enough to keep him that way until you can fly back to Din’s and freeze him in carbonite.

You temporarily remove the sock in his mouth to drip a few drops of the sedative onto his tongue. It’s powerful stuff, but the criminal has begun to stir at the noise around him, and you want to keep him silent so you don’t have to deal with any more of his shit.

Transport is the next task. The other Ewok warrior and Pamiti set off to the village with the welcome news that the threat has been eliminated. The exhausted little bordok is encouraged to give one last burst of energy to get them both there as fast as possible.

As you wait for your transport to arrive, Din rummages through Nantoogen’s pockets and examines your prisoner for any more nasty surprises - hidden weapons, comms, trackers, anything that might give him an edge.

He locates a hunting knife, which he gifts to Marfoo as a souvenir, and the silvered Ewok is awed by the gesture.

He also discovers a small monoblade concealed in the sole of the bounty’s shoe. It’s tiny and fragile - simply a sharp edge meant to help a person escape if they’re bound - but you’re inordinately grateful for Din’s diligence in checking for such things. The last thing you want is Nantoogen somehow cutting through the vines that bind him. When you see how it pokes out the front of his boot by a barely discernible millimetre, you realise it’s the reason his kick to your temple drew blood. Your companion places it atop a rock and smashes his vambrace down onto it, and the delicate blade shatters into harmless dust.

Though he can’t find any visible trackers, it’s impossible to know if the criminal has a subcutaneous tracer anywhere in his body without a scanner. You just have to hope for the best.

Din lets you smash Nantoogen’s communicator yourself, and you take great pleasure in pulverising it with your baton alongside the one from the Weequay.

Lastly, Din stashes the blaster you confiscated inside its holster once removed from the bounty, then adds every credit he finds to his larcenous fuel fund. “I wouldn’t normally take credits from someone still alive,” he explains. “But in this case, it feels owed.”

You more than agree with that sentiment.

In record time, Kirrat arrives (alone for once since Baplim is now fast asleep in bed) with the same bordok-drawn wagon he rescued you in two days before, and the two Ewoks help you both to heave Nantoogen’s bulk into the back of it. Kirrat also provides you with a canvas sack which Din pulls over the bounty’s head after checking that he’s still unconscious but breathing. You’re inordinately pleased you won’t have to look at him now.

As planned, the rest of your belongings are already in the back of the wagon - your lyaer’tsa, your backpack, and both shoulder bags, together with the later addition of Din’s jetpack - and the thoughtful Ewoks have even provided a basket of food for you to replenish yourselves with. You realise it was prepared by Ykeeni when alongside sandwiches, loaf-cake stuff, a jar of broth, and various fruits and berries, you find more acorn cookies and grava brew, which makes you smile.

There’s also another jar of painkiller potion for Din if he needs it, though he declines to have it immediately. You doubt he’ll totally relax again until Nantoogen is carbon-frozen, and you understand that - you share the feeling somewhat.

Thankfully you convince him to drink some water, at least, since he’s recently been electrocuted and definitely needs hydration. He waves off your attempts to look at and treat any electrical burns, insisting he’s okay. You don’t think he’s being a reckless idiot about it; you trust he’d tell you if he genuinely needed medical care.

The journey by bordok wagon up to the Death Star wreckage will take just under half a day from your current location. Still, Kirrat assures you he has plenty of energy to drive through the rest of the night, ever-willing to help you complete your mission.

When you say goodbye to Marfoo, Din asks you how to compliment his abilities as a warrior, wanting to express his thanks on a professional level.

You whisper the words to him, and Din announces, “Weechu bont shetai, Marfoo,” which makes the little grey Ewok puff up in delighted pride and chitter out a stream of his own praise in return. Though he didn’t witness the takedown, Pamiti has told him how Din repeatedly distracted Nantoogen from laying a hand on her. Protecting the chief’s daughter is the noblest thing Din could have done in the village’s eyes, and you suspect they might plant a few trees in his honour over the next few seasons.

Soon enough, you’re ready to depart, and you and Din settle in the back of the wagon. The bounty’s restrained hands and feet are now reinforced with more stranglevines and tied to the far corners of the vehicle. This puts him as far away from you as possible, bound at a highly uncomfortable angle and teetering on the edge of the open-backed flatbed. He kriffing well deserves it.

Sinking into your usual position together as the wagon departs, Din gathers you against him, his large gloved hand smoothing against the bare skin of your midriff where you sliced off part of your shirt earlier - a low-key element of arousal evident in the way he indulges himself.

However, the restraint he’s developed over the past few days keeps him from losing his composure. Despite the bounty’s capture, he’s not yet adequately detained, so you must both maintain your focus for a little longer.

As your Mandalorian strokes you gently and reverently, he comments, “You were right.”

“About what?”

“We’ve been counting in Endorian days - this is the seventh day we’ve known each other, or eighth really, since it’s past midnight already. But if you count in cycles, we met when the sun went down on the first day, so when we had dinner on our second night, we’d known each other eighteen hours at that point - one Endorian cycle. Counting forward, it’s now nearly six and a half cycles. That’s about the same as five Standard days - one week. So you were right: we spent a week together in a forest and fell madly in love.”

As you follow his calculations, you realise that he’s absolutely correct. You’ve now known him for a Galactic Standard week, so your prediction for the outcome of the ‘intensive forest relationship retreat’ you joked about has come true.

“I don’t care if we’re mad,” you respond, “I’m happy.”

Din’s fingers rise up to brush through your hair, and you feel the deep and resonant hum in his chest as he warmly affirms, “So am I.”

Chapter Text

The journey along the dark mountain trail toward the wreckage is quiet. Although you’re both exhausted, neither you nor Din sleeps; the adrenaline from the fight hasn’t entirely dissipated as the bounty still isn’t detained properly. The hunt is over, but the recovery is in full swing, so your minds aren’t yet able to switch off.

That doesn’t stop you from resting wearily in each other’s arms, taking pleasure in the feeling of your synchronous breathing and the warm aura of the acknowledged love that bathes you. Silence between you has never been awkward, but this newfound quietude is somehow just as gratifying as all the delicious information-gathering you’ve been doing over the past few days.

You know each other.

You still have questions, and you’re sure there’s still lots Din would like to discover about you, but with Nantoogen in earshot (even unconscious), neither of you feels it appropriate to do anything except rest your bodies on the journey.

Hours go by. A rest stop for the bordok, a top-up of the sedative for the bounty in case he stirs, a change of bandages for Din, a quick bush-bathroom break for everyone. Yet still, you and your Mandalorian communicate solely through lovingly appreciative touches and Keldabe kisses.

It’s almost become a game by the time the suns begin to rise halfway through the journey. Who will speak first?

The view is spectacular. You’re on the far side of the mountains, having made it through the shallow peaks without incident, now descending back toward the thinning remains of the forest, which will soon give way to the swaying grasses of the Oniantae hills. However, you’re still above the treeline when the fiery glow breaches the horizon. The sky lights up with magnificent swathes of colours you couldn’t even begin to describe, even if you knew all the languages Din does.

The sunrise you watched together yesterday was beautiful, sure. But somehow, the newly affirmed status of your relationship, coupled with the sprawling view of the moon on which you fell in love, utterly takes your breath away as the new day dawns.

“Whoa,” you whisper in awe, losing the game of silence but not caring one iota.

“Yeah,” Din agrees, choosing not to celebrate his victory and instead sharing in the epic vista before you both.

He flexes his gloved fingers against your exposed waist, his new favourite location since you sliced up your shirt to make a gag for Nantoogen, still carefully controlling his desire but always returning under your jacket to indulge in the promise of what’s to come when the time is right.

Your waterproof blanket covers you both on the back of the wagon, and it’s crossed your mind a few times that more could be indulged in beneath its privacy. But as much as you’re looking forward to the carnal delights that await you, you’re both now skilled at holding back for the pinnacle moment to occur when the mission is fully completed.

The rising suns infuse Din’s armour with burnished colours, and you think him as beautiful as the view itself, your attention split between the panoramic scene in front of you and the incredible man beside you. When he notices your gaze, he holds it in return. Eventually, you’re just watching each other instead of the landscape, lost in each other’s depths.

You examine the details of him like it’s the first time you’re seeing them. The fullness of his broad chest expanding beneath the beskar with each breath. The different angles he tilts his helmet when his thoughts tend toward the romantic versus the carnal. The natural bent angle of one knee because he can never seem to keep both legs straight, sitting or standing. Each of these things, plus so many more, adds layers of beautiful nuance to your love for him, the label still so new yet somehow inevitable and infinite.

When it’s bright enough to extinguish the lanterns, Kirrat stops the wagon for breakfast and untethers the bordok so it can rest. He seems content not to bother you and Din for conversation, and he snuggles up to his faithful animal so they can relax together for a while.

It’ll be another four hours or so before you reach the wreckage, and Grallik advised re-dosing the bounty every couple of hours to ensure he stays unconscious. Din once again offers to perform the unenviable task of removing the bag and the gag to do so, and you’re alarmed to see him wince as he clambers over to the far end of the wagon.

So, once he’s dosed up Nantoogen again and re-secured him, you hold out the jar of medicine. Combining the gesture with a stern eyebrow raise finally gets your Mandalorian to have a few sips, though he’s reluctant. When you changed the bandages earlier, you were pleased to see that the wound is still healing nicely, but he’s obviously still experiencing some muscle pain following the fight. You insist on at least half, and you get your way.

Sitting back-to-back in the wagon and munching on delicious tip-yip and salad sandwiches, a question pops into your mind, which you feel compelled to ask so you can return to the blissful feeling of an unburdened brain.

“What’s your ship like?”

Din unhurriedly finishes his mouthful of sandwich before answering through the modulator. “Same as my previous one - an ST-70 Razor Crest. I asked a mechanic friend on Tatooine to find me a replacement after the old one was destroyed. You know it?”

A little smile works its way onto your lips as you realise it’s the first time he’s ever mentioned having an actual friend. Still, you don’t press him on it. Instead, you focus on the conversation at hand.

Your knowledge of ships is decent but patchy in places. It mostly comes from your years working in the tech reclamation factory in Kayuin, since the mechanical apprenticeships you did in Iziz didn’t show you much beyond local crafts. But you’ve seen a fair few wrecked military patrol assault ships, and this one’s class is familiar, even if you haven’t worked on the exact model.

“Gunship, right? Must be hard to find these days; they’re pretty old.”

Din acknowledges with a grunt, and you make a note to be nice about his ship. It is his home, after all.

“Old, but reliable. And pre-Empire, so off the grid. Plus, this one’s been fixed up. After the kid went off to be trained, I took as many high-paying bounties as I could to make enough credits for a replacement ship. But the only Razor Crest Peli could find was almost a wreck. That meant it was dirt cheap, so I could afford to give it an overhaul. I spent a lot of time and money on it; I think it’s turned out real nice.” He pauses, then ventures, “I hope you’ll like it…”

Oh yeah, there’s that still unconfirmed question of whether you will leave Endor with him. Is now an appropriate time to discuss it? The bounty is nearby, but this isn’t exactly a personal conversation, plus the guy’s just been further sedated, so he should be out cold.

“I’m sure I’ll love it,” you say encouragingly over your shoulder. “When I came to Endor, I basically hitchhiked here. I only had enough credits to get to Corellia, but I figured the shipyards were a good place to find transport. Managed to find a cargo freighter on a slow run to Terminus and convinced them to hire me as a temporary hypernautics engineer as far as Kinyen—”

“You know hyperdrives?” Din interrupts, though you forgive him for cutting you off because he sounds so excited.

Laughing, you explain, “Not well enough to be a hypernautics engineer, that’s for sure! I can take them apart and put them back together, tweak the efficiency and so on. But don’t ask me to calculate a jump or explain the astrophysics behind what makes it all possible because I don’t understand the science. But their drive was in good shape, they were only doing short hops along the Corellian Trade Spine, and their navigator handled the route. Half of that job is just making it sound like you know what the kriff you’re doing when you actually don’t, so I took a chance and it paid off.”

Din matches your laughter, seeming pleased with both your tech knowledge and temerity.

“The good thing was that it came with a shitload of credits, so from Kinyen, I managed to hire private transports to get to Takodana and then Cerea. The last stretch to Endor was on a trade vessel that used to bring supplies for the New Republic when they first occupied the old Imperial base. They were the ones who connected me with the salvaging group I worked with when I first arrived. Plenty of people had the same idea as I did and offered freelance salvaging services to the New Republic, but it was easier to get the salvage rights if you applied as a group through the compound. I’m lucky I met them - I didn’t just want to be a dirty scavenger without a contract.”

“You were freelance?” he asks.

“Yeah, weren’t a lot of people back then?” When you feel him shrug behind you, you laugh gently and explain how things were outside of the Bounty Guild at that time. “It wasn’t like the New Republic immediately set up a payroll and started offering out jobs. Sure, they’d destroyed the Death Star, but the Alliance was still fighting other battles, and the senators were concentrating on getting the Imps to formally surrender. It was a free-for-all, so everyone scrambled to get whatever work they could. When I heard the New Republic had put out a call for contractors to help with the wreckage, salvaging it made sense to me since I’d done tech reclamation for so many years. It’s the same thing, just in a beautiful forest instead of an old factory.” Then you add, “Did you really not know any of this?”

He gives another shrug. “I’m aware of the timeline of the main events - who isn’t? But when your job is to track down criminals, you just need to know who controls the territory you’re hunting on, not the wider politics of the galaxy.”

Grinning, you reach back toward him sitting behind you, and he feels you pawing at him and catches your hand in his. You squeeze and say affectionately, “You’re a fantastic mix of super-smart and kind of ignorant, aren’t you?”

Through a dry chuckle, Din counters, “I could say the same about you. Never heard of a Mandalorian, has trouble naming sectors in the galaxy….”

“Fine, fine,” you concede, “We both have our strengths and weaknesses. I think we complement each other nicely, though.”

He hums in agreement and turns back to you, having finished eating now, and you once again make yourself comfortable in his arms against the wagon’s edge.

After a moment, he prompts, “You were telling me about your off-world experience.”

Were you? The conversation veered off somewhat tangentially, and you forgot the original aim was to address whether you’ll be leaving Endor with him.

“Aside from my journey here, I never left Onderon, so that’s about the extent, to be honest. But I liked it, you know. Hyperspace is peaceful, and seeing the galaxy was something I never realised would be so fun.” You decide to press your point. “At the time, I just wanted to reach Endor, but looking back now, I can see how travelling is an amazing experience in itself.”

“It can be lonely…” Din comments, and from his wistful yet slightly hopeful tone, you know he’s wondering the same thing as you.

“A travelling companion fixes that,” you prompt, still waiting for him to ask. It’s his ship, after all; you don’t want to force your way on. Even if he’s admitted he wants you with him, he still hasn’t formally offered. You reinforce your position by telling him, “And I’ve been lonely here on Endor surrounded by hundreds of people. Until I met you, at least.”

“You have friends here…” he hedges, playing devil’s advocate.

“Friends in the sense of people I chat to, yes. Ari and Suriee make for good conversations, plus a couple of other Ewoks in the village near the compound. But there’s nobody I meet up with socially. When I first came here, I hung out with a few other salvagers - I actually dated one of them for a while.” He bristles at this (oops), so you hurriedly continue, “But they were all boring and immature, and they either left once the salvaging was complete or weren’t interesting enough to keep hanging out with. Plus, drinking in the cantina every night was what I was trying to get away from when I came here. So I ended up just spending my evenings reading or watching holoshows, or helping the Ewoks with village tasks while Tenal taught me Ewokese. Sometimes repairing tech for pet projects or picking up extra shifts just to stay busy. It’s not what I’d call fulfilling.”

“You work with your ex?” Kriff, you knew he’d get stuck on that. His tone is wary, but it lacks the hardline jealousy you’ve heard from him before. He’s trying his best to be accepting, but he clearly can’t ignore his innate possessive streak. However, you do appreciate his effort to control it.

“No. After the salvage jobs dried up, he moved into ATC and monitoring. He works on the landing platform, so I rarely see him.” Din doesn’t say anything, so you assure him, “He and I had very little in common. Like I said before, it was a ‘making do’ kind of thing; I think for him too. We drifted apart quickly and just stopped seeing each other. He’s a bit of a ladies’ man, so he moved on easily. We say hi if we see each other - there’s no animosity. But there’s also no lingering feelings, so please quit the jealousy.”

Din humphs a little but lets the subject drop. After a moment, he rummages in his belt and produces the holopuck with Nantoogen’s warrant information, activating it before you and gesturing to the reward amount. “You helped me bring him down. Half of these credits belong to you.”

The blue-grey holo flickers, and you take in the princely sum of a million credits with awe, wondering where Din is going with this. It’s an obscene amount, more than you’ve ever seen.

Your job includes accommodation and pays you enough to afford food from the compound, new clothing when you need it, and a little extra that you’ve saved up with no particular goal instead of spending it at the cantina like most of your colleagues do. Your savings now amount to a little over fifteen hundred credits - almost a fortune in your eyes.

What in the galaxy’s name would you do with five hundred thousand credits?

Din says carefully, “You could take your share and do whatever you wanted. Buy a place to settle down in or travel for a while first. Plenty of possibilities.”

Understanding flickers through your brain. He’s wondering whether you’d still want to come with him if you had other options. Which, with this money, you do. When you first met, Din told you he couldn’t pay you for your help, but now that he’s generously amended that position, he’s worried it could change things for you.

“What I want is to be with you, whether I’ve got credits in my pocket or not. And anyway, I can’t justify taking a fifty percent cut for just helping you out at the end of a seriously long hunt,” you tell him honestly. “I know you’ve still got more things you want to tell me about. You mentioned responsibilities you need to deal with, so I can understand you wanting to wait until you’ve explained those to me before we agree on what’s happening next. But, honestly, even a massive payday wouldn’t make me as happy as continuing what we’ve started here.”

He squeezes your bare side again and says, “Good. I want this to continue too. We can talk more about plans later, though.” His helmet turns toward Nantoogen’s limp body, still bound up at an uncomfortable angle at the end of the wagon.

You think it’s probably crossed both your minds that if you let out the length of the vines attaching him to the corners, with just one shove, you could simply drag the despicable man behind the vehicle instead of ferrying him atop it. But detainment is nobler than deliberate torture, and you wouldn’t stoop so low in reality (even if it is a tempting thought).

Kirrat returns shortly thereafter, and your journey continues, you and Din once again slipping into silent contemplation as the remaining hours tick past.

After another mid-morning rest stop, the plucky bordok finally crests a grassy hill, and the wreckage of the Death Star looms into view just before midday. The skeleton of the Empire’s most deadly weapon always gives you a sick feeling low in your gut, and today is certainly no different.

It’s a sizeable piece of the station, blown off in a chunk far away from the explosion that ripped through the middle. As far as you know, it constitutes one of the largest sections that rained down on Endor after the Rebels’ victory, causing quakes and chaos aplenty. The pieces that weren’t vaporised were flung far and wide, some being pulled in by the orbit of the ocean moon of Kef Bir, and still others being tossed through hyperspace from the freak effects of the station’s hyperdrive exploding. Nobody knows where those parts ended up.

This section still looks surprisingly intact since the New Republic stopped short of salvaging the quadanium steel hull plating itself. Inside, however, you know it’s been stripped of every piece of tech that could be recovered - you spent several months doing it yourself.

As you recall, the multi-level section comprising several square kilometres has buried itself into the ground at a roughly horizontal angle, so it’s not too difficult to navigate inside, just a gentle tilt to the decks. This presumably accounts for how Nantoogen managed to land his ship inside one of the large hangar bays.

As you approach the towering ruins, mindful of the vast impact crater’s edge, you meet up with the three scouts who stayed with the bounty’s ship to try and break in, and they happily inform you that they’ve successfully breached the hull and managed to wiggle inside.

Din is impressed. “How did they get through the hull without plasma cutters?”

You relay the question and then translate the answer. “They climbed up and used acid to eat through the transparisteel viewport of the cockpit. It’s gonna be windy,” you laugh, and your Mandalorian agrees with an amused snort of his own.

“We’ll still need to get the doors open. Can’t shove a guy this big through an Ewok-sized hole in the viewport. You alright handling that while I carry him up?” Din asks, gathering your belongings from the wagon and placing them on the ground.

His confidence in both your tech smarts and his own physical strength amuses you. “I can handle getting us access, but I’m pretty sure he weighs more than you with your beskar on. The Ewoks have offered to help you get him on a stretcher while I go up, then four of you can carry him easily with a spare pair of hands to bring our supplies.”

Din looks at the wagon and, for the first time, seems to notice the array of stretchers lying along its length. By the time he awoke on your first trip, he was already unbound from the one you used to get him on there, so it’s no surprise he’s had little reason to consider them.

“Great,” he says smoothly, squeezing your arm. “He’ll have his security protocols engaged, so you’ll need to get around those. Do you know how to slice with a scramble key?”

“Yeah, I did a lot of that during reclamation. Sometimes the wrecks still had active protocols we’d have to bypass. Do you have a key?” You know he does; you saw him use it on the door to the room Nantoogen held you hostage in.

He extracts it and adjusts numerous settings before he passes it to you. You know he’s disabling the tool’s security features so someone other than him can operate it. “I use it with my HUD, so you’ll need to find a datapad or display to plug into when you’re inside. You should be okay disabling the protocols from the cockpit, but watch out for traps anyway. The last thing we want is for the fuel tank to purge if you’re not careful enough with the slice.”

You give your partner a little salute that makes him chuckle, then a Keldabe kiss that makes him sigh, and you begin the shallow scramble into the impact crater and toward the towering black quadanium carcass ahead.

Once inside, you locate the hangar bay without any hiccups, thanks to both the Ewoks’ directions and your prior experience in the ruins. It takes you around fifteen minutes to reach it since there’s no power, and the turbolifts aren’t an option without the repulsorlift tech that’s been extracted. Thankfully, though, the damage to the space station is so extensive that most of your route is lit by the suns shining in through great tears in the hull.

You don’t envy Din and the Ewoks having to climb up with Nantoogen on a stretcher - on three occasions, you have to ascend service ladders to reach the correct level, and those were cramped, dark and awkwardly angled. Despite their diminutive size, though, Ewoks possess strength you wouldn’t expect of such small creatures, and you know the three scouts will be a great help to Din carrying the bounty.

When you come across the ship, you’re delighted to see it’s a model you know well - an RZ-1T A-wing starfighter, used by the Partisans for many a mission while you were growing up since its laser cannons and fast engines made it a valuable class of ship for the Rebellion. It’s slightly larger than its single-pilot predecessor, though even with the second seat, you’re not sure how you’ll all fit inside. This one looks reasonably solid if you don’t count the hole in the transparisteel cockpit viewport, though it’s clearly seen better days. You hope you’ll be able to squeeze yourself through the improvised entrance.

Din’s instruction to get the ‘doors’ open was a little off the mark - this vessel doesn’t have doors. You’ll need to focus on getting the cockpit canopy to lift and slide forward. He said he knew what sort of ship Nantoogen had, so you wonder whether the bounty ditched it and switched to this one or if he simply bought more than one in Ponemah to throw off anyone tracking him. Sneaky as ever.

The Ewoks have already placed a set of steps by the wing of the vessel, and you hop up on top to examine the hole in the transparisteel canopy. It’s directly above the rear seat - the flattest part of the viewport and the only position they could spread the acid without it simply running off the curves before it could eat away the material. It looks safe enough, if a little narrow for you. Nevertheless, you swing your legs through and think slim thoughts, and with a bit of effort, you eventually manage to wiggle your whole body through the hole without incident.

The ship stinks like a Rodian straight out of a swamp. The organic acid that the Ewoks used hasn’t helped matters, but the unmistakable stench of Nantoogen permeates the space. It’s layers of sweat and vitriol, with a foul undercurrent of urine which you immediately trace to a bottle he’s clearly been relieving himself into during his travels.

Gagging, you gingerly pick it up and move it the small distance to the rear of the cockpit, keen to get rid of it as soon as possible but unable to wiggle out of the hole again while holding it. And if you were to simply toss it out of the hole, it would go everywhere. Your jacket sleeve is your best option for now, and you breathe into the material.

Some rummaging beneath the console turns up a datapad, a blessed relief since it’s far more straightforward than having to blind slice a display screen on the dash. You quickly sync the scramble key with it and then plug into the cockpit’s main scomp jack.

Settling into the pilot’s seat, you code up a few stealthy entry algorithms, then begin work on the security protocols once the datapad’s display confirms a successful connection to the ship’s systems. Slicing security protocols is often tricky as numerous redundancies can prevent a brute-force approach with a scramble key, so you monitor and adjust the subtle entry taps that the tool cycles through whenever it alerts you of a potential hazard.

Just as your lungs are starting to feel like they’re going to burst from inhaling as little of the acrid atmosphere as possible, you’re finally able to navigate past the multiple layers of security and the ship’s hardware springs to life, the console lighting up and various systems coming online.

With a whoop, you disconnect the scomp link and key in the command to release the cockpit canopy, beaming happily as the seals disengage and it lifts up and slides forward above you. You gratefully gulp down the significantly fresher air that rushes into the small space.

Your first act is to rid the cockpit of Nantoogen’s pee bottle, leaving it on the other side of the hangar as far away as possible before returning to the A-wing.

Now you just have to wait for the others. Should you go back down and help them?

Having completed your assigned task, it suddenly feels eerily quiet and creepy, loitering here alone in the shell of the Empire’s instrument of death, like you’ve been swallowed whole by the beast that killed your parents. You feel a desperate need to claw your way out of its belly and back into daylight. Though you’ve salvaged here aplenty, you were always paired in teams for the sizeable structures like this in case anyone got into trouble, so you suddenly feel very alone and very intimidated.

The shadowy high ceilings of the hangar bay loom dark above you, and the numerous debris scattered about from either the crash or the subsequent salvaging seems to take on ominous shapes in the dim space, too far from the feeble light of the suns which makes it through the open bay doors on the side. It’s now after midday, and both suns have moved beyond the bay’s entrance, so it’s light but not bright.

Seeking the comfort of sunshine, you shuffle your way quickly toward the bay doors, feeling a little less jumpy once you sit on the edge and your view is full of Endor instead of Death Star.

Even the name of this place… what kind of evil fucked up people fully endorse the fact they’ve built a weapon to annihilate? Such weapons are usually deemed ‘instruments of peace’, and everyone is told it’s for the greater good when they’re put to devastating effect. But no. In this case, the Emperor, in all his insanity, decided to be especially on the nose about it and call it the fucking Death Star.

These are well-rehearsed thoughts, old ones that swirled in a grieving and drunken mind on many a night just before you took out your bitterness and rage on whoever was willing to go toe-to-toe with you. It was controllable when in a team, but now you’re alone, the negative feelings reassert themselves. You can feel the old anger rising in you again, coursing to the surface like a chained creature released, and it’s not the mood you want to be in.

Think of Din instead.

You focus your thoughts on your Mandalorian, but it’s still hard to let go of the anger, given your environment. Din has brought death to many people too, and in the past, he’s been unscrupulous with the lives he’s taken. It still doesn’t sit quite right with you, but you try to view it in much the same way as you look upon your own past - it’s regrettable, but it doesn’t reflect the person you are today. It informs it but doesn’t control it. So you can accept that he has killed indiscriminately because he’s since absolved himself of his sins and looks to better himself. You’re alike in that respect. His past misdeeds don’t diminish your love for him and vice versa.

So deep in your thoughts are you that Din and the Ewoks are already halfway across the hangar bay before you hear them. You startle in alarm, jumping up from your perch and thanking the stars you didn’t accidentally go over the edge. For the first time today, you’re glad of the minor incline of the floor.

Once you’ve collected yourself, the somewhat amusing sight before you dissipates your negative mood.

Din is carrying the back of the stretcher next to Nantoogen’s head as low as possible while the three Ewok scouts walk beneath it in a row with their arms above their heads, holding up the rest of the length. It’s like he’s pushing a living furry wheelbarrow - though it’s a far cry from the ones you carted farming equipment around in when you lived at the Partisans’ camp. Kirrat trails behind the procession carrying your backpack and lyaer’tsa, almost overbalanced with the weight and length of the weapon. You note Din has both shoulder bags slung across him, now bulging with the remaining food and supplies from the basket.

You meet your comrades next to the A-wing, and Din is distracted by the sight of it. “This isn’t the one he picked up in Ponemah Terminal,” he states drily, carefully lowering the stretcher to the floor in time with the Ewoks.

“It’s definitely his,” you assure him. “It smells just as disgusting inside as he does.”

Din grunts and hops up onto the wing. “He can’t have stopped elsewhere, must’ve made a change at the last minute. Any trouble getting in?”

“Nope,” you say proudly, following him up and returning his scramble key, which he stashes back in his belt. “I got rid of his pee bottle; the cockpit’s airing out now. Hopefully, the flight to your ship won’t be too bad, but my throat’s dry from breathing through my mouth while I was slicing.”

Din rummages in his shoulder bag and extracts a flask of water, and you gratefully swig from it as he crouches down to peer inside the cockpit. “It’ll be real tight with three. We can tie him to the rear seat, but I don’t know how you want to fit yourself in… I’d let you sit in my lap, but that might get a little distracting while I’m piloting. It should be about twenty-five minutes to the Crest.”

“Honestly, I just want to get out of this place, so if I have to cram myself between the two seats, I will. I can keep my back to yours and brace myself with a foot between his legs. That way, if there’s any turbulence, I’ll just crush his balls.” Din winces but nods approvingly, and you continue, “I think we should get going quickly. We probably need to dose him again before we go - I think the sedative’s due to wear off in about half an hour.”

Together, you jump back down from the ship and approach Nantoogen and the Ewoks, the latter now standing awkwardly, unsure of their next task. You instruct them to start unlashing the bounty from the stretcher, and they get to work quickly. The criminal’s hands are now cuffed in front of him instead of behind his back, but his ankles remain tied with the stranglevine. He is otherwise prone on the stretcher with the gag still in place and the bag over his head.

The little furry scouts make quick work of their task, and when Nantoogen is free from the stretcher, Din grabs him under his arms. Kirrat joins the effort, and the four Ewoks position themselves at each limb to help lift the heavy man into the ship while you take the items Kirrat carried and tuck them into the small space of the cockpit.

You stand back up on the wing as the bounty is lifted onto it and brought toward the open cockpit canopy. But suddenly, Nantoogen’s body jerks and begins to thrash, causing all but Din to lose their grip.

“Shit!” you curse as the restrained body crashes onto the hull plating, darting forward to help in whatever way you can. But Din’s grip is firm, and he presses down hard on his shoulders as the Ewoks launch themselves at the bounty’s arms and legs to try and keep him still.

“Sedative, now!” Din growls to you, and you redirect your attention to the shoulder bags he has slung across him, knowing that yours contains the precious vial. He manages to keep still enough for you to extract it, and you kneel down to perform the unenviable task of removing the bag from the bounty’s head to administer the sedative. You’re unsure how this will go since he’s thrashing so much. How do you keep him still enough to safely dose him up?

With a deep breath, you whip the bag off Nantoogen’s head and dread wells up in your stomach as you see his bloodshot eyes focus on you and flash with a hatred that describes murderous intent, his twisting jerks only increasing in strength. You hover next to him, not knowing how to proceed, until Din pins the bounty’s shoulders beneath his knees, freeing up his hands to help you. He lands a heavy punch square across the man’s face, and you hear a sickening crack as his cheekbone is fractured to match the broken nose Din inflicted earlier. How is he not in agony?

Despite not showing signs of pain, the punch at least serves to daze him and reduce his movements somewhat, though you’re not sure how long you have. Din continues to assist by quickly loosening the gag and holding open the bounty’s jaw as you prepare to drip some of the powerful sedative into his mouth.

But as you upend the small vial and start dosing him with the liquid, Nantoogen surges up toward you, his cuffed hands knocking the vial from your grip, which smashes against the A-wing’s hull. He continues upward, pulling his shoulders free from beneath Din’s knees and rearing up at you while the Ewoks scramble to hang onto his limbs.

Din roars and grabs his shoulders again, pushing him back down with all his weight but now unable to fight with his hands full. You react quickly as well, leaping up and drawing your baton from your belt, your latent anger from only a few minutes before resurfacing and causing you to scream at a volume which eclipses Din’s yell by a large margin. “Don’t you fucking dare, you asshole!”

Your first instinct is to strike him with your baton. However, you know you don’t have sufficient strength to do much damage to him just by thumping him with it, nor is it an appropriate method to knock him out. You certainly can’t use the electric charge again with everyone holding on.

But adrenaline focuses your mind into a superior tactical state.

You drop to one knee on the writhing man’s chest, pressing your baton across his meaty neck just below his jaw, lower on your dominant side to force his head to turn. Then you put all your weight on it with an upward slant so the baton presses against his carotid artery. Your parents taught you that it can make someone pass out, which is the goal here. But shit… it won’t be enough. You need to press the opposite side of his neck too. Fortunately, Din has followed your thought process. He shifts and gets his boot beneath the bounty’s neck, and you press down again, the pressure now restricting his blood flow on both sides of his turned head - baton above, boot below.

The small amount of the strong sedative that you managed to drip into his mouth before he smashed the vial seems to be slowly taking effect too, and it’s only a few seconds before Nantoogen’s jerking movements start to even out. As he begins to lose consciousness, the criminal’s cold eyes flick to the side to focus on you again, his mouth contorting into a malicious gap-toothed grin. You’re not restricting his airway, and just before he passes out, he slurs three rasping words which make your blood freeze in your veins. “You’ll… be… sssorry.”

And then he’s out cold.

Everyone and everything pauses momentarily; the Ewoks clamped like vices on his limbs, Din pressing his entire weight down onto his shoulders, you with your baton still across his neck. But your brain in ‘fight mode’ causes you to pull back a second later, knowing too long without blood flow to the brain could cause serious harm. Your parents’ violent legacy sadly focused your knowledge of the human body on ways to damage it.

You climb to your feet, breathing heavily, and Din looks up at you, still not releasing Nantoogen. You meet the gaze of the smoky black visor for a few seconds before turning and making your way off the wing without comment, jumping down and marching off into the depths of the hangar. You just need a moment away from the criminal to gather yourself.

Your heart pounds in your chest, the adrenaline still swirls through your brain, and the hatred and anger that have accumulated within threaten to overwhelm you.

You despise that bastard.

But more than that, you fucking detest this feeling. It represents everything you tried to leave behind.

Fighting is all well and good. Putting your combat skills into practice feels fulfilling when you have a cause that defines the greater good - when the violence you’re inflicting is to achieve a noble goal. Din has taught you that, and you’re astronomically grateful for the balance he’s helped you to recognise and embrace.

But here, now, in the belly of this Imperial beast, with the negativity of bitterness and revenge fuelling the urge to act, you feel disgusted with yourself.

The fear and rage coalesce inside, and you’re unable to control your body as it picks up your speed and heads toward a precarious stack of small crates on the far side of the hangar bay. Your logical mind watches in horror as you launch yourself at them with all your pent-up aggression, and a scream rips from your lungs as you swing your baton and send the stack crashing to the ground with thunderous impact, jagged scraps of metal and unrepairable tech tumbling far and wide across the hangar floor.

Through the throbbing of blood in your ears, you hear Din call out to you by name, his worried tone echoing across the cavernous space. You turn to him to see he has let go of Nantoogen, whose bulk is already wedged halfway into the cockpit, the Ewoks scrambling to hold on, and he is standing on the wing of the ship looking like he’ll abandon his task entirely and come running to you if you said the word.

The sight helps. The hunter’s care and concern emanate in his stance, and you’re soothed by his willingness to literally drop everything if you need him.

You take a deep breath and drink in his support, then call back a solemn response. “I just need a minute. Get him inside.”

You rarely give Din directions. He’s usually the one in charge unless he’s specifically asked you for your input or you’re in a situation where you clearly have the greater knowledge. Generally, that’s fine with you since you both naturally play to your own strengths and expertise. Bringing in a bounty is his trade. But right now, what you need is for Nantoogen - the man who assaulted you, threatened to kill you, tried to rape you, shot your Mandalorian, spied on your relationship, held a young Ewok hostage, brawled with Din, and has committed hundreds of other crimes you weren’t witness to - you need that man to be adequately bound again before you return.

Din acknowledges the order and returns to his task, and you move toward the hangar bay doors, seeking the sunlight again to try and restore your strength and resilience. You sit in the position you adopted earlier and once more fill your view with the beauty of the landscape outside.

And slowly, you come back to yourself.

By the time Din comes and sits beside you on the edge of the hangar bay, dangling his legs down next to yours, your anger has been corralled back into the place where it exists only as a memory, your muscles relaxed again, and your head much clearer.

He picks up your hand and gently presses his thumb into your palm - the calming gesture your mother taught you and you showed him - and you manage to give him a small smile at his thoughtfulness.

He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Instead, he tells you, “I’ve been there too. You’ll be alright.” Though Din hasn’t witnessed this rage in you before, he understands it because he’s felt it himself - has conquered it - and the depth of his empathy infuses you with exactly the comfort you need.

You sink sideways toward him, and he readjusts his arm behind your back, fitting his gloved thumb and fingers at the base of your neck and rubbing with gentle kneading pressure. It’s a perfect moment that successfully blurs out the imperfect ones that came before and sets you back on the right track forward.

“I need to get out of this place,” you state pleadingly, and he nods, scrambling up (carefully, as he still has a slight limp) and helping you to your feet, and you return to the ship together.

You’re pleased to see that Nantoogen has been heavily bound to the rear seat with the bag back over his head and presumably the gag once again in his mouth.

Kirrat approaches and asks if you’re okay, and you assure him you are, thanking him for all his help and giving him a long hug. The old cream-furred Ewok simply squeezes you back and tells you to visit, and you assure him you will. He makes you laugh when he advises you to engage in some mischief soon, stating that too much seriousness harms the soul. You take his wise words to heart, a warmth glowing in your belly as you think about a particular type of mischief you’ll be enjoying with your Mandalorian soon enough.

When you straighten up, Din is patting the scouts on their shoulders and saying ‘teeha’, and the three of them proudly take turns grasping his elbow in comradely support, chittering compliments about his abilities which he doesn’t understand but gets the gist of.

It’s not long before you’re situated inside the ship. Din enters the command to slide the cockpit canopy into place, then begins to cycle up the engines. You’re squeezed into the small space between the two seats, facing Nantoogen, where he is securely lashed to the rear one with an abundance of stranglevine, and even though you know he can’t move, you keep your baton at the ready.

Your anger may have left you, but your caution has not.

When the ship rises steadily off the platform, the sound of the engines reverberating in the hangar bay is somewhat deafening since the hole above you negates the usual soundproofing effects of the transparisteel. Still, it becomes far less of an assault on your ears when the ship glides out of the gloomy structure and into Endor’s afternoon sunlight, where the wind catches and carries away the roar.

And you’re on your way.

Though you’re facing away and can’t see him operate the craft, you’re filled with an abundance of respect for his flying skills as Din smoothly pilots the A-wing to a higher altitude, careful to avoid jostling you in your unbelted position. He tips the wing slightly while he circles to gain height so you can see your Ewok friends lined up at the edge of the hangar waving goodbye. You’re grateful for the much more pleasant final image of the Death Star wreckage, and once he straightens out and you begin shooting toward your destination, you start to feel a renewed focus.

It won’t be long now.

In fact, it’s only twenty-five minutes, just as your Mandalorian estimated. So much quicker than the many days you spent moving by speeder and bordok wagon, though granted, this is in a different direction to the compound you left from, skirting the edge of the shield’s broad reach.

The energy barrier automatically deflects only objects moving at an incredibly high velocity, such as flaming debris and the odd meteor (or potential Imperial attackers in the early days), allowing people, animals, and ground vehicles through without incident. However, it also detects and flags any ships that enter, forcing both Nantoogen and Din to land covertly outside its circumference.

The flight is smooth and fortunately uneventful, the restrained criminal seemingly remaining unconscious. You hope the small amount of sedative you managed to administer lasts long enough for you to get him into carbonite. He woke up unexpectedly early before, so you can only assume that his body is growing used to it, or perhaps due to his sheer bulk, you underestimated the dosage.

Din descends toward a forest clearing and expertly lands the A-wing in the narrow space beside his ship. And at last, you get your first look at what will hopefully become your new home: a beautiful silver gunship with no small amount of dents and scrapes from her years of service, but which you can see have been carefully hammered out as smoothly as possible and buffed up to a high shine.

She’s an antique, to be sure, but a lot of work has clearly been put into bringing her back to her former glory. Fresh yellow paint has been applied to the portside silver hull in a sprawling stripe and arch pattern that you assume is mirrored on the starboard side. Your keen eye for ship tech spots numerous upgrades, including some impressive front-facing heavy blaster cannons.

You’ve never seen such an old ship with such a lovingly applied facelift. Din has obviously put a lot of time and money into getting her just right. You wonder if it’s because his old ship was destroyed, giving him a more sentimental touch when overhauling this replacement. He told you his mechanic friend found a literal wreck, so this must have taken an inordinate amount of very skilled work. You can’t wait to see what he’s done on the inside.

It’s only when you hear Din chuckle from the pilot’s seat that you realise he’s shifted around in his seat and is watching you shamelessly gawk at the Razor Crest through the side of the cockpit viewport, your jaw dropped open and awe sparkling in your eyes.

“Like what you see?” he asks unnecessarily. You clearly do.

You know he’s just fishing for compliments, but you’re happy to provide, throwing in a swear for emphasis. “That’s a fucking beautiful restoration. She’s gorgeous.”

Din hums approvingly and activates the canopy release mechanism to lift and slide open the transparisteel above, gesturing to the unconscious passenger before you. “Let’s get moving.”

It’s a karking insane effort to get Nantoogen untied from the seat and drag his heavy body up and out of the cockpit, but between you both, you manage it.

Din instructs you to climb out first, then as soon as the stranglevines are unwound from around the bounty and the seat, he skilfully re-binds the criminal’s hands, torso and legs with the rope-like fibre and tosses the end up and over the edge of the canopy to you, telling you to pull on it with all your weight while he lifts the body from inside. The lip of the cockpit then almost acts like a fulcrum to balance the load against the effort you apply to the end of the vine. With Din heaving from below, you jointly lever the heavy man up and out onto the wing.

Once there, the hunter simply drags him to the ground with a thud. He taps his vambrace, and the Razor Crest’s portside door starts to open like a drawbridge, the telescopic gangway extending to the forest floor to give a smooth slope for the body to be hauled up and into the ship. You assist by taking a small portion of the bounty’s weight at his bound ankles, but Din’s heroic efforts are the main reason you’re soon standing inside the Crest’s cargo hold with the captured criminal at your feet, right next to a snazzy mobile carbonite freezer.

Din preps the chamber, then steps back, making no further moves, and you meet the gaze of his visor with a curious arch in your eyebrow. “What’s the hold-up?”

He hesitates and shifts a little, and you know by now that means he needs to tell you something you won’t particularly like. “Mortality rate is lower if he’s conscious when frozen. Life support monitors aren’t as accurate if his brain function is suppressed. And we need him alive.”

You don’t know much about carbon-freezing, but you’ve heard stories of how things can go wrong. How if the mix of gases is not correct, it can impair the organs as they freeze, and the longer a person is frozen, the more severely they experience hibernation sickness. In extreme cases, that can lead to an unpleasant death upon release.

You assume Din has been using this technology for years, so you trust his judgment regarding the best way to do things.

Setting your logical brain to the problem, you consider your options. “Can we restrain him in the chamber so we can activate it as soon as he comes around? And is there a way to wake him up quicker? He’ll probably be conscious soon anyway… if he isn’t already.” You eye the crumpled form on the floor warily.

“Yes, yes, and hopefully not,” Din replies, grabbing Nantoogen’s shoulders and heaving him to sit in the frame within the chamber. He then lowers two hydraulic pincer arms dangling above the unit, finds the end of the stranglevine still wound beneath the criminal’s armpits, and ties it to the metal claws. Once he activates the hauling arms again, they lift back up, and you finally have a prone form before you on an inclined vertical plane. It doesn’t seem to be a problem that the vine still trails up to the mechanism above - you assume it can be trimmed off once the freezing process is complete.

Din then reaches for the bag over the bounty’s head, glancing at you to check you’re okay with him removing it. You give a curt nod, and Din uncovers the mess of a face.

Strangely, seeing how severely he’s been beaten makes you feel better. Cheek and nose smashed and sunken in. Black eyes (one with intensive swelling underneath from the recent contusion on his cheek). Swollen split lip. Numerous other bruises purpling across both his jaw and forehead amongst streaks of dried blood and dirt. Long black hair plastered to his face in an oily halo of filth.

Your Mandalorian has beaten this man as much as he dares to without killing him, and it’s an odd sort of gift to you in a way. Your relationship is the weirdest thing you’ve ever experienced, but it’s also the most fulfilling. He knows how to utilise violence to bring you peace.

“I need my binders back, and the gag needs to come off, or he’ll choke when he’s unfrozen,” Din tells you next, and you accept these as necessary steps, although you’re not happy about either. Now you’re the one shifting uncomfortably.

Din makes quick work of his tasks, but you’re happy to see he replaces the binders with a disposable zip tie to ensure Nantoogen’s hands are still restrained before removing the gag.

He then steps over to a crate in the corner and starts rummaging through, presumably for whatever he’s planning to use to rouse the bounty. You wait anxiously nearby, not letting your eyes stray and watching for any signs of life - a muscle jolt, a flicker of his eyelashes.

But the criminal is as still as the crystalline landscape of Mygeeto. If you didn’t know better, he could almost be frozen already with no carbonite around him.

So when he suddenly speaks in a rasping whisper, you’re scared out of your skin.

“Got more’n one lieutenant work’n f’me at th’compound,” he slurs, bloody saliva trickling from his mouth. His cold eyes snap open, and he looks straight at you as he continues, “Y’turn me in, schutta, y’never see th’Volpai alive again.”

Chapter Text

At the sound of Nantoogen’s voice, Din spins around and launches himself at the carbonite unit, slamming his gloved hand on the activation button and setting the freezing process in motion. Clouds of processed tibanna gas billow and coalesce as the carbonite encases the suddenly animate and snarling form inside the frame, and in a few moments, the substance solidifies.

The bounty is still at last, his distorted features frozen in a sickening portrait of malice.

For a moment, you just stand there, as motionless as the criminal before you, your jaw dropped in disbelief at the words he slurred. Then your head shakes, and a single word falls from your lips in a whisper.

“No.”

Din looks at you in confusion. “What did he say?” He must have been too preoccupied with rummaging in the crate to properly hear Nantoogen’s rasped ultimatum, and he’s probably wondering why you don’t seem happy or relieved to have him in carbonite at last.

Swallowing anxiously, you continue shaking your head as you relay the horrifying revelation. “Something’s happened to Ari. He said he has other lieutenants at the compound, a-and if we turn him in… I’ll never see Ari again.”

Din is silent as he considers the information, then says grimly, “He’s lying. Bounties do this all this time. Threaten with lies to convince you not to turn them over.”

“How can you know that?” you demand, your voice suddenly shrill. “You said yourself he must have allies at the compound.” Then a thought strikes you, and you don’t know why it didn’t occur to you before now. “The Weequay wasn’t based there. She was stationed at one of the outposts. So she couldn’t have been the one who overheard me say his name in the mess hall. And she wouldn’t have been able to get out to him at the river that quickly if she had been.”

Your Mandalorian considers your words but shakes his head. “We can’t risk it. We need to get him back to Nevarro as soon as possible. I won’t delay turning him over just to investigate what’s probably a lie.” He grasps your arm. “The mission is over. We’ve been waiting for this moment for over a week, and for me, it’s been months. I’ve done the job I was given; I can’t get diverted by something else. It’s a tactic, don’t get drawn in.”

“How can you say that?!” You wrench your arm from his grip and step back, something acrid burning in your gut. “Ari’s my friend - I need to know he’s okay! If he’s been taken, it’s my fucking fault! Our fault! You won’t even try and find out if he’s missing?”

Din sighs, growling slightly with it, clearly starting to get just as worked up as you are. “We can’t radio the compound without going inside the shield; if we do that, they’ll detect the Crest. If you want to check on him, we’re better off sending a long-range comm request via a wideband channel from orbit.”

You blink at him in disbelief as yet another realisation lands on you with a sickening crash.

Even if the intent was for you to leave Endor with him, he never planned to take you back to the compound so you could collect your stuff first.

What the actual fuck?

When you first wondered before you left your quarters if you might escape Endor and join him out in the galaxy - back then imagining it might merely be as a lift to another destination - your musings were overly romantic and not wholly thought through, distracted as you were by the fantasies your new-found attraction was conjuring. You simply dreamed of flying off to explore the wonders of the galaxy. You didn’t consider that you’d need to properly pack up your life if you were to leave your home of almost six years. And there are things you can’t leave behind - valuable things.

It’s laughable, really - you’re employed here and probably already in serious trouble for missing several days of work. Part of you wonders how you could’ve been so naive as to ignore these facts. Of course you’ll need to go back - it’s unavoidable.

As your face scrunches up in realisation, you place your hands on your hips and challenge coldly, “Did you really think you could just take off from Endor without letting me go back and sort out my life first? If I’m coming with you, I have to quit my job, make sure my salary and savings are transferred to an account I can access elsewhere… bring more than two kriffing changes of clothes! I need to pack up my shit, Din - I can’t just live out of a single backpack!”

The sharp laugh he barks at your assertion sends a cold stab of rejection through you, and he matches your stance with his hands on his own hips, stepping forward and looming over you. “So you wanna mess up my ship with all your belongings?” he growls, sarcasm and condescension colouring his words.

Your stomach drops, and for a second, you simply stare at him, open-mouthed and aghast. He’s never spoken to you like this before. Even when you first met, when his arrogance and self-assuredness were still at the forefront - even when you argued in the forest about your past conquests - he’s never directed such disrespect toward you and your needs.

You’re suddenly filled with a painful incredulity that causes your eyes to fill with tears - sad or angry, you can’t tell.

It’s both, you realise. That rage from earlier has been given yet another outlet by Din’s cruel lack of acceptance of your presence in his space, and by the realisation that if you’re going to leave Endor with him, it’ll be on his terms only.

The dream of roaming the galaxy together as equals shatters like a glass bottle on a cantina floor.

It’s a betrayal. All the promises you’ve made to each other, the ideas you’ve stoked together - Din has ruined everything with one thoughtless comment.

And you’re fucking livid.

Your tether snaps, and you raise your arms and push him with all your strength, hands impacting his cuirass, your whole body’s weight behind your movement, and your effort propels him back a pace since he was clearly not expecting such a visceral physical reaction from you.

He steadies himself but doesn’t react, which inflames your indignation all the more, and you try to repeat your action.

This time, however, Din grabs your wrists before you can make contact, and he quickly arrests your forward motion and reverses it, pressing you up against the ship’s inner hull and crowding in to pin you to the metal with his body.

Despite its speed, his action doesn’t hurt you; it’s a smooth motion with a bridled power that he uses only for restraint and not injury. Nor does it scare you. Any dominance he’s directed toward you has never felt like it would be accompanied by harm. Even his thoughtless words just now don’t make you doubt that fact.

You’re only centimetres apart, both breathing heavily from the argument, the cool metal of the ship’s inner hull seeping through your shirt yet doing nothing to temper the burning sensation inside you. You stare at each other for long moments - your eyes glaring daggers, his visor laser-focused on you.

Slowly (and you think unbelievably), your anger starts to become tainted by a different kind of heat - one you have absolutely no control over. Din’s body presses against yours, arms between you where he still holds your wrists, his warmth permeating you. He’s so close you can see your panting breaths slightly fogging up the base of his visor.

This isn’t fair… you’re angry, but you’re something else now too. Your body is betraying you. This is… confusing. Frustrating.

He speaks first, a low rumble of concession, but his words only serve to alter the atmosphere even further. “I… didn’t mean that, mesh’la. The adrenaline, it… You can bring whatever you want. All I care about is that you’re here.”

It’s not an apology, but at least it’s honesty. Perhaps Din’s disrespectful sarcasm was born from years of being alone in his ship, living his life in a certain way.

And to be fair, you didn’t consider the practical side of leaving until now, either. If you managed to ignore it, it should be no surprise that a bounty hunter who’s never had a static contract of employment tying him somewhere won’t have considered it either. It doesn’t excuse his despicable comment, but it does take the sting out and explain it a little. This is likely another example of him accidentally saying the wrong thing in the heat of the moment, just like he predicted.

Plus, you need to remember that he’s wholly inexperienced when it comes to relationships, so it’s perhaps understandable that someone moving into his personal living space might require a little patience and compromise, particularly when emotions are heightened from an unexpected threat.

You flatten your balled fists against his cuirass, a small concession of your own, tamping down your feelings of betrayal and focusing now on the tingling sensations running through your body from his proximity and warmth. You search the ebony T-visor before you, uncertain how to proceed. His helmet tilts slightly, considering you in return.

Slowly, Din’s large hands uncurl from around your wrists, and when your arms are free, you slide them up to his neck, grasping handfuls of his cloak, eyes still locked on his visor. And as you do, his own hands move in the opposite direction, equally slowly, grazing down past your breasts with deliberately indirect contact to settle at your waist beneath your jacket, where your midriff remains exposed from your ripped shirt. He flexes his fingers once, kneading your flesh, and you can’t help the sinful moan that escapes you.

He takes a ragged breath, then all at once, he crowds forward even closer, pinning you fully and firmly against the inner hull and slotting his uninjured thigh between your legs, parting them and pressing up into your centre. His hands slide even lower, moving around to cup your ass and knead the flesh there, and the mighty beskar-clad warrior shudders against you.

“Din…” you breathe lustily, burying your face against his shoulder as he caresses you with unbridled sexual longing, the cumulated need from restraining yourselves for more than a week finally given an opening to come pouring out. You don’t think you’ve ever uttered a man’s name in a sexual context before, always too shy to be too vocal, but the appreciative noise he makes as it leaves your lips makes you want to repeat it.

When he rasps your name in reply, your hips buck forward at the sound. You grind your aching pussy against the cool hard beskar between your thighs, seeking the elusive rapture you’ve been dreaming about ever since you first met this man.

One of your hands works its way to the back of his neck and slips beneath the helmet, and he drops his head forward to your shoulder to give you space. The instant you feel his hair between your fingers, you grasp it and tug, and you feel as well as hear the moan of pleasure that rumbles in his chest.

The long-awaited onset of sexual behaviour makes you feel like you’re already in space, weightless with the bliss that wells up inside you. And, holy fires of Mustafar, it was worth it. All the waiting, all the restraint - finally feeling Din’s hands touch your body without holding back, enjoying you just as you’re enjoying him, it was so fucking worth it.

You can hear his staggered breathing as his caresses gradually move away from gratifying his need to feel your body, and his focus shifts toward exploring your pleasure. He presses you down onto his thigh, where you continue to grind forward in an effort to achieve the angle and pressure you need to see stars, underwear already soaking wet from your desire. You moan again wantonly.

But just as your ecstasy begins to build into something tangible, Din relaxes his grip and slows his movements, not drawing away but whispering four devastating words through the vocoder. “We need to stop.”

The groan you let out is halfway between pleasure and disappointment, a confusing mix of utter dismay and unwelcome logic, teetering on the brink of tingling sexual ecstasy with no chance of stepping off the edge into that blissful torrent below.

He is right. As much as you wish it weren’t true, as much as your passion-addled mind is telling you otherwise, a few sensible brain cells there in the back are able to recognise that his restraint is frankly heroic in nature and almost certainly signifies his agreement to continue the mission and search for Ari. It’s a favour to you, and the cost is that you’ll have to keep restraining yourselves until the threat is confirmed as being truly over.

Still, your hyper-sexual state makes you want to push your luck. “But I’m so close,” you breathe, rolling your hips again. “Can’t we just—”

Din’s lustful growl cuts you off, but he moves his hands away from your ass to steady your hips before sliding back up to your waist, where he kneads your sides once more.

With regret colouring his tone, he tells you, “Sweet girl, the first time I make you come isn’t gonna be as an apology for saying something stupid. It won’t be up against a wall, it won’t be after an argument, and it won’t be when the mission’s still ongoing. I told you before: you deserve better.”

“Well, this is pretty fucking decent.” You don’t think you’re actually trying to convince him to keep going, but he sounded so disappointed that you want to make sure he knows you were enjoying yourself.

He gently withdraws his thigh from between your legs and squeezes your waist. “Fucking decent, yes, but for me, it’s….” He swallows, trying to find the words. “It’s overwhelming too. I’ve never… I-I mean, I….”

As he stutters and tries to figure out how to explain his comment, you recall your conversation about sex en route to the Ewok village. You know he’s been with people before, but you didn’t consider to what extent. He did say he wouldn’t be relying on ‘experience’…

Din tries again to explain, and proves your thoughts somewhat correct. “How I feel about you makes this totally different from anyone else I’ve been with. They were mostly strangers. No intimacy, no… no eye contact. Just up against a wall or bent over something. I want something more with you.” His gloved hands have switched to stroking you instead of squeezing, and you tilt your head, inviting him to continue. “I’m not saying we can’t do that kind of thing too sometimes, but this is still bad timing. And I haven’t even showered in four days. The first time we’re together, I wanna give you something a lot better than this. Is that okay?”

You give a slow nod and echo his stroking of your waist with the hand at the back of his neck, letting him know you understand but not trusting that you’ll be able to hide your disappointment if you speak. You still hover in a frustratingly aroused state, and knowing you won’t get the release you need is a miserable sort of agonising.

“It won’t always be this way,” he says resolutely, and you quirk your eyebrow at him, not following what he means. “Being physical with you - it’s overwhelming in a way I’ve never experienced before. That’s why I can’t risk giving in yet if the mission’s ongoing. But I’m getting better at balancing my feelings and channelling my focus. Eventually, sex won’t be a distraction, but I’m not there yet, cyar’ika. If we give in now, I’ll be in no fit state to look for your friend.”

Once again, your partner has proved himself to be a genuinely noble and sensitive man, a far cry from the arrogant asshole he seemed only a few minutes ago. His confession of ‘no eye contact’ with his former lovers clearly doesn’t apply to himself since you know he hasn’t removed his helmet with them, so you assume it must mean he’s fucked all his conquests from behind so they couldn’t see him - a certain distance maintained.

But you’ve kissed and held each other chest-to-chest, and it’s clear that Din wants - even needs - to experience a deeper intimacy with you when you finally reach that stage. And it will obviously overwhelm him, which is why he’s so concerned about doing it right - when you have enough time to completely give in to the intimacy and indulge properly.

Your guess is that if things had progressed just now, he probably would’ve defaulted to turning you around and taking you from behind. And although that idea is incredibly tempting, your feelings for him make you want something more intimate than that for your first time together too. A proper consummation of the relationship you’ve built over the past week, not just an outlet for pent-up frustration and aggression. You’re sure there will be times for that kind of encounter, but now is not one of them.

The realisation helps dissipate your keyed-up state a little. Your hand still cups the back of his neck, so you tilt his helmet to meet your forehead in a Keldabe kiss. “It’s okay,” you tell him, finally answering his earlier question in words.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” Din emphasises, giving you your apology at last. “And I’ll take you back to the compound. We’ll check on Ari; if he’s missing, we’ll find him. Then I’ll tell you the last few things you need to know about me, and if you still want to come with me, we’ll bring whatever you need to the ship. You can make your arrangements and say your goodbyes. Forgive me for not considering this earlier; this is… new to me.”

“It’s okay,” you repeat. “I forgive you. This is new territory, and it’s all happening so fast. To be honest, I’m surprised we haven’t fought more frequently. But thank you. I promise I won’t mess up your beautiful ship; I don’t have a lot of stuff.”

He chuckles then, and you smile in return, the exchange further restoring the former balanced restraint you’ve so carefully built over the last week. Both the argument and the brief foray into carnal delights have been put behind you, and you’re back to a mutual loving appreciation.

He eases back from you, and you shift uncomfortably as you separate. Your brain may have accepted it, but your body is still tingling and unsatisfied. Your underwear are utterly soaked from how incredibly turned on he made you; ideally, you would change them, but you have no fresh pairs left in your backpack. Still, you’d like to clean up a little.

Din notices your squirming and starts to panic. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“I’m fine, and no, you didn’t hurt me,” you placate him. “Quite the opposite actually… I kind of need to, um, clean up. I assume there’s a ’fresher on board?”

He starts to nod, then a second later catches onto your meaning and does a slightly amusing double-take, his visor pointing directly at your crotch as if he can detect how wet he made you. Kriff, you hope his helmet doesn’t have such a setting.

“I, uh… sorry,” he shrugs, looking like he regrets ever pulling away too soon, then points toward the bow of the ship. “It’s over there. I’ll show you around when you’re… sorted.”

You give him a coquettish smile and move toward the refresher, and before you close the door, you purr, “Never apologise for turning me on, Din.”

Although you don’t see his reaction, you hear him quietly groan, “Dank farrik….” He’s probably battling a similar yet wholly different kind of discomfort himself.

The refresher is compact but surprisingly functional; you didn’t think gunships were this well-equipped. Perhaps it’s another modification Din has made himself. There’s a toilet, a sink with a large mirror above it, and on your right is an actual shower with water - not just a sonic. You’re genuinely delighted at this unexpected discovery.

It smells clean and fresh in here, and you’re more than happy with what that says about your Mandalorian’s housekeeping skills.

You tamp down the fleeting thought that maybe you can finish yourself off quickly in here to free your body of the sexual tension still buzzing around it. However, the idea actually serves to dampen the tingling sensation somewhat - you don’t think you could get off via your own efforts right now, knowing Din is right outside and remembering how glorious his touch felt when compared to your own.

Great, he’s ruined masturbation for you. Now you’re a different kind of frustrated.

Urges somewhat dispersed, you focus on your more immediate problem and decide to simply remove your soaked underwear and go commando. You should be back at the compound relatively soon, where you can wash up more thoroughly and get into clean clothes. So once you’ve sorted yourself out and stepped back into your trousers, you fold the slick material and stuff it into your pocket.

After glancing in the mirror for the first time in over a week and taming your messy and somewhat bedraggled hair as best you can with your fingers, you emerge to see your companion has been busy in your short absence.

He has used the hydraulic pincers to lift the carbonite block containing Nantoogen from the freezer’s frame and transfer it to a recessed storage rack in the stern of the ship. He’s also covered it with a thick and heavy material, meaning you thankfully don’t have to look at the prisoner.

“Is that an upgrade?” you ask, pointing behind you at the refresher.

“Yeah. My old ship only had a vacc tube with a sonic shower in the same compartment. It wasn’t ideal.” Din gestures to the right of the door where the shower is and says, “And there was a cargo compartment there, which doubled as my sleeping quarters. It was cramped. That whole space was pretty much ripped out when I got this one, so I built in some better facilities.”

“So, where do you sleep now?” You find yourself inordinately excited to see where he rests… and maybe gets naked. When you met, he told you that the armour stays on most of the time. But he removed it with you at the village, so you wonder if he was overselling it at the beginning and actually allows himself similar comforts within the safety and privacy of his own ship.

Din beckons you to follow him in ascending the ladder next to the refresher, and you eagerly climb up after him into a narrow companionway. He stands in the cockpit doorway, blocking your view for the moment, and gestures to the door immediately opposite. “My cabin,” he explains, flattening his palm and inviting you to go in and look.

The room is small but neat and functional, and it smells clean and pleasant though marginally stuffy since the ship’s air filters have been off while she’s been dormant. There are no viewports, but soft lights overhead and near the floor flicker on as you enter. It’s sparsely furnished, with just a bed jutting out from the wall on your left and a cabinet with drawers to your right. Another door is directly opposite, leading to the aft section of the upper deck.

“What’s through there?” you ask first, trying to delay your immediate urge to examine the place where he sleeps (and where you could soon be sleeping too), even though you’re more than aware of the answer since you know the usual layout of this type of ship.

“Reactor for the sublight engines, hyperdrive motivator, main power generator, backup generator, access to the escape pod.” Din’s detailed breakdown speaks to his confidence in your understanding of ships’ systems. He crosses behind you and types a code into a pad by the door, and it swishes open, a wall of dry air escaping and moving through the cabin. “There’s an access hatch from the cargo hold, but I keep that code-locked now too. It’s always warm in there, even when the engines are powered down. It gets pretty chilly off-world, so sleeping up here saves me from having to heat the whole ship.”

“Why didn’t you use this as a cabin in your old ship?”

He gestures to the reactor room door, behind which you see the hulking shadow of the reactor core. “Door was damaged, completely fused open. Sleeping next to a decades-old reactor prone to coolant leaks is not advisable. This one’s nearly new, though. It’s safe.”

Nodding, you take a hesitant step toward the bed and Din gestures with a flat palm again, inviting you to try it out. It’s a small double, so it’s good that you don’t mind sleeping in each other’s arms. Delicately, you perch on the edge and find the mattress more comfortable than you’d imagined. The bed itself is a simple metal frame bolted to the floor, but Din has obviously invested in a decent pallet to go inside. It’s not nearly as soft as where you slept at the Ewok village, but that’s probably better for your back. The neatly tucked blanket and single pillow, however, are somewhat threadbare.

It’s like he reads your mind. “If you come with me, you could bring some of your things to make it… nicer,” Din comments shyly, and you give him a soft smile of gratitude. Encouraged, he suggests, “Or once we’ve got the reward money, we can, uh, re-fit things so you’re more comfortable.”

His sudden willingness to compromise his space in the wake of his earlier comment is surprising, and you think he’s perhaps going a little overboard trying to make up for his thoughtless behaviour. You still haven’t confirmed you’re leaving with him, yet you’re both acting like it’s a done deal.

“Thank you, but this is your home; I’m not planning to move in and completely change everything,” you assure him. “This is good - it’s big enough, soft enough. I’d like to bring my pillows and blankets, though; I think my bedding is a little more luxurious than yours.” He gives an emphatic and eager nod at the suggestion, and you can’t help adding with a quirk of your eyebrow, “Pretty sure we can have some fun in here.”

Din takes a deep breath in and out, controlling his clearly positive reaction to the insinuation, then drops his voice to its lowest register. “I guarantee it.”

Oh, kriff, no. Don’t let the tingles re-emerge; you just got rid of them.

You channel the restraint you’ve been maintaining for the past week or so and manage to simply grin back at him, standing up to indicate you’re done examining this room. And together, you exit his cabin and head forward to the cockpit.

Din shows you around the small yet well-appointed control room, which contains three comfortable seats - a pilot up front nestled amidst a three-sided console with two passengers just behind to either side of the entrance (unlikely for crew as they have no control access). He invites you to sit in the one to the right, lowering himself into the pilot’s seat and tapping in various commands. It’s leather-upholstered and large, and you sink gratefully into its comfortable frame.

While he’s busy with pre-flight checks, you admire the beautiful restoration job again. There are wide transparisteel viewports not just at the front of the ship but also along the sides, overhead, and even near the floor by his feet, making the cockpit bright with the Endorian afternoon sunshine - and undoubtedly providing a beautiful vista in hyperspace.

Staying back so you don’t get in his way, you rise to observe the large pilot’s control panel, noting the locations of the flight computer, nav computer, targeting overlay for the cannons, life support controls, and diagnostics readouts. You also see a comm unit with a holoprojector, plus an impressive full-spectrum transceiver installed.

“You don’t have an astromech; do you calculate hyperspace jumps manually?” you ask, your voice full of respect.

“Always have,” Din confirms proudly. “Hyperdrive is a class 1, and the nav is fully programmed with the latest charts, so it’s a lot easier now. But yeah - I prefer the human touch.”

You hum in admiration. “Sexy and smart. Impressive.”

He shrugs off your appreciation, but you can tell he’s heartened by hearing it from you. “We’re almost set here. You wanna go grab your stuff from the other ship?”

It only takes a few minutes to recover your bags and lyaer’tsa, and your partner meets you at the top of the portside gangway, closing it up behind you. He taps a button on his vambrace, and a large metal locker on the opposite wall swings open, displaying an impressive array of weaponry, predominantly firearms, though you note and admire a long and shiny spear. He takes your lyaer’tsa from you and tucks it next to the spear as you survey the contents, and then digs out Nantoogen’s blaster from his shoulder bag and places it in an empty spot, adjusting a few pegs to secure it. For now, you both keep the rest of your respective arsenals strapped to your bodies.

“Do you get all your weapons from people you capture?” you ask.

He shrugs. “I lost almost my entire collection when the old Crest was destroyed, so I’ve been building it back up slowly. Used to have a much better armoury than this. For now, I’m just collecting until it’s full. Then, I can start being more discerning again.”

You spend a few minutes re-dressing Din’s leg before you depart, and he passes you a bacta patch from his own medical supplies. The healing is progressing exceptionally well, and he now walks with barely a limp, though he still favours his right leg. With the potent bacta once again in place, it’ll be a matter of hours before he’s fully healed.

Once his cuisse is reattached, you grab your other top from your backpack and dart into the refresher to switch out your torn one. It’s not clean, but you’d rather not arrive back at the compound looking like you’ve been mauled by a gurreck.

The two of you then reascend to the cockpit and strap in, and as he lifts off, you finally get your first look at him in control of his ship. It’s a magnificent sight. You appreciated his smooth piloting on the way over in the A-wing, but finally seeing the ease with which his talented fingers enter commands, his responsive touch on the flight stick, his instinctual control of the systems that purr happily when he coaxes them to do his bidding - it’s like watching a beautiful symbiotic relationship in all its full glory.

“I need your advice,” Din tells you, startling you from your reverie with an uncertainty you weren’t expecting. “I’m skirting the shield’s edge right now, but I need to know the best way to approach the compound. What are the protocols? How in-depth are their scans? And what’s our story? Can you get us clearance as an employee, or do I need to come up with a reason for landing a gunship on their platform?”

His quick-fire questions are unusual; he’s never been shy about asking you non-personal questions, but they’re not usually thrown at you in groups. Then again, the Crest is already in the air, so you need to devise a plan fast. It’s got to be about fifteen minutes to the compound, and the secondary landing platform sensors will detect you in maybe five.

“They’ll comm you as soon as we enter the shield’s radius, but they won’t scan for a beacon until we request a landing bay or unless we give them a reason to be suspicious,” you advise. “If you let me speak to them, I can get us platform clearance with no scan, but we still need to give a reason for landing a ship that hasn’t been previously logged as mine.”

“Any suggestions?”

“I don’t think we should mention Ari yet. It might be better to keep it simple. You’ve got enough credits to refuel now, right?” He nods. “Then we just say you’re here to pick me up and refuel. If the transport is for my benefit, my status means they won’t check the title tabs, and they’ll waive the landing bay fee for a day. If it takes any longer than that, we can rethink things.”

With the plan in place, your pilot points the nose of the Crest directly at the compound and crosses into the shield’s circumference. You’re about halfway to your destination when the comm unit crackles to life.

“Come in, Razor Crest M-111, this is SG Compound Main Tower. We are tracking your approach. Respond, please.”

Din gestures to the comm unit, and you unbuckle yourself, stepping around his seat to stand on his left and then pressing the button to reply. You’re unsure whether there are particular words to use or a ‘pilot language’, but you do your best to sound professional. “Main Tower, this is Razor Crest, carrying a compound employee and guest, requesting main platform clearance for refuelling.”

“Employee ID?”

“Senior SG technician 2418-aurek.”

There is a pause on the other end, and then a different voice comes on, one you desperately hoped not to hear. “Korrina? Is that you?”

Shit. A scalding wave of annoyance burns through you.

Din looks at you sharply. “Korrina…?” His voice through the modulator is deep, almost a growl, as he questions why the man on the other end of the comm is calling you something that’s clearly not your real name. If he’s already jealous after one word, this doesn’t bode well.

“I’ll explain in a sec.” You wave him off and press transmit again. “Yeah, Taron, it’s me. Can we land, please?”

A few seconds go by then the comm unit crackles again. “You’re cleared for bay seven. What the hell are you doing in a gunship, girl?”

Before you can respond, Din punches the button himself and says, “Copy, bay seven. Razor Crest out,” and as soon as he’s severed the connection, he says flatly, “I know I’m being jealous, but can you level me out a bit here? I’m guessing that’s the ex you mentioned.”

“I was hoping we wouldn’t run into him,” you confess, frustrated by your poor luck and dreading the inevitable difficulties ahead.

“A little warning would’ve been nice,” Din remarks quite reasonably. Then somewhat less reasonably, he adds, “You know I can’t be polite to him. This is not going to go well.”

Yeah, you figured as much. A heavy sigh escapes you. Your Mandalorian is the jealous type, and you’ll just have to deal with it. The question is, what’s the best way forward? He mentioned at one point that he’ll be jealous of anyone you’ve been with until he’s had the chance to physically satisfy you better than they ever did. But whilst Taron never even came close to giving you an orgasm (despite his self-assuredness), unfortunately, you’ve not yet had that pleasure from Din either.

Although maybe you can make it less about sexual jealousy and get him to focus more on the emotional side of things.

Remembering how he kept cutting you off before the storm when his jealousy first arose, you venture, “Okay, I haven’t got a lot of time to explain this and ‘level you out’, as you put it, so you’re gonna need to let me talk without interrupting, alright?” He embodies your request by saying nothing, so you press him. “Alright, Din?”

“I won’t interrupt,” he promises flatly. “Go ahead.”

You suck in a deep breath. “Like I told you, Taron was a fellow salvager I dated when I first came here. It lasted… kriff, about two months, maybe? Two and a half tops. And it was nearly six years ago. It was not serious by any definition of the word. We’d all recently arrived; it was just an illusion of connection in a new place far from home. He’s a terribly average guy who’s under the mistaken impression he’s above average, and that’s a little over-confident for my taste, so I stopped hanging out with him, and he quickly started dating someone else. But since we were never serious, there was no difficult breakup. That’s why we’re still on speaking terms on the rare occasions we run into one another.”

In his pilot seat, Din’s visor is fixed directly ahead through the viewport, and he makes no indication whatsoever that he’s absorbing your words. However, you can tell he’s listening because his body is tense. He doesn’t like hearing about this, but you need him to know at least some background if there’s an inevitable meeting with your ex-lover on the cards.

“And I’m not defending him,” you continue, “But he’s dated a lot of women because he is genuinely a nice, well-meaning and friendly guy, and that appeals to a lot of women… but we expect there to be a bit more depth and Taron doesn’t have that. So he goes through so many girlfriends, not because he’s a hound, but because they keep dropping him when they realise that all his over-confidence is just hiding the fact that he doesn’t have much of a personality when it comes down to it. He’s not very smart, and he’s not very interesting. And, perhaps crucially from your point of view, he’s not very good in bed either.”

This elicits a dry bark of a laugh from Din, giving you hope that your ultra-honest soliloquy is having the desired effect. You go in for the final leg of your plan to diffuse his envy: flattery.

“What you and I have is so much better. You are a hundred times the man he is; he can’t hold a candle to you. You’re way smarter, way more interesting, and, like I told you before, you can get me way hotter with a single touch through your glove than he ever managed.” You soften your voice. “I love you, Din, and no matter what else you still need to tell me, I plan on leaving Endor with you. I’m all yours, okay?”

Din hits a few buttons on the console, then turns his helmet toward you, and you wait for his response. “Mine…” he rasps quietly after a few moments, thoughtfully, as if this is a brand new notion.

“Yes, yours,” you assure him, suddenly realising from his reaction that this is the crucial concept. “I don’t expect you to be polite to him, but please don’t be rude or aggressive. If this is a territory thing, then mark it. I’m fine with that. Hold my hand, put your arm around me, whatever you want. Do whatever you need to show him I belong to you now. But do not get into a verbal pissing match with someone who holds no claim over me. Or even worse, an actual fight.”

He is quiet for another moment. “You said you don’t want me to control you outside the bedroom,” he points out. “This is… confusing.”

A slightly irritated sigh escapes you as you realise you need to explain yet another relationship concept to him. It surprises you somewhat how ignorant he seems in this respect, despite obviously being able to analyse people’s behaviour to his advantage whilst hunting. Surely understanding basic principles of relationships shouldn’t be so difficult for him to wrap his head around?

Then again, perhaps the problem here is that he’s never had to apply those principles to himself? From what you’ve gathered, he’s always seen himself as ‘different’ and ‘apart’ from other people, perhaps because of his upbringing, but also maybe because he’s implied several times now that he’s never previously been interested in the Mandalorian idea of settling down.

Now that you and Din have started something that seems to be getting pretty kriffing serious, he needs to figure out how to perform a more publicly acceptable role in this relationship. And you’ll need to give him whatever help you can offer.

“Okay… you’re going off on a tangent. Holding my hand isn’t controlling me, at least as long as you’re not using it to drag me behind you or something equally unreasonable. This isn’t about control and dominance; it’s about display. You still don’t get to boss me around outside the bedroom - like dictating what I can and can’t bring onto your ship.” He flinches a little at the still-raw wound of his earlier mistake, so you continue quickly. “But feel free to show me off as yours, as long as it’s only maintaining physical contact, not pushing me around. And equally, I’ll proudly show off my Mandalorian.”

He perks up a little at the idea you could be proud to be seen with him.

“What I’m trying to explain is that whilst people in relationships often display physical indicators that they’re together, they don’t challenge other people over them. Get it? So if you wanna stay close and keep a physical connection with me at all times, that’s fine. But don’t invent imaginary challenges to your claim on me, and do not pick fights with people who don’t deserve to be targeted, especially when I tell you it’s unnecessary.”

The flight comp beeps, and you turn to look out of the viewport and see the compound’s high landing platform in the distance, towering amongst the trees. You have maybe three minutes left before you have to land.

Din flicks a few switches and places his left hand back on the flight stick, steadying the Crest as he resumes manual control. When he’s matched the approach vector displayed on the flight comp, he finally says, “I get it. I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you.” A relieved and grateful sigh escapes you, and you retake your seat and begin strapping yourself in for the landing.

Then Din adds quietly, “I’m sorry I’m not better at this.”

His deference makes you smile affectionately. “You don’t need to apologise - you asked me to ‘level you out’, listened to what I had to say, and sought clarification on what didn’t make sense. You did exactly the right thing; you have nothing to be sorry about. I know you haven’t dealt with relationship concepts like this before, and I get that this is a particularly awkward situation to find yourself in, so thank you for talking so calmly about it.” As an afterthought, you add, “Just don’t ruin it by punching him, okay? He’s a friendly guy - do not mistake his friendliness for a challenge.”

“Okay,” he promises, sounding infinitely lighter. “Real quick, though… Korrina?”

“Oh,” you chuckle, “I decided to use that as my name when I travelled here. It’s a species of Endorian wolf. I thought it’d be cool to have a new identity for my new life - figured if I was freelance, they wouldn’t need to check my chain code. It worked fine on all the private transports, so when I met Taron and some of the others on the trade vessel out of Cerea, that’s what I was still calling myself. Of course, I didn’t realise I’d have to verify my identity to register as an official salvager. Everyone learned my real name once the compound posted the salvage team rosters. Taron kept calling me Korrina, though - said he couldn’t get used to a different name. Like I said, he’s nice but not very bright.”

“Your real name is prettier.”

Din’s unexpected compliment draws an incredulous noise from your throat. Still, you don’t have time to bask in it as he eases the Crest onto the platform in the designated bay, and through the side window, you spot Taron stepping out of the control booth on the other side of the vast space. It’s a substantial walk between the booth and the bay, giving you some breathing space at least.

Your pilot’s gloved hands fly across the console as he powers down systems and sets others into standby, preparing the ship for dormancy with care and finesse, and you wait patiently for him to finish. As much as you’d like to hurry outside and give Taron a heads up to exercise caution and restraint in contrast to his usual overzealousness, you know you need to follow through on your promise to allow Din his territorial displays in this upcoming awkward encounter.

In short order, you’re both down the ladder and back in the cargo bay, and you grasp your backpack in one hand and approach Din as he steps aft to the loading ramp. He looks at you without moving, and you realise he’s waiting for you to show him how much he’s allowed to touch you. It’s sweet, him letting you set the tone, and you consider what your best option is.

An arm around your shoulder displays swagger; that’s not particularly appropriate. A hand on the small of your back is more fitting, but he’d need to drop it when you stop walking, or it could look stilted. So you hold out your hand to him, defaulting to a classic move that lets you lead if need be and shows you as equal partners, and he gratefully accepts it.

He’s about to activate the ramp release but hesitates and looks at you sidelong. You raise your eyebrow to silently inquire what’s wrong. With the visor fixed on you carefully, he says, “Back on the bordok wagon, you told me one of your exes was… mean to you in bed….”

A little smile breaks across your face, realising it’s not just jealousy that needs diffusing here. Din’s protective instincts also need reassurance. “It wasn’t Taron, don’t worry. Zero ability to dominate in either a good or a bad way.”

Din nods and squeezes your hand, suitably reassured, then finally punches the ramp release. The angled stern of the ship starts to lower into a loading ramp down to the platform. As the gap widens, the scents and sounds of Endor bathe you in familiarity, making you forget for a second what awaits.

But only for a second.

Taron stands a few paces away, beaming as always. However, when he spots you holding hands with an armoured hulk, you see momentary panic flash behind his dark eyes. It’s gone in a second, though, and he throws his arms up, narrowly avoiding sending the datapad he holds skidding across the platform floor. “Korri!”

Din doesn’t move until you do, not counting tightening his grip when his rival shortens your fake name to a more affectionate diminutive. But as soon as you step onto the ramp, he keeps pace right next to you, visor locked upon the man at the bottom.

It’s been quite a while since you last saw Taron up close; you work in different parts of the compound and move in different circles. On the rare occasions that you run into each other, it’s usually just a wave across the ample space of the mess hall. This probably explains why he now looks quite different to how you remember him.

His dazzling grin remains unchanged, but the dark beard around it is a lot thicker, and the jet-black hair on his temples is a little thinner. He’s only a couple of years older than you - younger than Din, for sure - but he looks much wearier than he used to, despite the smile. You get the feeling that the crinkling around his caf-coloured eyes is less from the spontaneous smiles you remember and more from grimacing through a practised welcome routine for visitors to the compound.

But you’re not a visitor, so you get a significantly more effusive welcome. You suddenly wish that wasn’t the case.

You halt at the base of the ramp, deliberately leaving a gap too wide to shake hands across (you know Din won’t go for that), and give a subdued smile. “How’s it going, Taron?”

“Great, amazing! It’s good to see you, Korri!” Once upon a time, you found his positivity charming; now, it’s just irritating. “What’s with the gunship and the armed guard?”

Din didn’t like a single thing Taron just said, you can tell. He is tense beside you, a coiled spring of simmering disbelief that you could ever have gone to bed with this guy. You’re pretty sure that if you weren’t holding his right hand, it’d be resting on his blaster by now, but your choice of which side of him to stand on was intentional.

But actually, having your Mandalorian described as your ‘armed guard’ kind of rubs you up the wrong way too. Is the hand-holding not a good enough indicator of your relationship status? Perhaps you should flaunt things a little….

You drop Din’s hand in favour of wrapping your arm around his waist, and he instantly slots his own arm behind you. Then he fans the flames the perfect amount by gently and deliberately gathering your hair off your shoulder before smoothing his large hand up to the back of your neck. Once there, he visibly slides his thumb back and forth in a soft caress.

Kriff, it’s exactly the kind of gesture you meant; he’s caught on well. It’s gentle and affectionate, and it feels incredible, plus it’s subtle enough not to be construed as arrogant whilst still being unavoidably noticeable.

“He’s not my guard, Taron; he’s—”

“I’m her husband,” Din cuts in quickly.

Sweet and holy mother of fuck.

You think you might have just died a little bit. From shock, from amusement, from a weird kind of hope you didn’t even realise you had.

Previous mentions of marriage mere days before have had you reeling with the certainty that anything like that would be irrationally premature, so you’re more than a little surprised when your reaction upon hearing Din’s lie is one of mild glee. It’s certainly unexpected, but you find that you’re perfectly willing to play along with this lie. And it is just a lie. So you instantly compose yourself, giving Taron a wide grin, even brighter than the one that now wavers uncertainly on his own face beneath his widened eyes.

“It was all a bit of a whirlwind, but yeah, we’re very happy,” you offer, trying to keep the conceit as general as possible and hoping he won’t ask for details.

Taron is, however, one of those people who just can’t help but blurt out all of the questions in his head (somewhat the opposite of Din), and he hides his surprise with enthusiasm. “No kidding? Congratulations, Korri! Where did you meet? What was the wedding like? Are you leaving the compound?”

You attempt to answer in as few words as possible and redirect his focus to getting through the docking admin. “Here on Endor, small, and yes - we’re planning on leaving tomorrow, which means I’ve only got a day to quit my job and pack up my stuff, so are we okay to leave the ship here overnight on my pass? We need to refuel as well.”

“Of course,” the boisterous man before you enthuses, tapping away on the datapad and authorising the Crest’s overnight docking in your name. “I’ll waive you for two days, so you’ve got plenty of time just in case - think of it as a wedding present! We can get you refuelled just before you go. Need any repairs or anything else?” He peers behind you into the depths of the ship.

Din answers this time, surprisingly politely, though his voice is somewhat wary and a little strained. “No… thank you.” His hand leaves you for a second as he taps his vambrace to start the loading ramp closing, returning in an instant to its place behind your neck.

“Thanks, Taron,” you add, giving Din a squeeze as best you can through the thick material at his side in silent approval for his politeness. Evidently, a fake marriage is all he needs to diffuse his jealousy and feel sufficiently superior to your ex-boyfriend. “Can you renew his guest pass as well? It was issued eight days ago, so gonna need a new one now we’re back. It should still show up on my account….”

“Sure.” He taps the pad a few times again and says, “Done. You can pick it up from the security droid on your way down.” You give him another smile and start to move away, but apparently, Taron isn’t done with his questions yet. “So, did you two get married in the forest? Kind of rustic… though I can see how that would work for you.”

This time you hesitate before you answer since no easy response to that question presents itself instantly. But yet again, Din surprises you by beating you to the punch.

“We stayed up by the lake for a few days. Mandalorian weddings don’t need witnesses.” His explanation is simple and perfect. Weirdly, it’s not too far from the truth either. You did comment that the Ewok hut was rather like a rustic honeymoon suite. Your description obviously sank into Din’s subconscious.

Still, Taron doesn’t let the subject go. “And are you guys off on your honeymoon next?”

Once again, Din leads the lie, this time cleverly eliminating any chance of follow-up questions. “Yes. But she doesn’t know where I’m taking her.” His analytical hunter’s brain has quickly determined the best way to derail your ex’s questions whilst remaining polite like you asked.

“It’s a surprise,” you jump in with a smile. When Taron matches your grin, you press ahead, eager to get out of this bizarre conversation that’s sending your head to places you absolutely hadn’t prepared yourself for when you realised this encounter was inevitable. “We’ve got a lot to do, though, so we’d better get on with it. See you later?”

You didn’t mean to make the last bit sound like a question, and you hope Taron won’t be on shift when you depart. Or worse, invite you out for congratulatory drinks.

Your companion takes the cue and steps away, taking your backpack from you and guiding you alongside him before Taron can verbalise a reply, so he’s left to simply raise a hand and wave as you depart, in response to which you throw him another quick smile.

You and your fake husband quickly make it to the security arch on the opposite side of the platform to Taron’s control booth, where the droid issues Din’s renewed guest pass. When you’re finally in the lift descending the long vertical route to the ground floor, you step back and give him an intense look of amused disbelief.

When his visor meets your eyeline, he dips the helmet. You know the gesture means he’s self-conscious, especially when he shrugs like a kid in trouble. “You told me to do whatever I needed to show him you’re mine. It… seemed like the easiest way.” His voice quietens. “Are you mad?”

You laugh incredulously. “No, Din, not at all. You just… took me by surprise. I don’t mind the lie, but he has a habit of asking too many questions, so it might have been better if we’d had time to plan a whole fake wedding story.” Then you add, “Thank you for being polite.”

He acknowledges your thanks with a nod and tells you, “There’s still time to come up with any details; it can work as a cover if we need to speak to security about Ari.”

It’s actually a good suggestion. A bounty hunter wandering around and asking questions - even one with a guest pass - would raise more red flags in the eyes of the security officers than the husband of an employee would. You nod in approval.

“Okay, husband. There’s a lot to do… first, we drop off my stuff at my quarters so I can get changed quickly. Then we can head to the mess hall and ask about Ari. If he’s really missing, we can speak to security and see what they know. If we explain you’re with the Guild and finding people is your trade, they’ll probably welcome your help if I vouch for you as your fake wife.”

“Great, the sooner we locate him, the sooner we can consummate this fake marriage.”

The turbolift doors swish open at the ground floor before you can respond, frozen in a half-surprised-half-aroused stupor. Din snorts and gently leads you from the lift toward the tower’s ground-level exit in the direction of the common building, his large hand on the small of your back a reassuring anchor amidst the emotional soup of your extremely confused brain.

All you know is that you’re just as excited about the play-acting you’ll be doing for this job as you are for the inevitable reward once the job is complete.

Chapter Text

Coming back to your quarters after your four epic nights in the forest is phenomenally strange - like you’re returning to a place from your past that you’ve long since moved on from. Everything is just as you left it, still drab and dull, as if you haven’t spent the last week falling in love with someone. Rude of your quarters to be so unchanged and stoic amidst the life-altering realisations of your last few days.

Din drops your backpack onto the couch and sinks down next to it with a weary sigh. You can relate. Being on high alert for so long is taking its toll on you too. But you have tasks.

Leaving him to relax for a short while, you nip off to the refresher for a quick wash and change of clothes, then you dunk all your dirty laundry in soapy water in the refresher sink and hang it up to dry.

Once you’re feeling a bit cleaner and more composed, your somewhat messy hair now tamed in a ponytail, you offer Din the opportunity to avail himself of the facilities too, but he declines. “I can wait. Need a flight suit without a hole in the leg to change into anyway.”

“Fair enough,” you agree, as you finish re-strapping on your blaster holster and start fixing your vamblade back around your forearm. He still smells pretty good for someone who hasn’t showered since you were last in this room, despite everything that’s happened to him in the interim. Musky, yes, but still somehow delicious to your senses.

“You ready to go to the mess hall?” he asks, standing from the couch and running his gloved fingers along your upper arm.

The feel of the leather drifting gently across your bare skin makes you shiver, and you float closer until he automatically gathers you in his arms with a low hum.

Opening the floodgates to the inevitable sexual culmination of your relationship for those few short minutes earlier has left you keyed up and a little unfocused. You bury your nose in the folds of Din’s cloak at his collarbone and inhale his earthy musk, mumbling, “Feeling very distracted right now… can’t stop thinking about kissing you again.”

Smoothing his hands up and down your back, Din rumbles a sound of agreement but gives you the words you need to hear. “We both know what will happen if we give in now, mesh’la. Controlling ourselves is more difficult now because the primary threat is over. Let’s focus on finding your friend quickly and save the good stuff for later, okay?”

“Mm-hmm,” is all you can manage in response.

He pulls back from you and lifts your chin to look directly at him. “You gonna need a cold shower, or can we get you focused some other way?”

“If there’s another way, please enlighten me,” you plead with both voice and eyes.

Din leads you to the table and gestures for you to sit, sinking into the opposite chair. “Take out your shiv,” he directs.

You slide the slim blade from its sheath on the side of your boot, then look up at him for further instructions.

“You can toss it, right? You did when I gave it to you.”

“Yeah.” You demonstrate and flick your wrist up, letting the blade flip lazily end over end once and catching it again by the handle.

Din nods approvingly. “Double rotation?”

Again you demonstrate, putting more force into the flick now so it rotates twice before you catch it again.

“Triple?”

You grin. You see where this is going; a game of increasing skill focuses you in the right direction. Catching the hilt after three flips, you boast, “Easy.”

“How many can you do?”

“Mm, five, I think.” You successfully demonstrate your claim, and when he gestures for you to keep going, you try for six, but as predicted, it doesn’t go well and the shiv clatters to the table. “If I try to fit in more, it gets too fast to guarantee I won’t catch the blade and cut myself,” you justify. “How many can you do?”

Din extracts his own vibroblade from his boot and easily matches your score of five. Then he demonstrates six, the blade rotating at a much quicker pace than yours, which allows him to fit in a greater number of flips, although he fumbles a little on the catch. “That’s my limit unless I want to risk cutting up my glove,” he explains. “How high can you throw?”

You glance up at the ceiling. “How many rotations?”

“Doesn’t matter; that’s not the goal. How many feel comfortable to reach the ceiling?”

Surprisingly, even with all your melee weapons training, throwing to a designated height is not a skill you’ve ever tried to develop. “Let’s see.” Focusing on controlling the elevation of the toss now rather than the speed, you attempt the task.

You successfully manage to arc the shiv just below the ceiling with two slow rotations, though since your mind was concentrating on something new, it’s a little off-balanced when you catch the hilt.

“Again, with more precision,” Din instructs.

This time, you manage to control both height and rotation perfectly, the shiv making it to the ceiling in one steady spin and landing smoothly in your palm after a second one on its descent.

“Good,” he praises. “Still feeling distracted?”

“A little better, thanks,” you offer with a grateful smile.

He chuckles. “I spent many nights as a horny teenager practising knife skills. If someone’s good with weapons, they’re likely familiar with sexual frustration.”

You match his laugh. “Given how good a shot you are, I imagine there were long sessions at the shooting range too?”

Din nods emphatically. “Anything involving accuracy is a good way to refocus your mind. And if your body needs an outlet, you work out.” He considers something and cautions, “Sparring is only advisable if the frustration isn’t sexual.”

“Ah,” you smile, understanding his implication. “Your guy on Concordia.”

“It was sort of… accidental to start,” he explains quietly. “Then we realised it was more enjoyable than sparring, so fighting became… touching on a couple more occasions.”

Din’s freely offered honesty on a topic you hadn’t anticipated discussing right now is surprising but highly refreshing. You vaguely wonder how far it went, but it seems impolite to ask, so you go with a different question. “Why did you stop?”

“He found someone else to court.” He says it with a shrug and no regret in his tone, but his use of the words ‘someone else’ makes you wonder something.

“Did you wish it had been you?” He doesn’t answer straight away, so you ask another question. “Is your tribe okay with same-sex relationships? I know some religions have certain rules about things like that.”

The helmet nods quite quickly. “It’s completely accepted. Marrying and raising kids is encouraged, but there are no rules about how that should happen or who with. Adoption is so common anyway; any rule about needing to be biologically able to reproduce within a marriage would be pointless. Mandalorians don’t recognise gender differences, only variations in strength and skill. We train by sparring with anyone who is evenly matched, regardless of gender, then we learn how to safely fight those whose strength and skill are disparate.”

Once he’s finished his explanation, you incline your head, waiting patiently for him to answer your original question. You’re not about to push him, but you’re still intensely curious.

Din gives a small huff when he realises you’re using his own trick of staying silent to prompt a response.

It only takes a moment before he relents and replies, “I might have been open to it if he’d wanted to. But in hindsight, I realised it was just because he was one of the few people who actually spoke to me, and the first and only person who’d ever… touched me.” He pauses and then says, “I told you I’ve never had intimacy before… maybe that’s because my first sexual experience was basically being used and discarded. It didn’t upset me, but it did reinforce what I’d always thought - marriage wasn’t what I wanted, and I needed to get out and focus on providing for the tribe instead. I’ve never let myself get close to anyone since. Until you.”

Din’s confession makes you ache a little. Not out of pity, as he clearly neither wants nor needs that, but out of the desire to love him even more than you already do. Or at least make sure he knows how much that is.

“Well, lucky for me, I get to be the one to love you now.” You flip your shiv again, then brandish it and say, “And I’ll cut down anyone who makes my fake husband feel used or discarded or in any way less than the amazing man he is.”

He reaches across the table and envelops the hand that holds the weapon, then says tenderly, “I’m the lucky one. Waiting nearly forty years to find you - to… love you… it was worth every second I spent convincing myself I wasn’t really wishing for this.”

Something extraordinary crystallises inside you as you take in his heartfelt words, and you treasure the feeling. Din hasn’t fully expressed his love in Basic so far, only in Mando’a. It makes your soul soar like a lantern bird, your eyes sparkling and your mouth curling into the sweetest of smiles.

“So… fake wife,” he continues, his thumb brushing the back of your hand. “Do we need to decide on any details of our fake wedding before we begin the new mission?”

You place the shiv on the table and catch his gloved fingers, entwining them together. “You’d better tell me what Mandalorian weddings are like.”

Din launches into it with gusto, like he’s been waiting for you to ask.

“The marriage agreement is called a riduurok, a love bond,” he begins. “There’s no ceremony, just the couple on their own. Vows are exchanged - specific words - then helmets are removed, and they finally know each other completely. After that, they’ll go to the head of the tribe to have the union officially recognised, and then there’s usually a celebration with family or clan members.”

When his fingers twitch between yours, you squeeze back. You know he’s thinking about how his family and clan members are gone.

After a moment, he carries on. “The word for spouse - both husband and wife - is riduur, and it’s used as an endearment for each other. I could… call you it if you want, make it sound authentic to anyone who knows the practice?”

“Riduur,” you echo, and he nods. His suggestion is somewhat pointless since very few people will know of Mandalorian wedding customs. Still, his eager tone shows you it’s a part of this act he’ll get a thrill from if you allow it. “I like that. Feel free to use it.”

Din’s helmet moves in the way it does when you know he’s smiling widely beneath it; a minor lift and a slight wobble as he forgets to concentrate on controlling its movement. He’s definitely enjoying this marriage act.

Truth be told, so are you.

“Do I need to know the vows?” you ask, trying to keep your tone casual to hide your increasing curiosity about the practices. You obviously don’t need that much detail for the lie.

“They’re spoken in old Mando’a; the grammar is a little… vague. You want the closest translation?” Din’s casual offering matches your own. You nod, and his visor fixes on you like a reptavian on a munyip, words slow, tone reverent. “We are united as one when together. We are united as one when apart. We share everything with each other. We will raise children as warriors.”

In the silence that follows, a slight hum of approval bubbles low in your chest. Then you inhale a long breath through your nose, a soft smile breaking onto your lips as you continue to meet your Mandalorian’s hidden gaze. “I’d have to learn it in Mando’a, then?”

“You would just repeat each line as I said it,” he explains, voice still low and smooth.

You nod thoughtfully. It doesn’t escape you that you’ve both moved from speaking about the practice in general terms and are now describing yourselves hypothetically engaging in it. This is some intense rehearsing for your act. It’s almost as if you’re daring each other to see how far you’ll take the lie.

Din squeezes your hand. “What about on Onderon? How do weddings work there?”

Well, this is a tangent, for sure. The lie you’re coming up with involves you having engaged in a Mandalorian wedding since Din already mentioned it in front of Taron, so his inquiry into your own cultural traditions is blatantly irrelevant here. Nonetheless, you indulge his curiosity since he indulged yours.

“It depends on your background. Most people, especially in Iziz, just have the sort of ceremony common for a lot of humans throughout the galaxy - some variation on saying vows before an officiant and witnesses, usually exchanging promise rings. There are changes or additions to the ceremony depending on faith. But for Onderonians with a long ancestry, there’s an ancient practice dating back thousands of years. Apparently, groups of people used to live outside the walled cities in the wilderness and ‘tamed the beasts’.” You give a gentle snort of derision. “I expect most of it is just bantha shit and legend - stories for kids about brave warriors battling monsters. They called themselves ‘beast riders’, but nobody’s ever killed a hragscythe or a drexl to my knowledge, let alone ridden one.”

Din looks enraptured by your tale, leaning forward slightly with his full attention fixed on you, so you take it as encouragement and come around to your main point.

“Anyway, there are still quite a few people who claim to be descended from them, and they usually marry in a ‘binding ceremony’. There’s no officiant and no rings. The couple kneels in front of witnesses, and they wind a white ribbon made of an unbreakable material around each other’s wrists to literally ‘bind’ them together and then drink from the same bowl. I don’t know if there are specific vows; my father never told me that.”

Din tilts his head in silent invitation for you to expand on your last comment.

“My father claimed to be descended from the ‘beast riders’,” you explain with the same derision. You’ve always thought it a silly belief, although you enjoyed his stories as a child. The wild and brave antics of beast riders seemed so fanciful, yet what he told you has never left you. “Even though my mother was from Taanab, she agreed to marry my father in a traditional binding ceremony. Most Onderonians in the Partisans believed in the practice, so I saw a few performed when I was young. I guess living up in the Highlands outside the walled cities made them feel connected to their history. It was the only template I had for weddings until we moved to Iziz when I finally saw how people with a more standard upbringing got married.”

“Do you want to include anything from that in our story?” Din asks graciously.

You begin to shake your head, but then a thought strikes you, and you pause. You unwind your fingers from Din’s and hold up your index to him in a universal ‘one moment’ gesture, then hop up and rummage through a drawer on the other side of the room, eventually finding what you’re looking for and unwrapping it as you sit back down at the table.

Sliding the charcoal-coloured cloth over to him, you explain, “My father gave this to my mother at their ceremony, but she never wore it because it’s too valuable. When I left Iziz for Kayuin, I took hardly anything with me, mainly because we didn’t have much. But this has been in my family for generations… it’s my inheritance.”

Din carefully examines the glittering necklace that lies before him. A circle of gold surrounds an exquisite blood-red ruby, suspended on a white neck band that looks and feels like delicate silk, though it’s many times stronger and cannot be easily cut - the unbreakable ribbon from your parents’ ceremony. An intricate golden clasp joins the band around the neck, allowing the long ends to fall freely down the wearer’s back.

Your Mandalorian looks up at you again, saying nothing. His body is poised as if he doesn’t know what you want him to do, but he has some idea of what he’d like his next action to involve.

Though it wasn’t your conscious intention when you showed him the necklace, you’re suddenly strangely keen to see how far he’ll go with this act. He asked if you wanted to include anything in your shared lie, and you went and fetched a physical representation of marriage as you know it. You’ve never even tried it on, but now…

Do you want to? Yes. You want to wear it.

But you don’t attempt to put it on yourself. Instead, you let your eyebrows twitch up ever so slightly. Your move.

Din gets the message, of course. Communication between you via gesture is becoming so intensely nuanced by this point that it’s a wonder you can’t read each other’s minds.

He swallows and very slowly slips off his gloves, and your heart rate climbs as the leather comes off. His fingers trace the curves of the necklace for a second, giving it the respect that such a beautiful piece demands, and then he gently picks up the band and undoes the clasp.

He looks up at you again, trying to gauge your reaction, yet all you do is part your lips and draw in a breath, holding his gaze just as he held yours earlier when translating the vows.

His movements are unhurried, and you know it’s to give you an opportunity to stop him. But you have no intention of doing so. He stands and steps around the table, halting right behind your chair. Then he slowly lowers the necklace around you, letting the stunning jewel nestle softly on the exposed skin below your collarbones but above where your shirt cuts across your décolletage. He deftly fastens the clasp and gently tucks the flowing ribbon ends into the back of your shirt. Then he steps around in front of you.

And the way he looks at you…

Even the featureless helmet doesn’t stop his wonder and admiration from radiating out of him. “Ner mesh’la riduur,” he breathes.

You know what two of those words mean and can guess the one you don’t. Din just called you his beautiful wife, yet there’s nobody around to perform the lie for. This suddenly feels like more than rehearsing an act, more than subtle dares to each other to test how far you can go at such an early stage of your relationship before it starts to feel premature and stupid.

Your breath catches in your throat. Nothing about this feels stupid.

Whatever this whole exchange was, it certainly wasn’t even close to a wedding ceremony from either of your cultures. Still, your thundering heart and blissed-out brain tell you it definitely meant something.

“Why does it feel like we just got hypothetically married?” you ask, so deeply absorbed in the moment that you don’t even filter your question before it comes out.

But Din answers in an equally unfiltered rumble, filled with emotion and affection. “Because day eight is still too soon to do it for real, so hypothetical is as far as we go for now.”

You’re utterly speechless at his words, but the smile that fills your face echoes your delight at what feels like the promise of a future event. You’re inexorably in love with this man; you’re about to give up your life of six years on Endor to be with him… how could you not want to spend the rest of your life with him?

And he told you back in the Ewok village that his goal for this courtship wasn’t a Mandalorian wedding, but after everything that’s happened since - after his admission that despite growing up feeling marriage wasn’t for him, he had secretly wished for you all along… how could it not be his goal now?

That’s what this was. A promise of sorts. No relationship status change, just a confirmation that you both now see this as long-term. A hypothetical agreement of a future likelihood. Your oddly honest and seemingly over-planned relationship is developing mind-blowingly fast, yet you’re both being so forthright with the potential steps that it doesn’t feel overwhelming at all. At some point, making that commitment official is surely going to happen. It’s no longer insane, simply inevitable if things keep going as they are.

You stand and lay a hand on his cuirass, tracing the hexagonal design in the centre. There’s no need to verbally acknowledge what just happened. “Well, riduur,” you purr. “Shall we get this mission over with so we can progress onto nicer things?”

Din is obviously stunned into silence at hearing the Mando’a term fall from your own lips with no audience. But after a few deep breaths, he composes himself and nods, taking a second to briefly cup your cheek in his bare palm before he reaches for his gloves again.

The two of you exit your quarters hand-in-hand, and before you head to the mess hall, Din asks to stop at the room Nantoogen held you captive in. He slices the door controls, and once the room is unlocked, he tells you to wait while he checks inside, which you’re more than happy to oblige him on. You never again want to see the site of your most vulnerable and terrifying experience to date.

He’s only inside for a minute. “It’s still the same,” he reports as he emerges. “Probably not assigned to him under a guest pass, right? Or they’d have cleaned it when the pass expired.” His implication is that your blood still stains the couch.

You confirm Din’s theory with a stiff dip of your chin, and he picks up your hand again and hurries you away, obviously keen to put some distance between you and the memories.

When you make it to the mess hall, it’s already busy with the dinner shift - not ideal conditions for a subtle investigation. Ari’s booth is worryingly closed up, so you approach the neighbouring vendor, a grey-haired human woman selling fruits and vegetables. Her wares are less popular than those selling hot pre-prepared meals, and there’s no queue to navigate. She smiles as you sidle up to her counter as casually as you can manage, despite the worry coursing through you.

“Can I help you?” she asks politely.

You’ve purchased from her before, and she obviously recognises you since you’ve spent considerable time chatting with her neighbour. “Hi, we were wondering if you know why Ari isn’t serving today?”

“Sweetheart, nobody’s seen him for a fair few days now,” she comments uneasily, and your stomach tightens with dread. “We thought he might have been called off-world on an emergency, but then security came by asking questions. Seems he didn’t leave in a registered transport, so he’s been reported missing.”

You glance at Din, who still holds your hand, and he squeezes it reassuringly. “Okay, thank you. Have a nice evening.”

You begin to move away, but your partner slides a single credit coin across her counter. The woman smiles. “You too, my dears,” she enthuses, palming the coin before returning to her task of portioning out packets of mixed dried fruits, pleased at being paid for her information in lieu of selling her produce. It’s a measly amount, but perhaps a token of gratitude to helpful informants is customary in bounty hunting. Or maybe your Mandalorian has a soft and gooey centre behind all that hard armour.

As you move back toward the mess hall door, your pace picks up with the realisation that Ari really is in danger. This is not good… this is so monumentally not good…

Din tugs you back a little, and you slow to hear what he has to say. “Don’t panic; just breathe. We need to think carefully about the next steps.”

“We talk to security, right?” This was always the next step, you thought.

“We will, yes. But first, let’s plan out exactly what we say and why we’re involved.”

He leads you to an empty table, and you sit shoulder-to-shoulder so you can speak quietly in the relatively crowded hall, leaning in so his modulator is right next to your ear. Nobody’s going to overhear you this time.

“We don’t mention the bounty,” he begins, still not saying his name aloud. “You know why I had to avoid security when I first tracked him here, don’t you?” At your shrug, he continues, “This is a New Republic facility, which means Coruscant has jurisdiction over all crimes at the compound. The security team are independently contracted, but they still report to them. The bounty was here setting up an illegal smuggling operation, so I couldn’t risk it.”

You turn your head to speak close to his audio receiver. “But aren’t you bringing him in for the New Republic anyway?”

“Yes, and that’s the point. If compound security had gotten to him before me, they could’ve figured out his real identity, realised he’s wanted and asked Coruscant to send someone for him. There’d be no need for a bounty hunter to bring him in, and my commission would’ve disappeared. The same is true now. If we say I have custody of someone who may or may not be involved in Ari’s kidnapping, they technically have a right to question him. But I’m not unfreezing that bastard, letting them waste time like that, and potentially losing our payday.”

“Wouldn’t it be useful if we interrogated him ourselves to find out what he knows?”

“He won’t give us anything,” Din assures you. “This is his one bargaining chip, and he won’t give up any real information because it would seal his fate. What he’s already said will be his limit. He probably hoped it would stop us from freezing him, or if not, he’s counting on us being intrigued or confused or inept enough to unfreeze him. But interrogation won’t work on him - we give him no opportunity to bargain with lies. I’ve successfully tracked people when I’ve had less information than this. We look elsewhere.”

You nod, then realise a potential skank in the scud pie. “We need to talk to Suriee.”

“Why?” he asks.

“She probably reported the stolen speeder and might have told them we went out into the forest in pursuit. Even though we said we were looking for Na—” You correct yourself before you mention his name. “—for the bounty to give him an inheritance, we openly admitted to her that the guy we were after was probably who stole the speeder. Plus, she saw that I was injured that morning. We have to find out how much she told security before we start asking them questions. It’s possible they already have their own questions for us.”

“Good catch,” Din agrees. “A speeder theft around the same time that Ari went missing looks suspicious enough to link the two events as it is, so if we’ve been implicated, we could be in trouble.” He sighs. “Let’s get going.”

You both hurry out to the vehicle hangar, settling on more details of your story as you walk, and you quickly find Suriee working in the back on a groundcruiser.

“Goopa, Suriee,” you greet her, and she jumps up and scurries forward, tugging on your sleeves and patting your arms in uncharacteristic delight at seeing you both well.

Din chuckles at her enthusiasm as she lavishes the same welcome on him, now accustomed to the overzealous positivity common to most Ewoks. He doesn’t realise it’s a rare display for this usually grouchy one. He practices his recently acquired language skills with no small amount of pride in his voice, telling her it’s good to see her. “Thees ota yuhyi weechu.”

This makes Suriee squeal in delight and chitter excitedly, her response going entirely beyond Din’s basic understanding, but he nods along anyway. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her so happy - she usually hides her innate exuberance behind her carefully controlled grumpy disposition, adopted (you assume) expressly to fit in at the compound.

“We need your help,” you explain in Basic, hoping your choice to avoid Ewokese for Din’s sake won’t be a problem since she seems so happy to see you.

Her striped fur puffs up in anticipation as she nods eagerly, awaiting your explanation.

“The stolen speeder was unfortunately wrecked by the man who took it, but we can tell you where to find it so it can be recovered and fixed. Ours was also damaged, but your village helped us, and they will bring it up to the lake so it can be collected from there. I met Ykeeni, by the way - she’s lovely.” You give her a broad smile, and Suriee straightens up proudly at the compliment about her niece.

Din takes over. “Did you report the speeder stolen?” When she nods, he asks, “Did you mention us?”

Her reply is lengthy, and of course, Din understands almost none of it. You absorb everything she says before you translate for your Mandalorian.

“All she told them was that we were headed out to see if we could find it. She didn’t mention we were looking for the bounty the day before or anything about the fake inheritance, and she didn’t tell them I was injured that morning.” You address her again. “Teeha, Suriee. Arandee: the man we were chasing is dangerous, and Mando has been after him for months - he’s a bounty hunter. But we’ve caught him now, so that danger has passed. However, we can’t let compound security know we have him in custody because we need to turn him over to the Bounty Guild. You did us a great favour by not mentioning any details about us to them. Weechoo thees jeerota.”

The little Ewok slams into you in a completely unexpected embrace, hugging your waist tightly and muttering how pleased she is that you’re safe. Throwing an incredulous smile at Din, you sink to your knees and hug her back, suddenly a little choked up that you’ll soon be leaving the compound for good. You knew she had a soft side, but she’s never been this affectionate.

Din kneels too, and when Suriee lets you go, he gently lays a hand on her arm and asks, “Have you heard anything about Ari going missing from the mess hall?”

She nods. “Tu ehda chu nim tep?”

“‘Did the bad man take him’?” you translate for Din.

Your partner shakes his head. “No, but a friend of the bad man did. Now we need to find that person so we can find Ari. We want to help compound security but cannot mention the man we’ve already caught. So if they ask you anything, we’d like you to repeat what you already told them: that we were going out into the forest the same morning the speeder was stolen, so we agreed to look out for any signs of it. Then when we came back, we told you we’d found its wreckage, and we gave you the location so it could be salvaged. Will you do that for us? Gyeesh?”

His choice to say please in her own language seals Suriee’s willingness to help. She eagerly agrees, chittering more enthusiasm in your direction since she seems to have realised Din’s understanding remains limited.

“She’s offering to come with us to the security office so we can tell them together what’s happened so far,” you explain to Din.

“Teeha, that’s very kind of you,” Din tells her, which makes the Ewok realise she’s accidentally lost her grumpy disposition, reasserting it with some heavy grumbling.

It only takes Suriee a few minutes to get ready, asking a mechanic to mind the hangar while she’s gone. The three of you then hurry back outside, where the suns have nearly reached the treeline. As you walk toward the security building, the compound’s evenly spaced exterior lights start to illuminate in sequence. Pools of light now push back the shadows that dance in the wake of the setting suns, keeping them at bay.

Din catches your hand again in his, and Suriee looks at the gesture curiously. But if she’s wondering about your relationship, she doesn’t say anything. At least she’s more subtle than Baplim was.

When you arrive at your destination, you enter the small office to find two security personnel on duty. One bored-looking girl of about sixteen with gorgeous green hair sits filing her nails behind a main counter; one moustachioed older man slouches farther back in the room, glaring distractedly at a row of security monitors while scratching his belly. The tableau perfectly represents the compound security force’s typical quiescent policy of laziness.

You approach the girl, wondering if her stunningly beautiful hair is dyed or from mixed genes.

“Excuse me,” you begin, and she looks up at you with a friendly smile. That bodes well - the grumpy guy behind her looks far less congenial, and you’d rather have a painless interaction. “We understand that the Volpai vendor Ari hasn’t been seen in a few days, and we think we might be able to help locate him.”

“Okay,” the girl says brightly, “If you have any information for us, you’ll need to fill in a form, and we’ll review the details and take any necessary action.” She pushes a datapad toward you, but you ignore it.

“It would be better if we could have a conversation and share what we know,” you explain, and the heavyset guy behind her stands up and plods closer with a flicker of interest. “My husband is a member of the Bounty Guild and can help with the investigation - he has over twenty years of experience tracking people, and we’ve already had dealings with one of the people who we think may have taken Ari. We hope to be instrumental in your case if you let us.”

“Lissah, go grab me a caf, sweetheart. I’ll deal with this,” the security guy directs his colleague, waving her out of her seat. She huffs a little and drags her heels as she exits the office, clearly wishing she could hear the information you’re claiming to have on the case. “Come on through and take a seat just there,” he says, pointing to a large table near the back of the office surrounded by six chairs. He is gruff but polite.

You and Suriee sit down as directed, but Din hovers behind you, and you recognise it as a tactic to maintain height and thus control. The security officer glances at him but seems unfazed. He lowers himself into a chair opposite you and takes out a datapad and stylus.

“I’m Officer Dunojussit. I’m aware of Miss Suriee here, our transport manager at the hangar. Are you two visitors?”

“No, Sir, I work here - senior technician 2418-aurek.” You give him your name too. “This is my husband, and like I said, he’s a bounty hunter by trade and is willing to help you.”

“Name?” he asks, clearly a man of procedure over anything else.

Before Din can say anything, you respond on his behalf, eager to keep the interaction pleasant. “As he’s Mandalorian, names are only used among his own people. You can call him Mando on your report.” You hold your breath, hoping it won’t cause any issues, and that the record doesn’t require any chain code scans. But the guy nods, clearly content to have something to enter on the pad before him. It seems his ‘procedure’ is limited to the bare minimum.

Officer Dunojussit strokes his bushy moustache with his stylus. “Right then, Miss, let’s begin by going through what you know, and then that will help me decide if we could benefit from your husband’s assistance.”

When Lissah returns with her colleague’s mug of caf (you assume he must have a night shift coming up), he waves her back to the front desk, where she unsubtly tries to listen in. Her young age and keen interest in what’s going on remind you of yourself during your earliest apprenticeships on Onderon, always eager to be involved in the grown-ups’ discussions.

Din lets you do most of the talking, and you also translate for Suriee, who chimes in with reminders about the report she made of the stolen speeder. Having previously agreed with Din which portions of your story you’ll be fabricating, you state that he had come to the compound to meet you as you planned on going up to the lake for your wedding. When you went to borrow a speeder from Suriee that morning, she mentioned one had been taken, and you promised her you’d look out for it on your travels. You later came across the wrecked bike, and Mando (an expert tracker) managed to follow the thief to the river during the storm, where you were ambushed by the Weequay, but you fought back and won.

At this point, Dunojussit glances up at Din with renewed curiosity, eyeing the blaster on his hip and seeming to suddenly realise that you’re armed too. He shifts uncomfortably, his narrowed stare examining the vamblade poking out from your jacket sleeve, so you continue your story calmly, hoping to steady his nerves and prove you’re no threat.

You tell him the Weequay was the one who shot your husband, and Din unstraps his cuisse to gesture at the dressing beneath the large hole in his flight suit. It’s a planned move to convince the security officer that the Weequay’s death was necessary and occurred in self-defence, which he seems to accept after his eyes widen at the size of the hole in the fabric.

Your next outright lie involves telling Dunojussit that during the fight, the Weequay boasted that she and her associates had taken Ari hostage. Though you knew you needed to report the information without delay, your husband was severely injured, and your speeder had been sabotaged. Luckily, you tell him, Suriee’s tribe rescued you and took you to their village, where their healer helped Mando to recover. They then transported you by Bordok to Mando’s ship so you could fly back here and report what you’d learned, which you did posthaste.

“This is helpful information, Miss. We appreciate you coming forward with it,” the security officer says, seemingly warming up to you more and more as you give him each new detail for his investigation.

“I’ve been friends with Ari for almost six years, so I want to do as much as I can to help,” you enthuse. Then you adopt a forlorn and slightly pleading tone. “Sir, this was supposed to be the best few days of my life - I was planning to have a beautiful forest wedding. Instead, I was attacked and nearly killed after being caught in a storm, my fiancé was gravely injured and had to use crutches at our wedding, and we’ve delayed our honeymoon because our first priority is to find my missing friend.” You spread on the self-pity like thick honey, and it looks like it’s working. “Like I said, my husband tracks people for a living, so we’d like to help even more and be involved in your investigation if you’ll let us.”

There’s a prolonged silence as Dunojussit considers the situation. It’s not uncommon for the compound to work with freelance agents for all manner of jobs - even you were freelance when you arrived - and you can see the cogs turning in his head at your offer.

Then Din speaks up and provides the final nail in the coffin. “I don’t expect to be compensated, Officer. If the kidnappers have bounties on them, I’ll forgo the reward. You have full jurisdiction here. All I want is to get my wife’s friend back safely and to make sure there aren’t any more members of this criminal group running around your compound.”

The officer sits up straighter and nods. “Alright, Mando, I’m convinced. We could use your help on this one - you’re clearly skilled at tracking criminals. If everything this young lady has reported is true, your expertise could greatly benefit the compound.”

You smile gratefully and feel Din’s hand rest on your shoulder, pressing gently, and you raise your own hand to squeeze his fingers in response.

“What’s your recommendation on how to proceed?” Dunojussit asks.

His question doesn’t surprise you. Generally, the security team here has little to do besides break up bar fights and detain the occasional overstayer until they can get them passage off-world. It’s primarily a scientific research base, and whilst you’re aware that illegal activity occurs (having witnessed people high on spice more than a few times), most unsavoury types who turn up here want to lie low and not cause a fuss.

So it’s no shock that Dunojussit immediately defers to Din’s broader experience in a more grievous case such as kidnapping - it’s probably the first genuine criminal investigation this guy has dealt with, despite his relatively advanced years.

“Our best lead is the Weequay,” Din begins, falling instantly and easily into hunter mode. “My wife recognised her as someone who works here, possibly at one of the outposts. If we can identify her, we can start by searching her quarters and finding out who she associates with here - widen the search to identify potential accomplices.”

Dunojussit levers himself out of his chair with a huff and moves over to a bank of computers, the three of you following. Suriee has been quiet, but she looks utterly mesmerised by the events occurring around her, seeming particularly fascinated with how actively you’re leading the interactions. She’s only ever seen you as a salvager or a bored shield technician. You suddenly see yourself from her perspective - newly energised and in control of your life.

You smile internally and silently thank the stars for bringing Din into your orbit.

After searching compound employee records, it emerges that the Weequay was stationed at the abandoned bunker up by the river, a location now used for supply storage. When the bunker was discovered only two years ago, the New Republic annexed it as part of the compound’s territory and claimed all the weaponry inside. It didn’t appear to be Imperial, but it was abandoned, allowing the New Republic reps to declare it their jurisdiction effortlessly. Their assumption was that smugglers had previously used it.

This immediately rings alarm bells for you and Din. After all, Nantoogen has apparently been setting up a new smuggling operation along the Great Gran Run. It makes sense to assume the Weequay and her associates are part of such a network and have secretly reverted the bunker to its prior criminal function. The location also explains how she got the boat out to Nantoogen in time - she would have beaten him there if she’d left from the bunker and travelled directly along the river.

However, the security officer has none of your knowledge surrounding Nantoogen and is thus unable to connect any dots. Instead, he casually reads her employee file aloud.

“Amra Bre, a supplies clerk, came here shortly after the bunker was discovered. Had references from the farming warehouses on Kinyen.” He idly taps a few buttons. “No record of her being in trouble here, though she came forward as a witness to a fight in the cantina last year. No links to anyone flagged on our system, but we can check out the bar fight report for names if need be.” He scans the final page of her file. “Huh, seems her quarters were here rather than at the bunker. Level four, section C, room fourteen.”

You and Din look at each other, and you raise an eyebrow. If you recall correctly, that room is right next to the one in which you were held captive.

“Not far from my quarters,” you say gravely. “I’m in section B. It’s a quiet floor now that the freelance salvagers have moved on. I guess if you’re doing criminal things, it’s a benefit to be quartered in a more private area of the compound. Suddenly I’m less happy about the location of my nice quiet room,” you comment, thinking back to Nantoogen’s attack.

“We can speak to the accommodation office and get you moved down to level three, Miss,” Dunojussit says kindly, and you decide you like the man after all. His initial gruffness has melted away now that he’s on board with your assistance.

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” you assure him. “My husband and I plan to leave Endor once we know Ari is safe. We have a honeymoon to get to.”

Suriee looks up at you sharply, a quiet growl coming from her chest, and you give her an apologetic look. That’s not how you wanted to break the news that you’ll be leaving. She doesn’t say anything, though, and you think her silence might be because she’s a little unsure of exactly how much of what you’re saying is true. She also hasn’t questioned why you and Din keep referring to each other as husband and wife, though you expect her to address that as soon as possible.

Din pipes up with a plan of attack, clearly itching to get going now he’s got a potential location to start at. “I suggest you look into the bar fight and come up with a list of those involved and their current status and locations in the compound. The Weequay likely came forward as a witness specifically to protect someone; that could provide the name of her associate here. I can check out her quarters in the meantime if you’re happy with that?”

Dunojussit nods, obviously glad to take on the task he can perform from his chair while Din does the more active recon. “I’ll give you an override pass to get access.” He takes a blank card from a drawer, scans it against a reader, and then codes it for 4-C-14, suspending the DNA requirement.

Din accepts the pass with a nod and then turns to you. “Riduur, do you want to come or stay here?”

His question is just for show; you both know you’re coming with him, but the performance is required for the security officer. As an employee, you can’t appear to be in any way keen to engage in combat with criminals, as it would cast doubt on your character. Din’s profession justifies his need to carry weapons, but you need to be seen as only wearing yours for defence - not because you harbour a burning need to cut whoever took Ari.

“I’d like to go back to my quarters for a shower, actually,” you say, playing along. “And Suriee probably needs to get back to the hangar. You’ll escort us?”

“Of course,” Din agrees, and Dunojussit nods approvingly, convinced by the show.

“I’m on shift all night,” he tells you. “Report in if you find anything, and I’ll comm you if I get any leads out of all this.” He gestures at the computer where he’s opened the long list of witnesses to the bar fight.

“Thank you, Officer,” Din says warmly with a classic Mandalorian nod.

After you advise your new colleague of your personal comlink code, the three of you exit the building back into the bustling sounds of the forest at night. Lissah smiles at you as you depart, and you chuckle as you see her dart over to her boss with an enthusiastic bounce in her step. You don’t blame her for being excited about something interesting happening at the compound; that was you when you first met Din.

For about a minute after you leave, you all walk in silence while you internally congratulate yourself on remembering to call Din ‘Mando’ for the whole meeting. Then, as expected, once you’re a reasonable distance from the security office, Suriee goes mental, alternating between lecturing you about lying and praising you for your acting. She ends her diatribe by demanding to know how much of what you said was true.

“She wants to know if we’re really married,” you tell Din, stifling your amusement at seeing Suriee so animated. You can’t work out if she’s angry or excited.

“I can answer that,” he says, smoothing his hand along your back and addressing the little Ewok. “Meechoo nuv chaaa.” You smile as he confirms what Baplim asked several nights before, nailing both the correct choice of pronoun and the pronunciation.

Suriee is suddenly silent, confused, right on the cusp of delight, but she looks at you for confirmation.

“It’s true,” you say. “I love him too. But the wedding is a cover. We only met eight days ago - the same night I brought the speeder in when the repulsorlift needed calibrating. I almost ran him over with it.”

As the Ewok starts hopping between her stubby legs in joy at your confirmed relationship, you and Din glance at each other and chuckle at the memory of your first encounter; it seems so long ago now.

Quickly refocusing on the excited mass of fuzz before you, you tell her, “I am planning to leave Endor with him, though. I’m sorry you had to find out like that, Suriee.”

While your first confirmation delighted her, your second definitely tempers her positivity. She looks thoughtful for a moment and then warmly tells you that your choice of this warrior as your mate has shown that you are destined for much greater things than the compound can offer, and she insists you come back and visit her.

You nod eagerly and translate her words for Din, who assures her kindly, “We promise to visit. I have friends in your village now, and I promised them the same. You’ll see us again.”

His pledge makes your heart soar as much as Suriee’s. Once you’ve waved goodbye to your furry friend outside the hangar, you step in front of him and lean in to kiss the beskar helmet where his lips are beneath. But you don’t give him time to ask what that was for (he must realise anyway - he knows you so well), tugging him toward the common building, happier than you can remember being in a long time.

Barely thirty minutes later, your mood has soured.

You and Din have gone through the Weequay’s quarters from top to bottom. Disappointingly, there’s absolutely nothing to suggest she’s in any way affiliated with criminal activities, nor have you discovered any clues as to where Ari might be.

“Karking bantha shit,” you curse, pushing a drawer closed with more force than you intended, having just rifled through the contents to find nothing but clothes. “There’s nothing here, Din. We should be checking out the bunker - that’s obviously where they’ll be. Why are we waiting? Are you just planning to let Officer ‘Do Nothing Just Sit’ eventually stumble his way onto a lead?”

“Dunojussit,” he corrects you with a shake of the helmet, looking up from where he’s diligently checking the couch’s upholstery for anything hidden inside.

You pout at him, your petulant mood evident from your face as well as your choice of words. You would never normally call out anyone’s shortcomings, but you’re frustrated. “I know, but security here barely lifts a finger and it’s always been that way, so my name suits him better.”

Din cocks his helmet and comments, “Is it his fault that his job is limited to sitting and staring at monitors all day? Any crime here seems so well-disguised, I’m surprised they still have a whole team on staff.”

You bite your lip contritely, although you’re good at reading people, and you’re pretty sure that in this case, the man makes the job lazy, not the other way around.

“There’s obviously nothing here,” you repeat, getting back on track. “We should go back to my room and check my comlink to see if Dunojussit has found anything, and then we should go to the bunker.”

Having apparently finished his examination, he smooths off the couch and stands up with a nod. “We can check for messages, and I agree the bunker is probably where Ari is, but we need to be patient.”

“Why? What the hell are we doing wasting time here if we know where to look?”

Din tilts his helmet at your urgency. “Because we don’t rush into potentially dangerous situations based on gut instincts if there’s planning to be done first. Even though we didn’t find anything here, we needed to check it out first. We take each lead as it comes in case it informs the next step.”

Damn his flawless logic and bounty-hunting expertise.

“Ugh, fine. Come on.” You beckon him to follow you out of the room, exhaustion weighing you down as you exit.

You haven’t adequately slept since the night before you captured Nantoogen, and you’re feeling it. Although you’re used to staying awake for long periods thanks to growing up on Onderon, the lack of success at the Weequay’s quarters has caused everything that’s happened over the last two days to catch up with you. You also think your desynchrony feels worse at the compound - perhaps it’s simply conditioned behaviour from trying for so many years to adjust your sleep schedule amidst these grey walls to no avail.

Back in your quarters only one corridor away, you flop onto the couch and wearily peer up at your Mandalorian, trying but failing to stifle a huge yawn.

“Comlink’s over there,” you gesture to a holoprojector currently displaying the local time. As with most of your tech, you salvaged and rewired it for your own use, the main benefit being that when you link up your datapad, you can watch holoshows on it. The integrated comlink blinks with unheard communiqués.

Din presses play, and you curse again as three voice messages from your boss get progressively angrier with each work shift you’ve missed. You only had one day off, which you spent venturing out into the forest. Counting the day of the storm, the two subsequent days in the village, and the day spent travelling from ship to ship and then back to the compound, you’ve now missed four shifts. He evidently only waited for one before trying to chase you down.

“Kriff, maybe I won’t have to quit after all - sounds like he’s ready to fire me.”

The comlink switches off with no message from Dunojussit yet, and Din moves to the couch, lifting your legs out of the way and sitting down heavily, then pulling them back over his lap. He kneads your calves through your trousers and then starts to unfasten your boots.

“Why… what?” You’re having trouble making sense now, partly due to tiredness, partly because you’re frustrated at the lack of progress in finding Ari, and also because his hands feel so good against you. Finally, you manage, “You’re meant to be explaining your awesome plan for investigating the bunker, not making me more comfortable.”

Din hums and slips off your boots, running his gloved thumbs along the arches of your feet, sparking bliss in your aching body. “We’re both exhausted, cyar’ika; we both need to shower and sleep. We could make a mistake if we go on a recon without proper rest. At best, that means they might get away; at worst, someone could get hurt or killed. It’s better to investigate the bunker early in the morning when it’s more likely to be quiet. It’s, what, just under five hours before the suns rise? I can get back to the Crest, shower, change, and be back here in half an hour, and you can get yourself in the ’fresher while I’m gone. Three hours of sleep is enough to recharge us, and we’ll be alert enough to check it out just before the suns come up.”

He makes an awful lot of sense, you have to admit. But a whimsical part of you also imagines he can control your mind simply by doing what he’s doing with his thumbs on the pads of your sore feet. Right now, you’ll probably agree to do anything he says. “Mm-kay, your plan is agreeable,” you mumble.

“Good,” he pats your legs and then jumps up. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

When he sees you’re not moving, Din walks into the refresher and switches on the shower, then tugs you up from the couch, steering you forward in front of him until you’re standing before the running water. He then peels off your jacket and lets his arms drift around you from behind. When his fingers move to the fastening on your pants, you’re instantly wide awake again, and as soon as he notices, he withdraws his hands with a chuckle.

Before he departs, however, he rumbles into your ear, “Take off your clothes and shower, mesh’la. I’ll be back soon.”

A tiny sensible brain cell in the back somewhere knows full well that’s not a promise of anything sexual happening tonight (kriff, you’re probably too tired anyway), but it gives you enough of a jolt to get yourself moving.

Once Din has gone, you strip down and step under the steaming hot spray, profoundly appreciating the comforts of indoor plumbing after your five days and four nights in rustic surroundings. Washing your hair is utterly blissful, and you also take the opportunity to run your groomer across any places you think could do with a tidy.

You wonder if Din is similarly preparing himself for your upcoming celebration. You accept that it’s not happening as soon as he returns, but somehow taking steps to spruce yourself up for it gives it a more tangible feel than it’s had throughout much of the hunt. However, your fatigue keeps the simmering heat of excitement at bay for now.

After towel-drying your hair and thoroughly cleaning your teeth and mouth with your ultrasound cleaner, you throw on some comfortable sleepwear. Even though Din said you’d only be resting for three hours, you’d like those hours to be as relaxing as possible. Safely storing your mother’s necklace in its usual drawer, you drop the couch into its bed configuration and pull out the bedding from underneath, and when there’s still no sign of your Mandalorian once you’ve tucked everything in place, you use your salvaged heat dryer to remove the remaining dampness from your hair.

Just as you’re looking at the chrono on your holoprojector and wondering whether when Din said half an hour, he meant three-quarters, there’s a tap on the door.

You want to assume it’s him, but your caution has increased since your attack just down the hall, so you step close to the door and call loudly, “If that’s you, riduur, your guest pass gives you access to my quarters.”

A second later, there is a beep as the door unlocks, swishing open to reveal your Mandalorian resplendent in a dark taupe flight suit and smelling like fresh air. All his armour and weapons are still present, but he seems more relaxed than you’ve seen him since that first lazy evening you spent holed up together at the village when he was floating from his medication.

“I thought resident access was DNA-coded?” Din says before you can greet him.

“It is,” you assure. “You didn’t see me put my hand on the sample pad both times the droid issued your pass?” You hold it up so he can see the discoloured scuff on the heel of your palm where the skin sample was taken.

“You gave up your DNA for me the day we met?” He sounds incredulous.

“Lucky for me, you turned out to be worth it,” you quip. “Feeling better?” You step out of the way so he can enter.

“So much. You?”

The door swooshes shut, and you drift over to the bed. “I admit your idea was good. After everything we’ve gone through in the past few days, I’ve never enjoyed a shower that much.”

Din hums an emphatic agreement. At least you got to wash up in the lake; this was his first chance to get properly clean after fighting a gurreck, being soaked in a storm, taking a blaster bolt to the thigh, and then enduring a violent and dirty fight. He must barely sweat if he can maintain only a slight musk after all that.

Now, though, he smells deliciously fresh.

“All I need now is my Mandalorian and a comfy place to sleep for a few hours.” You look at him and incline your head toward the bed, and he steps over to the end of it.

He pauses for a moment but then removes his gloves, jetpack, cloak, belt, bandolier and boots, though he keeps all his beskar attached. “Three hours, okay? I’m setting an alarm.”

“Mm-hmm,” you agree lazily, sinking down to the bed on your usual side and slipping under the blanket, your eyes half closed as you fumble for the light control on the wall by your head.

After a moment, you feel the blanket shift as Din climbs on from the end and crawls his way up beside you. The first night you slept here with him, your positions were reversed since you shifted over to the side blocked off by your cabinet to allow him room to slide on. But every subsequent time you’ve lain together, he’s been to your left, so you guess you’ve now officially adopted a sleeping configuration. It’s funny - you’ve never had that before; you’ve always just fitted in where you were told to by whomever you shared a bed with.

What an odd yet delightful epiphany of domestic fulfilment.

As Din shuffles his way beneath the blanket, you don’t move, knowing that nothing carnal is on the cards right now and content to let him get as close as he wants to or maintain a specific distance. Usually, you would turn toward him and snuggle into his side, but this time he rolls you to face away from him and fits himself along your back, one arm snaking beneath your pillow, the other coming to rest over your midriff where he kneads your flesh briefly before flattening his palm against your stomach above your sleep shirt. He’s not holding you tightly so the beskar doesn’t dig in, but you can feel his strength and warmth like an extra blanket.

You know his leg injury prevented him from adopting this position before, but you’re suddenly sad it’s taken this long to get here. You love the feeling of being spooned, and you quickly begin to spiral into the blissful darkness of sleep.

A stubborn echo of awareness fights to stay vigilant in case of danger, but your fatigue quickly forces you to give yourself over to the dream realm. You’re almost there when the single brain cell still awake acknowledges warm breath on the back of your neck, and you realise in your half-dreaming state that Din has lifted his helmet. You feel warm lips press gently against your skin right where your neck meets your shoulder, and his kiss seals your blissful departure into slumber.

Although the last words you hear before sleep claims you are in Mando’a, that ever-helpful brain cell manages to correctly interpret this one beautiful phrase.

“Ni kar’tayli gar darasuum, riduur.”

Chapter Text

The alarm Din has set wakes you when it’s still dark out, allowing you sufficient time to prepare before the suns are due to start their ascent. Your companion quickly silences the beeping on his vambrace, then rises seemingly without any stiffness or lethargy, something you’re highly envious of as you battle to bring your mind back to a fully conscious state.

He flicks on the lights via the control behind the bed, and you groan as he prods you like an over-keen child to its parent until you finally sit up and slap away his hand. “Okay, okay, I’m up. I might need caf, but I’m up.”

“Need to teach you how to recharge on short naps,” Din says, pulling the blanket off your body. “Go get changed, cyar’ika.”

“Trust me, I’m more than willing to learn that skill,” you tell him as you lever yourself off the bed and grab the outfit you set out only a few hours before. “I’ve had a love/hate relationship with sleep since I moved here.”

Din starts tucking the blanket neatly back onto the bed as soon as you’ve heaved yourself to your feet. “Travelling to different planets makes keeping a regular sleep pattern impossible. I rest whenever my body needs it. If you come with me, you’ll adapt much easier than you have to Endor’s rotation period; this is clearly too short for you. The constant fatigue will go once you abandon a pattern and allow yourself to recharge when needed.”

“Can’t wait,” you blink owlishly before darting into the refresher to quickly prepare yourself.

You surprise yourself with your efficiency, and soon enough, you and Din are exiting your quarters and stumbling into the turbolift to the ground floor.

“How far is it to the bunker?” Din asks when you’re inside the lift.

“Over an hour on foot, but if we grab a speeder, we can probably be there in ten minutes.”

He grunts. “Won’t the vehicle hangar be locked up?”

“Suriee gave me the door code. I’ve had a few early salvage runs in the past. As long as I check one out properly, it’ll be fine.”

You had decided against caf as soon as you were fully alert, so when the lift doors swish open, you turn away from the mess and head out of the building into the artificially lit compound again. There’s a chill in the air from a light rain that fell as you slept, and you shiver a little as Din turns in the direction of the vehicle hangar and starts walking briskly.

“We’re not giving security a heads up first?” you ask, skipping along next to him.

“No, we should get there as soon as possible. If my hunch is right, we should go in quickly and quietly. Alerting security could make them run.” He squeezes your hand. “You need to be ready for a fight. We have no fob. We don’t know who’s inside or how many there are. We don’t know the layout, and if Ari’s there, we have no clue where to find him. It’s underground, so it’s impossible to take accurate thermal scans from the outside. These disadvantages combined warrant extra caution. The objective is to recon the perimeter, find an entry point and breach it quietly. Once we’re down in the bunker, I can do some scans. We try to locate Ari first and secure him. If they’re holding him there, all personnel will likely be aware, but anyone who tries to stop us must be taken down non-lethally. We can’t know for sure they’re not being coerced. Do you know how many are stationed there?”

It all sounds intimidatingly challenging to you, but you’re bolstered by Din’s confidence in having you undertake this mission at his side. He obviously thinks you’re up to it. “As far as I know, since it’s only used as storage, there’s probably only a small team, which would mean between two and four. But if it’s back to being used as a smuggler’s base, they could have snuck in others, right?” He gives no response, which confirms your suspicion.

You reach the vehicle hangar and tap in the code for the gate, pulling it open just wide enough to get a speeder through before stepping into the dark hangar. Finding Suriee’s datapad on her desk, you scan your pass and select the speeder in bay two (another 74-Z, your favourite model), then push it out of the hangar and close the gate behind you.

Din lets you take point since you know the way, but he cautions you as you both climb on. “Stop a few minutes’ walk away, or they could hear us if they have patrols outside. We’ll conceal the speeder and recon on foot. Keep your baton handy - it’s quiet. No blasters unless we have absolutely no other choice, okay?”

“What are you gonna use?” you ask as you start the speeder and pull your goggles over your eyes.

He wraps his arms around you and rumbles his reply into your ear. “My fists.”

Tamping down the slightly confusing burst of arousal that his answer gives rise to, you set off toward the bunker at a steady pace, following the headlamp as it lights the trail in front of you.

When you reach your destination, Din quickly conceals the speeder off the path, and you trudge for several minutes into the thick damp foliage on foot. He’s timed it well; dawn threatens, but the suns are still below the horizon, so the sky has brightened just enough for you to see the looming bunker amongst the trees.

The aboveground section consists of large twin structures, a fair distance apart at ground level but connected by the underground warehouse below. As you creep through the dim forest, you can tell Din is not pleased that there are two points of ingress. Your mind makes the same connections as his obviously has: you could breach one, and they could escape out of the other.

You stalk the perimeter of the buildings together, and he periodically stops and scans them from different angles, trying to get as much data as possible. You don’t see anyone outside, though the surrounding vegetation is thick enough to conceal the structures effectively, meaning a lookout would be somewhat useless. Eventually, he leads you back to the path, and you regroup by the speeder.

Din is obviously frustrated by the recon, and you wait patiently with an open expression for him to share his conclusions.

“I didn’t detect anyone on the ground level, so they must all be below, but… I’m having second thoughts about this. We may need security to help us after all,” he tells you after huffing a little to himself. “There are two routes in, so we should have two teams to prevent them from escaping.”

Ah, so it’s as you thought. Just how crazy do you want to be here? You think of Ari, already missing for so many days, potentially subject to the same kind of beating Nantoogen gave you when he took you hostage. It’s your fault he’s in this mess.

You make up your mind.

“There’s two of us, Din. We each take an entry point, quiet like you said. Okay, so we don’t know the exact layout, but we do know it has a big warehouse they’re using as storage. And we know it’ll have smaller rooms because they can’t station a team out here without facilities. Based on how big the doors on the front are, there’s likely a cargo lift in each one to bring large goods down to the warehouse, which means there’ll be emergency stairwells too. Those are always small - they’ll give good cover. We get down to the bottom and check whatever we come across, take out anyone we find, and then make our way toward each other, sweeping as we go. We meet in the warehouse; if we haven’t found Ari by then, that’s where he’ll be. If the lifts go straight into one huge warehouse, we’ll each sweep our respective sides and check any rooms that lead off. I don’t think it’s that big, though, from what I remember hearing about it when it was discovered.”

It’s still dark beneath the heavy canopy where you’ve concealed the speeder, but there’s just enough ambient light for you to see Din’s beskar clearly. He stares at you a moment, then shakes his head, and you think he’s disagreeing with your suggested plan until he breathes one word. “Ramikadyc.”

Recognising it as the concept he told you about when you were en route to intercept Nantoogen - the focused state of mind where you know your goal will be achieved - you give him a firm nod to show you’re more than ready to do this with him.

All your experiences in your time spent with this warrior have provided you with plenty of tools to control your fear and nerves. You take those feelings of doubt and ball them up as kindling, set fire to them, and leave them burning in your gut, fuelling your desire to see this mission through and rescue Ari.

Then Din tells you what’s going on in his own head. “Remember I told you that partners on the battlefield can basically read each other’s minds?” You nod. “The strategy you just described is exactly how I would go about it, even down to your analysis of stealth advantages. I don’t want to put you in danger… but I trust you, and you’ve just proved to me you can handle this. But if anything goes wrong, you scream for me, okay? The place isn’t big enough that I won’t hear. You scream, and I’ll come as fast as I can. Promise me.”

“I promise, Din.” You lay your hand on his cuirass, tracing the hexagonal design there.

“Close your eyes, riduur.”

When you comply with his request, you feel his glove on your cheek and hear his helmet seal release. He angles your head before slotting his mouth against your own, which tells you he’s only lifted the beskar partway. Nevertheless, the kiss he gives you is infused with just as much blazing courage as the other pre-battle kisses you’ve shared. The intensity is there, but this is slower than the others, harder, somehow more resolute - a certainty behind it that almost makes it feel more like a gesture of support between comrades rather than the desperate seeking of strength and connection between lovers that it’s been before this.

As with the other kisses you’ve shared before undertaking a mission, there is no trace of sexual desire. You’ve both successfully compartmentalised it enough that kisses of this nature simply don’t stoke those feelings; you’re more likely to lose focus from a flirty comment than this sort of connection. This merely binds you together as partners on the battlefield, like you’re syncing chronometers.

You keep your eyes tightly closed when Din withdraws, realising that this is the first time he’s lifted the helmet when standing in front of you without you wearing the blindfold. Before you tackled Nantoogen, he stood behind you and kissed you over your shoulder, and he even covered your eyes with his hand the first time.

Now, though, he seems confident you won’t betray his trust and open your eyes before he can pull the helmet back down, even if it would only be a shadowed glimpse of his mouth and chin under the grey early morning light.

When you hear his helmet reseal, you pull him in again and rest your forehead against the beskar separating you. Inhaling deeply, you savour his fresh scent combined with the invigorating aroma of the damp forest, then whisper, “I’m focused,” and he squeezes your hand in approval.

You weave back toward the bunker and silently separate with a mutual nod when you get close, each heading toward one building. Approaching the entry point, a door with a pass-scanner on the rear wall, you ready yourself for your first challenge.

You didn’t discuss how to breach the bunker, though you know Din has his scramble key if he needs it. He handed you a glowrod, several zip ties, and a mine as you approached, but blowing the door would ruin any chance of stealth.

Hoping to conquer this first task effortlessly, you pull out your full-access employee pass.

Carefully and quietly, you hold your pass up to the scanner, and the panel gives a muted beep and lights up green. Thank the stars for the New Republic’s blanket aurek-tier access to communal work buildings. You’ve never been so pleased about having achieved senior status in a job you hate.

But nothing happens. Looking closer, you spot a metal handle, indicating it’s an old-fashioned hinged door - something you’ve only ever seen in museums. How old is this place? It must be hundreds of years, at least; even the old Republic had recessed sliding doors.

After a second, you realise that the lock has simply disengaged with the beep, and you must manually push it open. You do so slowly, using it as cover as you silently step inside. Although Din’s scans didn’t detect anyone on this level, you can’t be sure that nobody’s come up since then.

It’s dimly lit inside, with duracrete walls rising to the sides and a large metal roller door directly opposite you to the front. You can see the cargo lift in the centre, and to your immediate right, you’re pleased to spot duracrete steps descending in a spiral square, just as you’d hoped.

With your baton in hand, you slowly sneak toward the stairs, padding quietly so your boots make no noise on the stone-like floor. The smouldering anxiety inside you licks at your gut. Your heartbeat increases; a sheen appears on your forehead. Still, you focus on your goal and channel your concentration into the success of this mission.

At each turn of the stairwell, you pause and listen before stepping around the next corner, descending with silent caution. Blessedly, you reach the bottom of the steps without encountering any surprises or individuals. Thank the kriffing stars.

You’re further relieved to note that your first assumption about the layout was correct: the bunker consists of a central warehouse with two ‘wings’ on either side, giving you and Din each a smaller space to clear quietly before breaching the warehouse itself where cover isn’t guaranteed.

A wide corridor stretches away from your position, and you count two doors on each side, plus a massive double set at the far end - presumably leading into the warehouse. Pulleys along the ceiling run from where the cargo lift descends into the corridor and continue through the warehouse door.

However, your attention is caught by the dim light that filters out from beneath one of the four side doors. It’s on the opposite side of the corridor to where you stand in the stairwell, the closest door to the warehouse. That logically means it should be the last door you check if you’re going in sequence, and you hang back in the stairwell for a few moments, considering your options.

If you pass by the other doors and miss something, you could be ambushed from behind. As much as your brain is telling you to check out the most likely location to find either Ari or someone else you need to subdue as quickly as possible, you know you need to be cautious and methodical.

Silently, you slip out of the stairwell and creep to the closest door. There are no internal locks, and these are also swing doors, so you grasp the handle and depress it slowly, pushing it open and keeping your baton at the ready, using the door to shield yourself as you step into the room beyond.

It’s empty. Quarters, it looks like, based on the metal cot against the dingy wall. It smells disgusting in here; obviously, there’s no cleaning crew. The rank odour of the musty unwashed personnel who must periodically sleep in here assaults your nose and creeps inside your throat. Despite that, you’re pleased that the smell is the only thing you must combat for now.

One down, three to go.

Glancing back into the corridor and seeing nothing new, you step out and shut the door silently behind you, then dart to the other side of the hall, repeating the exercise with the room directly opposite.

Another empty set of malodorous quarters. You’re halfway there.

Next is the door opposite the one with the light underneath, and as you quietly but swiftly pad along the corridor, you think you can detect sounds from inside the lit room. A shuffling, a grunt. Possibly more than one person.

You reach the darkened door and once again depress the handle smoothly, shielding yourself from anything inside with the hinged door. But you’re acutely aware that there’s likely danger directly at your back, so when the light spilling in from the corridor doesn’t show any immediate signs of life inside, you step in and push the door partially closed behind you, planning to use the empty room to collect yourself in before you launch your potential attack across the hall.

Something creaks in the corner of the dark room, and you almost yelp in alarm, but you turn your body toward the sound and hold out your baton in readiness. It’s a second cot, you realise, pushed right into the corner behind the door.

And someone is lying on it.

Adrenaline shoots through your body, and you immediately adopt a fighting stance, baton gripped firmly as your eyes slowly adjust to the dim light spilling in from the corridor through the now narrow gap in the door. And your brain slowly makes sense of what you’re seeing, disbelief trying to contradict what your eyes are telling it.

Four arms, bound behind a back. An elongated head, gagged and blindfolded. The frame is tall and wiry, facing the wall on its side, bound legs too long to fit on the cot and dangling off the end.

This is a Volpai.

It’s Ari.

You’ve found him!

Quickly, you silently close the door behind you and plunge the room into total darkness again, reaching for the glowrod Din gave you and snapping it as quietly as possible. Ari flinches as he hears the crack, but he makes no effort to move away or emit any sound through his gag.

You approach your friend with soft steps; the only noise you make is to gently shush him as you lay down the glowrod on the cot and start to untie the wide blindfold. You need him to see you first so he’s not scared, but you can’t speak since you don’t know whether that might attract attention. He flinches again when he feels your fingers undoing the knot, but eventually, you loosen it enough to pull it off his high forehead. You stand above him, placing a finger over your lips and waiting for him to look up and see you.

But he doesn’t look. Doesn’t turn. He keeps his four eyes shut tight and huddles into the cot like a frightened animal. The karking mudscuffing bastards; what the hell have they done to him to terrify him so intensely?

Gently, you lay your hand on his shoulder and give a supportive squeeze, and you see the skin around his scrunched-up eyes smooth out very slightly in surprise, but he still doesn’t open them.

You’ll have to risk it.

You kneel down next to him. “Ari,” you whisper as quietly as possible, a mere breath into the bunker’s darkness, two syllables letting him know that the person with him is a friend.

His head turns toward the sound of his name, and at last, his eyes blink open - primary pair, then secondary set. Then they widen. And they glisten.

You nod at him as his face crumples into an overwhelmed and disbelieving expression, giving him a thin smile and fixing your finger over your lips again. When he nods his understanding, you quickly undo the gag, then take your shiv and cut through the ropes binding his two sets of arms and his legs. You’re glad he’s not in binders since you have no tool to release those, but these criminals have apparently just utilised some spare rope from the pulley system to subdue their prisoner.

Once unbound, he carefully sits up, clearly in intense pain around his midsection, and you realise they must have focused their beatings there. His face looks relatively unscathed, at least. He raises his top pair of arms and grasps your shoulders firmly, staring at you intensely and raising his primary left eyebrow in a silent question. What the hell are you doing here?

You bring the glowrod next to your face and mouth one word to him: Mandalorian.

The boundless smile that breaks open your friend’s countenance makes your heart swell.

You quickly pick up Ari’s lower right hand and curl two of his three massive fingers around your shiv. It’s far too dainty a weapon for his bulky hand, but you hope it will give him an advantage if needed.

Another thought occurs to you just before you stand back up. You bring the glowrod to your mouth again and silently move your lips in a crucial inquiry: how many?

Ari’s hand taps against your arm six times, and you nod, grateful for the information. You point at the door and shrug, trying to indicate you need to know how many are across the hall, but he matches your shrug. Your friend has been blindfolded, so whilst he may recognise voices and be able to identify how many captors he’s had, he won’t know where they routinely position themselves.

You pat his arm and silently mouth one last instruction: stay here.

He gives you a worried nod, and you stand back up and move over to the door, putting your ear against it and hearing nothing, then quietly cracking it open again.

All is as it was before.

You wonder how Din is doing on the other side of the bunker. It may have taken him longer to get in if he had to slice the door lock. But presumably, your partner hasn’t come across a hostage to unbind… unless the bastards are holding other poor souls captive as well as your friend. But if he hasn’t been slowed down by any combatants, then you estimate he should be at the warehouse by now. You haven’t heard any fighting or yelling, so he’s either maintained the stealth aspect or hasn’t encountered anyone yet.

Kriff, you hope all six smugglers aren’t in the room directly opposite you. The thought disturbs you, but Din did say he would come running if you screamed, and you’re confident he can’t be too far away by now.

You emerge into the corridor again and approach the door on the other side, stepping up silently and straining to hear anything from behind the durasteel. It sounds like heavy breathing, and you hope that means whoever is inside is either asleep or terribly unfit. Then you hear shuffling and something almost clomping, and you’re forced to abandon the idea of the occupant(s) being asleep.

They sound large.

You flip the switch on the hilt of your baton, realising that as fit as you are, you probably don’t have the strength to bring down someone with just a strike of your unelectrified weapon without knowing you have a clear shot at their knees (and that doesn’t work on all species anyway). The rooms are not exceptionally spacious, so you’d rather have the certainty the electro aspect of the weapon gives you. The tip now crackles menacingly, and you swallow your unease and get ready to swing open the door.

Your movement is quick since you know there’s someone inside, and you want as much time to see them before they see you. Throwing the door open, you step through it and see…

Oh fuck it’s a fucking Wookiee.

Nope, you’re not that insane. You turn and run.

Whoever or whatever is waiting in the warehouse can’t possibly be as terrifying as a hundred and fifty kilos of pure muscle and aggression that you know you have absolutely zero chance of taking on - your shock baton would merely tickle it.

You hurtle as fast as you can toward the large double doors at the end of the corridor, acutely aware that the Wookiee is in pursuit, quickly shutting off the charge in your weapon but keeping it in hand.

Shit shit shit, what the fuck should you do?

Part of you debates screaming for Din, but you don’t want to seem weak and rely on him too heavily. Plus, you need to assess your situation first; there could be a way out of this, and Din could already be in the warehouse anyway. You crash through the doors, which blessedly open without protest, and you immediately make a sharp left turn, where you can see aisles of tall shelving units filled with crates. There are shelves to your right as well, but they look emptier, and the adrenaline coursing through you allows you to act instantly on the information fed to your brain by your eyes, propelling yourself toward your best chance of cover.

The Wookiee bellows as it makes it through the doors not far behind you. If your swift entry into the open space hasn’t already been noticed, anyone in here will certainly know something’s up now. You didn’t spot any noticeable personnel as you came in, but it’s not like you’ve had much time to look around. On the plus side, Din probably heard it too.

Unfortunately, you fail to conceal yourself before the Wookiee comes crashing into the warehouse, and it spots you fleeing into the high rows of metal shelves, thundering directly after you like a railspeeder.

Your only advantage is that you’re smaller than this shaggy brown behemoth. It’s over two metres tall and so thickly muscled that you think your only chance is to find a space in the shelves wide enough to crawl through but narrow enough to either trap it or discourage it from following. Easier said than done. Plus, if it caught you as you crawled through, you’d be done for.

The aisles are long, and when you reach the end of the first, you skid around into the parallel one, legs burning in agony, hoping the quick direction change will gain you some distance as mere seconds later, the Wookiee hurtles to the end and virtually slams into the wall before setting off after you again, earning you perhaps an additional five seconds. You’re acutely aware that although you’re technically faster than the lumbering brute, its long legs still allow it to keep up. You need to do something, but you’re moving too fast to put any kind of plan into action with it hot on your heels.

Then your day gets even fucking worse.

As you careen along the second aisle back toward the central clearing of the warehouse, a Trandoshan steps out at the far end and raises a blaster. Instinctively, you dodge to your left to avoid the shot that skims burningly close to your face, and you hear a howl behind you as the bolt hits the Wookiee instead of you. It doesn’t improve your situation much, however, merely gaining you a little extra distance from your pursuer as it reels from the friendly fire.

And you’re still running directly toward an armed Trandoshan.

You’ve got to be fucking crazy. The Mandalorian concept of ramikadyc is not supposed to be a death wish! Din will be livid with you unless you do something cleverer.

The Trandoshan starts to line up another shot, but you spot an opening in the lower shelves where a crate is missing from both sides, and you dive through. The space is large enough that the Wookiee will likely be able to pursue you through, although with significant difficulty, given its size. You roll quickly to your feet on the other side and set off again, knowing the enraged shaggy beast will at least be slowed down somewhat by having to clamber through the shelves with its large and heavy bulk.

You’re almost to the end of the aisle when the Trandoshan steps out in front of you again and fumbles with its blaster, trying to line up another shot, much closer now. You hear the Wookiee bellow again behind you as it continues to awkwardly clamber through the narrow gap in the shelves, the sound of a massive slamming paw suggesting it’s got itself caught on something and is desperately attempting to escape. At least it’s been slowed by the need to crawl and by whatever has snagged its thick hair, hopefully gaining you maybe another thirty seconds on your current lead of about half that amount, effectively tripling your slight advantage.

As you’re steeling yourself to attempt the utterly insane action of dodging a close-range shot so you can try and take out the Trandoshan’s knees with your baton, you see something impact the green scales on the side of its head, making it turn toward the unseen attack and blessedly giving you the few seconds you need to slide forward and crash your baton into its target. The large lizard creature stumbles but doesn’t go down, but you’re past it now, and your battle-focused eyes catch the shine on the floor. It’s your shiv.

In a split second, you understand what’s happened, even before you glance up and see Ari there, a few paces away with his lower arms wrapped around his abdomen, your absolute saviour with his well-timed distraction.

But you have no time to waste at all, grabbing your shiv in your other hand before standing upright again, keeping your stance ready as the Trandoshan wheels around to face you. It tries to bring its blaster to bear, so you duck and weave like your parents taught you, batting the blaster away with your bracer and delivering a swift knee to the groin which makes it double over (a male then, you guess), and as it comes forward, you thrust the shiv upward into the underside of its jaw - the softer scales at its neck being the only location you know a blade will penetrate.

Green blood spills on your hand as you yank it back out, the creature howling in pain and thrashing its arms. It lands a hard strike against one of your shoulders, sending the shiv clattering back to the ground. Your vamblade is longer but thinner and could snap against its scales, and you don’t have time to extract your petar from its double-ended sheath and get your fingers through the grip. Your best and only remaining melee option is the baton still in your dominant hand. Quickly flicking on the electric charge, you lunge for the gash on its neck, unsure if its thick skin will protect it but hoping electricity to an open wound will be the key.

It is. The reptilian convulses and drops to the floor, unconscious and bleeding heavily. That’s one down.

But the Wookiee has finally made it through the shelves and is clambering to its feet, now only about twenty seconds away from reaching you. Your shortcut brought you some extra time, but not nearly enough to escape.

“Find Mando!” you yell at Ari. You let go of your baton and unholster your blaster, swiping the Trandoshan’s off the floor and turning toward the thundering wall of brown hair approaching you.

Din said to only resort to blasters if absolutely necessary. As you sight your target along the rangefinder of your weapon, you think this definitely qualifies.

The sickening question of your mortality greets you head-on, but somehow you welcome it like an old friend and allow it to steady your hands as you pull the triggers of both weapons, utterly determined to go down facing your enemy and fighting to the bitter end.

Whilst the unfamiliar blaster in your non-dominant hand delivers a wide shot, your first bolt with your own blaster catches its shoulder, making your attacker bellow once again but not slowing it down in the slightest. Your instantly fired second bolt impacts its hip or somewhere thereabouts, causing it to stumble slightly and buying you perhaps another few seconds before you’ll be torn limb from limb, the other shot once again going wide of the target.

Then a third shot lands dead in the centre of its chest, but it wasn’t fired by you, and a fourth and fifth come immediately on its heels, matching its trajectory. Not wasting a second, you continue to squeeze off successive rounds of your own, some missing their target but most landing sloppily across the looming bulk that now falters in its roaring approach, and your Mandalorian steps up next to you shoulder-to-shoulder, both of you unloading bolt after bolt into the Wookiee until it finally crashes heavily to the floor a mere metre away from you, quiet at last.

The sudden silence is jarring.

“Thanks,” you breathe heavily, shakily, not quite letting yourself believe how close you just came to a gruesome death and not taking your eyes off the twitching but apparently unconscious Wookiee. You think if you look at Din, you might lose the fragile focus you’ve still got right now. Your thumping heart is being held together by nothing more than adrenaline and your ardent hope that this means the mission is complete. You don’t want to risk the state of ramikadyc you’re still grasping at until you know all threats are accounted for.

As if he can read your mind, Din is all business too. “Bind the Trandoshan; I’ll get the Wookiee,” he instructs. “They don’t tend to stay down, even after that many shots.”

You stumble toward the Trandoshan on the floor and note the sticky green blood seeping from its neck is already beginning to clot. It’s definitely unconscious, but it’s still very much alive - the wound you inflicted was severe but not mortal.

Something simultaneously tightens and eases deep down inside you as you realise that neither individual you just floored is dead. There is fear of potentially ongoing threats, but also relief that you’re not a killer. Assuming they both survive their injuries.

You wipe your blood-covered hand on the prone figure’s clothes, intending to scrub more thoroughly as soon as possible but doing your best to rid yourself of as much of the green fluid as you can for now. At least the blaster you held in that sticky hand wasn’t your own.

As soon as you’re sufficiently clean, you recover your baton and switch it off, returning it to your belt. Then, making haste with the zip ties, you tightly bind the Trandoshan’s hands and feet before searching it for weapons, finding a second blaster and a can of something you don’t want to investigate, and you lift them away.

You glance sidelong at Din and note he has done the same with the Wookiee, utilising his durasteel binders in addition to multiple zip ties strung together to encompass the massive limbs. He seems to be looking around to check for anything else he can secure it with.

“Is that all of them, Mando?” Although you’ve referred to him by his nickname to others several times over the last few hours, actually addressing him by it feels weird. But now isn’t the right time for endearments, and you can’t use his name because Ari is nearby.

Ari. Where is he?

Din confirms he’s taken out two humans and another Trandoshan, and your stomach drops as you realise Ari told you there were six. You immediately call out to the Volpai. “Ari, where are you?”

Your friend comes out from an aisle a few rows down, and you hurry toward him, still breathing heavily but giving him a tight smile when you see he is okay.

“You said there were six, and we’ve only got five. Stay close to us.”

He frowns and admits, “I haven’t heard the female in several days; she may not be here anymore. If you’ve checked all the rooms, we’re probably safe.”

Din speaks up again from his efforts with the Wookiee, listening in so he’s aware of Ari’s intel. “My side is clear. Must be the Weequay we already dealt with in the forest.”

Ah, that makes sense. The tension drops from your shoulders, and you give your friend your full attention. He stands stock still before you, staring at you with glassy eyes.

“You came for me,” he says in disbelief, his voice cracking under the weight of his gratitude, upper arms clasping your shoulders and drawing you carefully forward into a vague impression of a hug - all he can manage with his lower arms still wrapped tightly around himself.

You gently return the gesture, putting no pressure against him and merely placing your hands on his arms in kind. “Of course we did. We started searching for you as soon as we heard you’d been taken. I’m so sorry you got pulled into this, Ari; it’s all my fault. I should never have asked you about Nantoogen in the mess hall. They overheard, thought you might be involved - took you as insurance in case they needed leverage. I’m so so sorry,” you repeat, guilt spilling out like blood from a sliced artery.

Ari simply smooths your arms and shakes his head. “My dear girl, you are not to blame. These are nasty, insidious criminals, and you and your Mandalorian have rescued me and brought them to justice. You’re my saviours.”

You sniff a little at his noble attitude. You don’t accept his forgiveness, but his words calm your conscience somewhat. You move away to assess how to proceed, walking back toward the bodies with Ari close behind.

Din has used his whipcord to further bind the Wookiee, who is now thoroughly tied up and fastened securely to one of the metal shelving units with no chance of escape. Seemingly content that the danger is now contained effectively, he looks up as you approach, and at last, you meet his visor’s gaze.

The cracks in your composure finally give way, and you rush forward to him, even as he stands and takes several quick steps toward you too. You meet in a desperate clash of bodies, virtually throwing yourself into his arms which tighten around you, holding you close against his cuirass and stroking your hair in relief. You hear his ragged breathing through the vocoder, and you know he’s having as much trouble as you are at keeping the swirling emotions at bay.

“Three of them ambushed me,” Din tells you, suddenly desperately apologetic now his focus has returned from his warrior state of mind. “Got my blaster, pinned me. I heard the Wookiee, riduur; I came as fast as I could. You promised me you’d scream if you needed me.” It’s not an admonishment; if anything, there’s pride in his voice.

“Well, your timing was exceptional as usual,” you tell him, nuzzling your face into his cloak. “And the Wookiee roaring was as good as any scream I could’ve managed. How did you get free?”

“Cut off the Trandoshan’s hand with the ’Saber,” he explains. “Distracted them enough to take down the two humans. I didn’t have time to bind them properly; gotta go deal with it before they wake up.”

You step back from Din’s embrace and notice his sleeve is ripped (again). Another flight suit to repair, although at least this one isn’t ruined like the last one. You examine the rip, and he waves away your fears, telling you he’s fine as he similarly checks you for injury. You shrug off his concern in kind; your shoulder is aching from the Trandoshan’s strike, but you’re okay.

Ari is hovering behind you, and he clears his throat unsubtly. When you turn toward him, he looks undeniably smug. “I know a fair bit about Mandalorian culture from books and stories, and if I’m not mistaken, you just called her your wife. Is there something I should know?”

You and Din look at each other. It’s a repeat of Suriee’s question, just differently phrased.

“You wanna take this one?” Din asks. “I need to go secure the others. They probably won’t be out for much longer.”

He squeezes your arm at your nod and departs through the opposite door.

You try to give Ari as much of an explanation as you can, starting with the truth about the bounty and an apology for your lie. Then you detail the hunt through the forest, how you and Din fell in love, and how you took down the target together and learned of Ari’s kidnapping. Finally, you answer his question and explain why the marriage cover story was required to convince security to let you help. You hesitate slightly when you nearly add how much you’ve been enjoying the subterfuge, so instead, you admit you’re planning to leave Endor together.

When your account is finished, the Volpai’s face is a picture of pride. “My dear, I knew from the moment you both came to my booth for soup that you and he were perfect for one another. I don’t need to see his face to be able to read how deeply he cares for you and you for him. Not then, not now. It may only be a cover story for now, but I think you will marry that man one day, and I will be overjoyed for you when you do.”

Your cheeks warm slightly from his observations, but your heart does too. You’ve accepted things are long-term, but the idea that you and Din will eventually seal your future together permanently is gradually crystallising into something you think you’d like to occur someday.

The fast pace of your relationship no longer shocks you; it simply feels right. Inevitable.

Din returns and reports the three others are secure, carrying an armful of their weapons which he drops into the pile you already started, sorting through and snagging a black and silver blaster with holes along the barrel and tucking it into his belt for his collection. He then beckons you to follow him, leading you to a room along the other corridor.

It’s now clear that whilst the four rooms leading off the wing of the bunker you infiltrated are quarters, there are only two larger rooms at this end. On one side is an anteroom leading to numerous stalls containing multi-species vacc tubes and showers (the latter rarely used, based on the smell of the whole place). On the opposite side is a spacious common room with kitchen, dining and lounge facilities. Two humans and a Trandoshan are bound up in here, and you see they’ve also been gagged using fabric strips Din has cut from a kitchen towel.

One of the humans is conscious but tightly bound and gagged, unable to move. He fearfully eyes the Trandoshan’s severed hand resting nearby on the floor, the three fat fingers still twitching as the muscles continue to cool and tighten, making it look like a blind frog missing one leg. With a jolt, you recognise him as a mess hall worker… this must be the asshole who overheard you say Nantoogen’s name to Ari back when this all started.

You repress the urge to kick him, but it’s a struggle. However, when his eyes flick up and land on your narrowed ones, your contempt radiating off you, the fear you see in him escalates. As with Nantoogen, the tables have turned, and it’s enough that you’re no longer in a position to be threatened by his actions. You do not need to make any threats of your own.

Just as you’re wondering why Din is choosing to show off his victory like this, he points to a comlink station in the corner. “We can contact the security office and get them to meet us here,” he explains, “But I think you should be the one to call and explain all this. Better do it quickly; I’m not sure how much longer Dunojussit will be on shift.”

Over the comm, the security officer seems about ninety percent impressed and ten percent peeved that you and Din have recovered the victim, captured the perpetrators, and completely closed his case in only a few short hours - especially since he had been working on it with no leads for a week. He agrees to send a security team out to the bunker immediately.

You scrub your hand clean in the kitchen sink while you await their arrival, and Din uses the time to reassure you that the smugglers won’t mention Nantoogen. “They won’t admit to being in league with someone wanted for even graver crimes than they’re being arrested for. Even if it somehow comes to light, unless there’s a bargain to be made - and there definitely won’t be with the New Republic - it’s not how criminals operate,” he explains quietly. “Nantoogen managed to stay on the run this long because he chose his lieutenants well. They’ll remain loyal.”

Ari, too, guarantees he won’t say anything about the bounty. While you wait for security to arrive, the three of you agree upon what (limited) details Ari should provide when well enough to speak to the officers about his kidnapping. He is willing and eager to do as you ask simply because you liberated him from this hellhole. You advise him to just say he was asking too many questions about what goes on at the bunker when a Weequay came to his booth a few nights before he was taken. It’s simple, and it fits with Ari’s usual chatty demeanour.

In less than twenty minutes, a contingent arrives consisting of twelve officers, including Dunojussit himself, somewhat winded from all the stairs. A very excited Lissah follows behind, overjoyed to be involved in the action at last, even if she is mainly just observing the others as they load the prisoners onto the back of a ray-shielded gravsled to be transported into custody.

It takes six officers to lift the Wookiee (a male, you learn), who is apparently still breathing, though just barely. Din pointedly does not offer to help, simply accepting the return of his binders and whipcord with a nod and reattaching them. He’s done more than enough.

A medical team accompanies the security personnel, and they check over Ari’s injuries, deciding he should be transported to the medcenter immediately due to a moderately high risk of severe internal damage. They’ll likely put him in the compound’s one and only bacta tank, which is good. He deserves to rest as he heals. Once the medics get him on a stretcher, you wave goodbye to your friend.

They also declare the injuries of both Trandoshans to be minor, and you learn with surprise that their species heals extremely fast and can even regenerate limbs. The relief from earlier returns at this news - though you’ve now stabbed three people, none have been fatal. You definitely feel like you have more control and confidence in your knife-wielding skills since that first time in Kayuin. Your recovered shiv once again needs cleaning, so you wrap it in a cloth and tuck it into your belt, keen to avoid getting green blood inside the sheath.

The medics are unsure whether the Wookiee will survive, but they undertake to do all they can, and they think he’s in with a decent chance of pulling through. Although the humans and Trandoshans are compound employees, the Wookiee appears to be their freelance muscle, and nobody seems to care much if he doesn’t make it.

You’re more invested in his survival, though. That tension inside you from earlier returns as you think about how you’d feel if you were involved in causing someone’s death. Even if any mortal shots were likely Din’s more accurate ones, and even if the individual in question was trying to kill you, it’s a complex concept. But setting it aside, you successfully avoid dwelling on it; it’s not like you had any other choice.

The prisoners are eventually all removed from the common area, and when the room is clear, Dunojussit debriefs you and Din as Lissah vibrates excitedly nearby and takes notes. Once again, you do most of the talking.

The officer does a fine job of covering his irritation that you went into a potentially lethal combat situation without first alerting him, and based on a few comments, you’re able to deduce why. Din not being ‘officially’ commissioned to help with the investigation means the capture will be logged entirely as Dunojussit’s own success. The case is closed, and he’ll be lauded for barely lifting a finger, so he’ll forgive your reckless approach. He’s a nice guy, but he’s lazy to the core.

“Although you refused compensation for helping with the investigation, Mando, a small reward was set aside for Ari’s safe return. If you provide the appropriate codes, I can have the credits wired to an account of your choice.”

“Pay them to my wife,” Din shrugs, obviously keen to get out of the bunker without any more fuss. He’s not used to having to explain how and why he’s taken down quarries, and he’s become increasingly uncomfortable the longer you’re kept here answering questions.

“Actually,” you say, “I’d like Ari to have them if you don’t mind. I expect any damages he receives for enduring all of this won’t be available until after the criminals are brought to tribunal, which could be a while.”

Dunojussit waves at Lissah to make a note on the datapad she’s enthusiastically recording your report on. “I’ll arrange it, Miss; that’s very thoughtful of you. Is there anything else we can do to thank you?”

Din shifts uncomfortably again, so you try to wrap up the debriefing quickly, one last little benefit occurring to you.

“I think we’d just like to get some rest now, Officer, although you might be able to do me a favour?” At his raised eyebrow, you venture, “When we got stuck out in the forest because of the attack and my husband’s injury, I missed a few days of work, and my boss is mad. Perhaps you could explain how we got caught up in this whole mess and talk him down a little? Even though I’ll be leaving the compound, I’d like to go out on good terms.”

And without any of your salary deducted.

“Consider it done,” he says, his bushy moustache twitching up in a smile. And then, to your great relief, he dismisses you.

Din is out of the door in a flash, and you hurry beside him until you’re finally above ground again. The suns have breached the horizon now, their glow filtering through the trees in shafts. The dampness caused by the brief overnight rain slowly evaporates into a light mist that swirls underfoot. It’s oddly magical.

Nothing is said until you reach the speeder, but then Din turns and suddenly pulls you into his arms, squeezing you against his beskar a little more tightly than you’re used to.

It’s then you realise that a portion of his agitation inside the bunker was at being unable to freely discuss what happened and check on your mental state after the attack. “Are you okay, cyar’ika? I wanted to ask sooner, but… I didn’t know how much to say around the others. The Wookiee… it could’ve killed you. And after our last battle with Nantoogen, you were… there were… emotions after.”

Inwardly smirking at his cute attempt to address whether or not you’re falling to pieces without making it seem like he assumed you might be, you decide not to mention that the Trandoshan with the blaster could have killed you too. Instead, you pull back from him and give him a different type of honesty, one which you think will reassure him and is just as valid.

“When it was happening, I knew exactly how much danger I was in and how close I came to dying, but it wasn’t like it was with Nantoogen. There was no panic, no need to repress my fear. I just accepted the possibility and tried to do everything I could to avoid it. That’s the focus, right? The rammykaddish thing?”

“Ramikadyc,” Din chuckles. “Yes, that’s how it’s supposed to feel in combat. Death is inevitable, not just for warriors but for everyone; warriors just learn to accept it as a possibility at any given moment, so they’re better prepared to avoid it. It takes Mandalorian children five years of training to learn this concept. I’m… so proud of you.” He pulls you in for another hug, and you gratefully wrap your arms around him. “How do you feel now it’s over?”

It’s a good question. Your brain has been oddly quiet, distracted by wrapping up everything in the bunker. But unlike after you took down Nantoogen, you’ve had no flood of repressed emotions, nor were you numb after the events.

However, something does simmer inside you - a certainty that all you’ve endured over the last several days will soon be made worthwhile. And off the back of Din’s question, four words crystallise, dismissing any other thoughts with their enormity…

The mission is over.

“I feel like we deserve to have our celebration at last,” you purr, sliding your arms down to his lower back and pressing your hips against him hungrily.

“Mm-let’s go,” he half groans, half growls, briefly palming your ass before tearing away and urgently uncovering the speeder bike.

And in a few moments, you’re heading back toward the compound and the most hotly anticipated event of your entire kriffing life.

Chapter Text

The speeder ride back to the compound is the fastest you’ve ever gone. Din links the bike to his HUD to ensure a safe but quick return, and the trees blur past as if you’re heading into a dream.

With your Mandalorian between your legs, you’re reminded of your first journey out into the forest together when the feeling of having him there keyed you up so intensely. At long last, you let yourself sink into that ravenous mindset once again. Every part of you is tingling with lust and anticipation.

The vehicle hangar is still locked up, and you’re glad you don’t have to spend time talking to Suriee, as fond of her as you are. Right now, you have only one thing on your mind, and apparently, Din’s opinion is the same. He crowds around you as you sign in the bike and throw the datapad back onto Suriee’s desk, tugging you out of the building and helping you to slam the gate closed before the two of you hotfoot it directly to your quarters.

You enter first, but when the door swooshes closed, he stands just inside the threshold, brimming with sexual energy but stepping no further into the room. Turning to look at him with a half-lustful-half-confused expression, you see he is breathing as heavily as you are, his helmet tilted to the side, the depths of the dark visor fixing on you like he’s a predator and you’re his prey.

But for some reason, his stillness gives you pause. Something else behind the subtle ticks of his body language makes you wonder if this is less about the hunter ramping up to ravish you and more about the man still restraining himself. You’ve had enough experience of restraint over the last several days to recognise it. The tightened fists, the tense shoulders.

With the way he was en route here, leaving barely enough space for dust particles to come between you, you assumed Din would be all over you as soon as the door closed. Yet now he stands and simply watches you, saying nothing, an odd echo of how he behaved when you first met.

“So…” you say, a little awkwardly. “How are we…?”

You’re not sure what you want to ask. A simple ‘shall we get on with this then’ would suffice, but suddenly you realise there’s a whole host of questions which have been clamouring in the recesses of your brain, just waiting for the right time to be considered.

And they’re not small questions, either. The issue of his helmet is perhaps the one you’re most curious about. Although you now know he can seal it around his forehead to allow you to kiss, it would likely be torture on his neck to wear such a heavy piece up like that for more than a short time. Will that mean you’re limited to certain positions that keep him comfortable? And do you need to put the blindfold on straight away? Or maybe he simply won’t lift it at all? Perhaps you’ll need to combine several different situations and scenarios?

Suddenly, you’re acutely aware that you’re not prepared for this either, and Din’s current temperance makes more sense. You have no idea how this will play out or what his intentions are. Nor your own, come to think about it. How do you want this to go?

Sex has always been so spontaneous before… why is it all of a sudden such a confusing minefield of questions? Just like with your first kiss, when he told you there needed to be some ‘preparation’ because of the helmet, you realise that certain things need to be said before you can get on with the good stuff.

“We… need to decide on a few things first, right?” you hedge hesitantly. “That’s why you’re holding back.”

Din nods - a little regretfully, if you’re not mistaken. “I don’t want to hold back, trust me. But if I just… act, this won’t go how either of us wants it to. It’ll be quick, helmet on, not… intimate. It’s how it’s always been for me, and I don’t know any other way, so I just… I need a minute to… to figure some things out. How to do this right. Sorry…” he adds, his regret coming through clearly now.

A little pang of guilt surges up within you. You were nervous for Din with his first kiss, but he was able to take control then quite easily. By contrast, you assumed he was fully prepared and ready to consummate your relationship carnally since he’s had sex before.

But you failed to consider that this is nothing like what he’s experienced in the past. For him, this is a ‘first time’ of a different sort, and it’s far more monumental than the kiss was. The situation is entirely the reverse of what you assumed it would be. This is when he needs your patience and support.

You offer him a warm smile and understanding eyes, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and beckoning him to join you in sitting for a moment. “Let’s talk, riduur.”

You use the endearment because it’s the only one you have for him, and you want to give him softness right now. It would be jarring to suddenly call him ‘darling’ or ‘baby’ or ‘love’ when you never have before, and anything like ‘sexy’ or ‘big guy’ or ‘stud’ would be wholly inappropriate.

Plus, every one of those names somehow sounds ridiculous when applied to him anyway.

Din cautiously approaches, looking for all the galaxy like he’s ashamed of not knowing how to proceed, but before he sits, he hesitates. Then he gives a decisive nod and slips off his gloves, tossing them onto the nearby cabinet. After another beat, he removes his jetpack, propping it next to the cabinet on the floor and stepping back over before finally taking a seat.

He picks up your hand immediately and laces his fingers with yours, his resting on top, and you recognise it as him trying to maintain a little bit of control when he’s spiralling far more than he’s accustomed to.

You get the feeling that once you’ve decided on a few things and reassured him of others, he’ll be quite willing to take back the reins on this encounter, so you’re subdued in how you speak to him, wanting to make sure he remains feeling like the more dominant participant, even with his uncertainty. It’s not hard to do - you’re also now fretting about several things. And as much as the idea of talking about it first is a turn-off, he was utterly right about how helpful discussing sex was before, so you know a bit of prep will benefit you both.

“I guess… logically, the first thing I should mention is this…” You lift the side of your shirt slightly and thumb down the waistband of your pants over your hip to expose the small bump of your implant behind a tiny discoloured patch of skin. You hope he knows what it is, and you don’t have to explain contraception to him.

Din looks down and then back up to you again, and despite the thick cloak still around his neck, you see him swallow from the way the helmet moves. Then he gives several slow nods, which you understand by now means relief and gratitude, accompanied by a squeeze of your fingers in his. He’s pleased that aspect of things is handled, and he doesn’t need to address it.

You consider where to go next. “Maybe it would help if I….” You want to find out what’s happening with the helmet, as well as try and probe into whether there’s something else in particular that he’s unsure about. That means getting him to talk, even though he’s been relatively silent so far, but you’re used to this. You know he just needs some prompting to open up on certain topics. “Can I ask you some questions?”

“Yes,” he says, almost urgently. “Please. I think it will help.” Kriff, he’s never been so keen for you to grill him before.

“Okay,” you begin. “You’ve taken your armour off with me already, so is it safe to assume it can come off again?” Din readily nods, and you move incrementally onward. “What about clothes? We haven’t done that before.”

“We… we can do that…” But there’s something in his tone. Apprehension? He hesitates, then says, “Nobody’s seen… I-I haven’t done that with anyone. Even growing up, we always remained covered, maintained privacy. I don’t know why it should make me nervous…”

Ah, okay.

“Because it makes you feel exposed, Din. Literally. In a way that you’ve never been before. It’s understandable.” You give his fingers a squeeze. “How about if I wear the blindfold? No looking, just touching. Will that make it easier?”

“It will,” he admits, sounding relieved. “But are you okay with that? Taking your sight away for this isn’t very fair if I get to see you.”

You lift up your entwined hands and drop a small kiss on his knuckles. “I’m fine with it. And besides, taking away one sense can heighten the others,” you say demurely.

He hums and shifts toward you a fraction, and you see his confidence starting to build again. The realisation suddenly comes that this is almost a kind of foreplay for him. A strange one, yes, but planning and strategy are what he’s good at, and you think that once he knows precisely how this encounter should go down, he’ll be back in control to make it happen.

Moving on to your next question, you cock your head and try not to let how much you want one particular answer colour how you ask it. “So… what about the helmet? Can we… I-I know you can lift it a little, but won’t it be uncomfortable for more than a few minutes?”

Din looks down at his lap, and for a few moments, you’re not sure what he’s thinking. Then his visor returns to you, and he untangles his hand from yours. You’re momentarily worried you’ve asked the wrong thing until he fumbles with his tasset, getting behind it into his pocket. From there, he extracts the blindfold he made for you.

“Can I put this on you now?” he asks quietly. “I want to… try something.”

Hell yes! Trying is doing, and doing rather than talking is good. Excellent.

You give him a little nod and a smile, then shift around slightly so he can position the material and tie it behind your head, just like the last two times you’ve worn it for him. The cloth is warm from where it was kept in his pocket, and your pulse picks up at the thought of his lips upon yours again. Even if you don’t get to kiss him throughout this whole encounter, at least it seems like you’ll get to imminently.

But what does he mean by ‘try something’? Try what exactly?

Once it’s secure, you turn back around. “Okay, go ahead,” you encourage, wetting your lips in anticipation of what you assume he wants to do.

When you hear the soft hiss of his helmet release, an almost unbearable rush of adrenaline and serotonin floods your body and brain. The shiver it brings with it is so acute that you virtually vibrate with barely concealed glee.

Your ear eagerly tracks the gentle sound of his helmet lifting, and you can picture it behind the blindfold’s darkness. Not really the face below, but the movement itself - how it’s slow until he gets past his ears and nose and then gets faster at his eyes when he only has soft hair to move it against. And with each sliver revealed to your ears and your mind’s eye, your anticipation builds.

But there is more to hear this time, you realise, as the helmet doesn’t stop on his forehead like before, and surprise and a little bit of panic explode inside you as you hear Din set it down on the floor. In your mind, you gasp, a monumental and epic reaction, but somehow your throat closes up in shock, and all you can manage is a sharp inhalation, quick yet audible.

He has completely removed his helmet.

“Din, your creed….” The shock must be painted across your face, even with the blindfold in the way. He’s been so adamant about needing to repent for removing it before, and you assured him you would absolutely not accept him compromising his creed for anything - even the love you’ve both now admitted to.

Then he speaks, and you definitely gasp now because he’s right up close, his rich baritone words uttered directly into your ear, and you can feel his warm breath tickling your face. The fiery ball of nervousness in your stomach is smothered first by desire, closely followed by disbelief, then a simple yet uncertain joy as he tells you what he’s thinking.

“I need to atone for showing my face, but I also need to find a better balance between my beliefs and my needs. What happened with Grogu made me… question some things. Why did I feel guilty? Why is it okay for other Mandalorians to remove their helmets but not my tribe? I was taught that if I ever took it off, I’d never be able to put it back on, but I still did. I’ve been thinking about this a lot since the storm.”

He pauses and takes the opportunity to lay his large hand on your thigh and squeeze gently, giving you another thing to be surprised about. You weren’t expecting him to touch you yet. An odd mix of shock and arousal swirls within you.

Din continues in that low voice with a resoluteness that sounds almost practised. If he’s been turning this over in his mind for a while, he’s probably figured out precisely how best to explain it.

“The guilt, the need to atone - it’s as much from putting the helmet back on as it is from taking it off, and refusing to remove it again is not atoning for anything. It achieves nothing. Why should I wallow in guilt that’s been drilled into me without questioning whether it’s the correct way to feel? I’ve already started lifting it to eat and drink - and kiss - when I was taught not to do that, and it hasn’t made me feel like I’m breaking my creed. Nothing changes with me taking it off right now - I still did it before, and I still put it back on after when I wasn’t supposed to.”

You’ve never heard so many unfiltered words from him before. Still, your amazement is only mildly distracting, not enough to detract from the monumental words he’s saying.

“My creed is still a fundamental part of who I am, and I can’t… I won’t throw it away. I still believe in the Way. But after asking myself these questions, I think there’s more than one interpretation. That’s why I still need you to wear the blindfold, cyar’ika, because I still believe that I should protect my identity and that the next person to see my face should be the person I marry. When we reaffirm the Creed, we’re asked if the helmet has ever been removed. But they can’t mean it literally because spouses remove it around each other and their children. So I’m choosing to believe in the non-literal interpretation that allows removal as long as I can prevent anyone else from seeing my face.”

He is resolute, and you are stunned. Thrilled, of course, but also paralysed by a tiny voice inside that screams a dirty word you just can’t help saying out loud to him. “This… kind of sounds like you’re compromising your beliefs for me. Are you sure—”

Din kisses you.

It starts gently, almost hesitantly, but the instant you respond, he pulls you in closer and presses his lips against yours with fervour, one hand on your cheek, the other still on your thigh, where it tenses with the sudden intensity behind his action. You cover it with your own, and when his tongue steals into your mouth, every neuron in your brain lights up in radiant joy.

This kiss isn’t like the purposeful pre-battle ones you’ve been getting used to. Nor is it like the first one you shared when you both worked hard to restrain yourselves and keep it gentle. No, this is effusive, passionate, soulful - a profound and blazingly hot answer to the question you were about to ask, resplendent with Din’s unyielding resolve and desperate need.

As he paints promises on your lips, you inhale everything radiating off him - scents and emotions alike. The freshness from his shower is not yet lost, even with the hours of sleep and battle since, but the sweet masculine musk that is uniquely him is now an undertone too. It makes you think of honeyed fruit and crackling fires, of warm blankets on snowy nights in the Highlands during your childhood. And there is something there, too, that hints of imminence - a subtle, smouldering sharpness underlying it all, coiled and ready to spring.

But he keeps the beast at bay, simply pledging himself to you in this passionate yet loving adoration of your mouth, matching your small sighs of pleasure with his own.

Din draws back languidly, peppering your lips with tiny kisses, like he doesn’t want to part but needs to breathe. His face remains close to yours as he whispers, “I’m more sure about this than I’ve been about anything in a long time. It’s not compromise; it’s balance.”

Speechless. That’s what you are.

You breathe him in again, filling the deepest parts of yourself with this remarkable man’s intentions, thanking the stars themselves for putting him in the path of your speeder so your fates could collide in this epic fusion of energies - scorching, incandescent, dazzling.

You find your voice, and it once again betrays you, somehow the only part of you holding back out of concern for his decades-long adherence to the Creed. “Compromise and balance mean the same thing.”

“No,” he contends, his voice husky despite the lack of modulator. “Compromise is done reluctantly out of necessity. Balance is finding contentment through harmony. You’re my harmony, my peace. Gar ner naak.”

“I just don’t want you to regret this,” you whisper. Kriff, why are you arguing this point? Especially after that kiss.

But Din seems grateful for your concern, laying another small and gentle promise on your lips with his. “There’s no way in hell I’m gonna regret any of this, mesh’la.”

You finally concede with an ardent sound of affirmation that bubbles up from somewhere deep and passionate within, a noise of blissful understanding.

As you inhale even more of his scent, so close to you on the bed, you try to make sense of your lust-filled thoughts. “Should I… ask you anything else?”

“No,” he husks, and that one word serves as a flag to begin the event you and he are about to take part in, a starting pistol of carnal promise.

Slowly, you reach forward with blind hands until you find his bandolier across his chest, slipping a roving finger below it and tugging slightly to indicate it needs to come off. He gives a low hum and draws away a little, and you hear him unclip his belt and lift the leather over his head. He seems content to remove his armour himself, so you take the opportunity to slip off your jacket as well as your boots and socks, vamblade, belt and holster, then listen patiently as he deals with his own adornments one piece at a time.

He eventually stands and moves away from the bed to pile everything neatly with his jetpack by the cabinet, including what you just removed. Your head tracks his movements from behind the blindfold, unable to see but hearing his slow, heavy, unfiltered breaths as he steps back toward you.

But he doesn’t sit again. Instead, he takes your hands and tugs you up to stand before him, raising your arms to place them on his shoulders, mere fabric between you now, just like in the Ewok hut. Except this time, there’s no helmet.

It’s too tempting. Din’s head is entirely unadorned for the first time ever, and your hands don’t stay where he placed them. They move up and around him to tangle in his gorgeously soft hair, smoothing and tugging gently, finally getting confirmation that it falls messily across his forehead without the helmet keeping it hidden, just as you’d imagined.

He shivers at the sensation, his own warm hands coming quickly to your waist and pulling you in closer before he slips beneath the material of your shirt and starts kneading handfuls of your flesh with a controlled sort of desperation.

With your hands in his hair, you’re able to gauge where his mouth is, and you lean in to try and place your lips against his again. His reaction is immediate, and he meets you halfway, opening for you and surging in with his tongue to tangle against yours again. But after a few seconds, he tears away and moves his mouth down to your neck, where he breathes in deeply, groans, and attaches his lips there, gently sucking and pressing his hot tongue against your feverish flesh.

Oh, stars…

The feeling is exquisite, and your eyes fall closed behind the blindfold. The soft scrape of his teeth, the pressure of his lips; your world is reduced down to these sensations alone. You’ve been given love bites before, but none were laved so gently and passionately against your neck; it’s like he’s etching a promise of loyalty there, of eternal worship.

When he lifts away, you think he admires his work for a few seconds, then dips back down to nuzzle his nose against it and continues placing kisses along your neck. He has shaved, you realise, the soft brushing of his almost fully shorn stubble making you shudder in delight.

Din notices your reaction to his lips on your neck and murmurs against your skin, “It’s… good?”

“Mm-hmm,” you affirm, still scratching your nails gently through his hair, amazed at how deliciously soft it is underneath all that hard beskar.

You feel him smile against you, proud of his efforts to bring you pleasure. He slowly kisses his way back up, beneath your ear, onto your jaw, and finally back to your lips. Then he rests his forehead against yours and husks, “I need you to do something for me, riduur.”

There he is, your dominant Mandalorian, once again with complete control of the reins, ready to direct you to do exactly what he wants.

“Anything,” you breathe, nuzzling your noses against each other. Stars, being this close with no helmet… it’s indescribable.

In a low voice, Din commands, “If I do something you like, let me know. If I do something you don’t like, correct me. You don’t have to use words, as long as you’re clear. I don’t know enough yet to tell whether a shiver means you’re happy or disgusted.”

And right then, it becomes entirely apparent that you’ve been stifling your reactions, maybe scared of startling him or pushing him too quickly. But you need to be much more responsive to help him out here. The fact that his request came as a command somehow makes you confident you’ll be able to do what he asks. It’s not telling him what to do; it’s just letting him know whether you like what he decides upon - the control remains entirely with him.

“I can do that,” you promise, and he hums in approval.

You feel his hand wander up to the back of your neck before gently moving around to stroke the mark he made. “This…?” he asks, obviously needing to know if your relative quietness throughout was a sign that you weren’t too thrilled with him branding you like that.

You find yourself smiling wickedly because, for this particular thing, you actually do have words to give him. “…felt fucking amazing, marking me as yours.”

“Mm-mine,” he growls hungrily, the single drawn-out word being the most turned-on you’ve ever heard him. Then he catches the hem of your shirt and slowly lifts it upward.

The garment is loose and comes up effortlessly, and you let go of him so he can tug it over your head, revealing your bandeau bra beneath. It’s one of the simple bands without clasps, so to save time and help him (plus expedite the feeling of his warm hands against you), you simply pull it over your head and discard it to the side.

You nervously stand before him with your breasts bare, waiting for his reaction.

Din’s breath catches in his throat, then he lets out a sinful moan, and you feel his eager hands on you again, higher on your sides now, and he slowly smooths them up and down, getting closer to your breasts on each pass.

As someone who has never had this type of sensual encounter before, he’s understandably setting a slow pace, and you briefly recall his question back on the bordok wagon about teasing. Generally, he seems to have intuited the right approach - building on sensations incrementally, not torturing with unnecessary restraint - but he’s perhaps being a little too slow about it. Is he waiting for permission?

If you were more confident, you’d move his hands to where you want them, but that’s not the dynamic here. So you show him your eagerness to have him touch your chest by laying your hands on his arms and gently encouraging each upward stroke he makes, raising your chin and catching your lower lip between your teeth while thrusting your breasts out toward him.

He responds to your consent by brushing his thumbs over their curves, still tentative, but you let out a hum of pleasure to reward him. And it convinces him to massage closer until his movements are now confined to your front… and at last, he gives in to what you both want and cups your aching tits in his big warm hands, gently exploring their weight, his ragged breathing interspersed with appreciative sighs.

Everything is heady and pleasing, but if he keeps being this hesitant, you’ll be here forever. You need him to— oh!

Din experimentally grazes his thumb across your hard nipple, and a wanton moan falls unbidden from your lips. Spurred on by your appreciation, he growls and answers further by tweaking the bud more firmly. And then he begins a delicious barrage of varying pressures and speeds.

When he quickly lands on the perfect combination, you whisper, “Stars, yes… like that,” feeling him lock the knowledge in his mind. He told you he wanted encouragement, so you do your best to obey.

He repeats the motion confidently, humming in delight and praising your willingness to direct him by husking into your ear, “Good girl.”

A lustful moan spills out of you at his words, and buoyed by his praise, you find the courage to admit, “Turns me on when you say that….”

He gives a low chuckle, still plucking ecstasy on your nipples, and responds, “I figured that out already, mesh’la. Your pupils dilate when I say it.”

You can’t bring yourself to be embarrassed by your body’s betrayal of your innermost thoughts; you’re just happy you’ve both now crossed that initial barrier of shyness. So instead, you commend him in kind, referencing his earlier promise to you. “You’re a fast learner. Already the best I’ve ever had….”

Din kisses his appreciation into your mouth then, moaning at the sensation of your hot wet tongues dancing together in a beautiful oral symphony. He drops one hand from your breast, snaking around to grab your ass and pull you closer. Your own hands slide back up to his neck and hair, applying gentle pressure to keep him in place as you kiss him deeply in return, the lust you bridled during your first kiss now unquestionably unleashed.

With your pleasure building by degrees, your movements become more fervent. You run your hands down his chest, seeking requital for your naked disclosure, until you find the lower edges of his flight suit’s shirt - he’s wearing a two-piece set now like he referenced back at the lake, likely a deliberate move to make undressing easier.

You echo the action he made to remove your own shirt and slip an eager hand beneath the material at his side, wondering for a second if the sharp inhalation he gives means he’s ticklish, but it quickly melts into a moan of unbridled bliss. These are totally new sensations for him, you remind yourself, and you worship his blazing skin with your palm pressed firmly against his gorgeously tapered waist before slowly moving upward and trying to take the material with you, lips still locked against his.

He gets the hint and lets go of your breast and backside for a second, grasping his shirt and separating his mouth from yours only as long as it takes to pull it over his head. Then he returns hands and mouth to where they started and continues to stroke his adoration into you.

Finally, Din is bare-chested before you, and although you wish you could see the glorious sight, you don’t waste the opportunity to feel it. His muscles tense beneath your palms as you explore the soft, burning planes of his stomach and chest, smoothing up to his broad shoulders and along his muscular arms before reversing your route and returning to his pectorals.

You’ve felt him through his flight suit before, but - fuck - this is so much better. The heat coming off him is intoxicating. Your hands tremble in eagerness as you take in all that’s suddenly available to you, and you both groan into each other’s mouths at the blissful new sensations.

Your attention on him seems to fire him up that much more, and soon you feel his hungry hands at your waistband, coming around to paw at the front in a plea for entry. You acknowledge his request by mirroring his action, releasing his pants button and lowering the zipper as he manages the same with yours.

There’s a short pause when you both simultaneously consider the quickest way to divest yourselves of your trousers without ending up in a tangle of arms, so you draw back from his mouth and blindly shoot him a coy smile before simply pushing the material down your own legs and kicking them off hurriedly, hearing him do the same with his.

Free of the interfering garments, you crash back together, enthusiastic hands roaming everywhere and grabbing at each other’s flesh, returning your mouths to the searing kisses you can’t seem to be without for more than a few seconds.

You’re both still in your underwear, but Din pulls you against him tightly, and you gasp at how rock hard he is against your lower stomach as he thrusts his hips forward with fervour.

Bracing your hands on his broad shoulders, you grind your hips forward in kind, and he releases a ragged sigh into your mouth, kneading your ass and lifting you slightly to hold you against him so he can get a better angle.

The intoxicating feel of him moving against you, his masculine scent, the noises you’re teasing out of him - they all combine to send your head spinning, and you feel your cunt clench with anticipation, the slick wetness in your underwear a testament to how keyed up you are.

Din growls your name against your lips and thrusts hard against you, causing you to throw back your head and arch in glorious ecstasy, his mouth instantly locking onto your exposed neck. But it’s still not enough, and the ache in your pussy consumes you.

“Please,” you manage to beg, and it’s enough to spur him into a more determined action.

He grazes his teeth against your neck again and growls, “Lay down,” voice deliciously deep and full of savage promise, stepping you backward the two paces to reach the bed close behind you, easing you down without letting a single particle of air come between your hot, writhing bodies.

Pinning you to the bed with the length of his body, supported only by his forearms beside your head, he buries himself against you, powerful and heavy and obviously revelling in the feeling of you completely trapped beneath him, unable to even bring your legs up around him with the way his hips pin yours in place.

Kriffing dominance personified.

Din’s lips are at your neck still, his weight on you a delicious blanket of desire, allowing your lungs just enough space to still gasp your pleasure at the desperate way he continues to rock against you.

Then something in him snaps like he’s suddenly remembered he can do much more than this. He lifts up slightly on one arm, returning his other hand to your breast and surging down to capture your nipple in his mouth, doing with his tongue what you taught him to do with his fingers only minutes before, carefully grazing it with his teeth to draw a feverish cry of ecstasy from you.

Oh, his mouth. His fucking tongue. That hot, wet place you’ve been denied access to in all but a few moments so far… he utilises it as if he’s always known how to, and you relish the forbidden fruits of this new allowance.

Your eager fingers land in his hair again, and you show him your appreciation by smoothing and tugging the soft waves as he laves sweet bliss against your hard, aching bud.

He lets go and switches his mouth to your other breast to give it the same attention, and encouraged by your increasingly loud moans of desire, he slowly slides a hand down your side, massaging your flesh wherever he can grab a handful. When he reaches your thigh, he shifts his position slightly to unpin you on that side, curling his fingers into the back of your knee and bending your leg before thrusting forward hard against you.

“Fuck, yes!” you gasp, voice almost cracking with pure passion as the new angle has his hard cock pressing against your clit. He simultaneously chokes out his own curse of pleasure in what you assume is Mando’a as you unwittingly tug on his hair again in your fervour.

You want to raise your other knee to capture his hips completely, but he still pins you on that side, so you attempt to wriggle your leg from beneath him. Then to your dismay, Din shifts off you entirely, removing the glorious press of his cock on your most sensitive parts, and you’re instantly devastated by the loss. Kriff, you just wanted the freedom of movement to draw him closer, not for him to move farther away.

“Come back….” You bleat your distress at the sudden denial of his ravishments, obeying his command to tell him if he’s doing something wrong. But he simply returns his mouth to yours and kisses you quickly, giving your lower lip a tiny nip before smiling against you as if you’re his bounty and he’s got you lined up perfectly in his sights.

Then his intentions become clear. His warm palm smooths over your thigh from outside to inside, and he squeezes a handful of it, then slowly starts massaging higher, getting closer and closer to your aching cunt.

“Oh…” you concede, then immediately repeat yourself in a lower, more sultry register, “Ohhh,” as he gradually approaches the sensitive flesh at your apex. One of your hands continues to fist in his hair, and as he zeroes in on where you so desperately want him to touch, your other hand begins to claw at the blanket beneath you.

You’re so turned on by now that you’re leaking down your thighs, making it easy for his warm fingers to glide ever closer. As he discovers how slick you are, he releases your lips from his latest blazing kiss and groans in absolute relish. “Fuck, mesh’la, so wet already….”

“Mm-hmm,” you agree through peppered kisses, “Been ready for you since that first day in the forest.”

Din growls and finally presses two of his fingers directly over the soaking material, his rumbling vocalisation morphing into two electric words. “Good girl.”

You melt from both the pressure and his words until he turns his attention to improving upon both.

From his position alongside you, he has no trouble slipping your underwear down and off your legs. He almost whimpers at the sight revealed to him as you sense him looking along your body in amazement, seeing you fully naked for the first time - canting hips, slick thighs, needy for him to touch what he just uncovered.

He inhales like he can smell you from where his head remains next to yours (perhaps he can - you’re so keyed up that your pheromones are pouring out in waves), and then he husks three awestruck words. “Bid shab’la mesh’la…”

“Please, Din,” you beg, utterly out of your fucking mind at hearing his smooth, deep voice so full of wonder. “I need you….”

And - finally - his large hand slides up your thigh to your gushing, aching cunt, and he deftly plunges two thick fingers straight inside you, capturing the cry that falls from your mouth with his lips and moaning his own approval in kind, then beginning slow, surging strokes into you that have you writhing in heavenly joy.

His sudden switch from tentative to eager is surprising, but you don’t mind at all; you’re so utterly ready for the intrusion of his fingers that the confusing pace is inconsequential.

“Tell me what you need, riduur,” he commands, then latches his teeth against your neck again, sucking another mark to mirror the one he branded you with earlier.

Fuck, what do you need? Him. You need him. It’s the only word your brain can make available for speech as it slowly dissolves with all the pleasure he’s sparking in you. The heat simmers there, teetering on a cliff’s edge, and you bask in the heady thrill of feeling his long fingers inside you, slowly leading you closer to that ecstatic drop into infinity.

But he’s almost teasing now, ignoring your clit and keeping his movements measured. It’s exquisite but not quite enough.

Din still wants an answer, reminding you of this in a resonant command as he lays kisses against your collarbones and upper chest. “Come on, sweet girl, tell me what you need….”

You need… more. Finally, your brain prepares a better word to be delivered by your tongue, but it’s still not going to be sufficient. You try anyway.

“More, Din. I need— fuck!” Your brain goes blank again as he suddenly curls his fingers to rub once against the most sensitive spot on your inner walls, and it feels like galaxies are colliding.

Kriff, yes - that’s what you need.

But then he straightens his fingers again, and your passion doesn’t quite crest. You almost sob.

Din has complete control here, but you’re starting to revise your earlier assumption about his relative mastery of teasing - he’s not yet able to gauge the appropriate amount. If this continues, he’ll inadvertently explode your brain before you can reach an orgasm. You’re desperately keyed up, teetering on the brink, it should be so easy to fall into that pleasure, but somehow he edges you just below.

Entirely unconsciously, you decide enough is enough.

With supreme effort, you follow his order to let him know when his actions need adjusting. “N-need you to s-stop teasing….”

As you say it, you realise this wasn’t the deal anyway - he only asked you to say whether the things he tries feel good, not to tell him precisely what to do. The thrust of his thick fingers into you prevents you from getting genuinely annoyed, though, plus he seems to discern then that perhaps he ought to start trying rather than asking.

“Okay, mesh’la,” he whispers into your neck. “But I need a yes or no, at least.” Then he speeds the pace of his fingers burrowing into you, the wet noises increasingly obscene. “Faster?”

“No,” you shake your head, and he immediately returns to the languid pace.

But now you understand the type of guidance he’s looking for: he wants to perfect this single action before he adds anything else. Honestly, you’d prefer to get on with things, but he did say he wanted to be the best you’ve ever had. Alright, you think you can help him out…

“Slow, deep.”

Din hums and puts more power into his thrusts, plunging as far inside your slick pussy as possible, and you moan in approval.

“Two is enough?” he asks, and kriff how quickly you nod. You don’t have the words to explain this part isn’t about stuffing in as much as possible, it’s about pushing the right buttons, so you simply approve his current method nonverbally. “What else, baby? I can’t try what I don’t know. Show me…”

Several realisations hit you with the dozen, slightly desperate words he’s just uttered.

One: he just called you ‘baby’. That’s… unexpectedly cute.

Two: he knows to put his fingers inside, but he doesn’t know anything beyond that.

Which leads to three: he isn’t teasing you deliberately or trying to perfect the art of fingering you - he literally has no clue how to pull an orgasm out of you, as intent as he is on doing so.

Shit, you definitely should’ve been less shy about talking this through in advance. He did tell you back on the bordok wagon that if you gave him enough guidance, you’d be guaranteed a good time. But once again, you assumed both from his confidence and the fact he’s had sex before that he would know enough about foreplay.

Except it’s obvious now from his comments about how his past encounters have played out that there was likely minimal foreplay. Four one-night stands and four anonymous visits to a bartender whom he described as being nothing more than a ‘convenience’… Din has only ever had sex eight times. It’s no wonder he hasn’t been able to learn everything he needs to know. And whilst he can guess and gauge some things from your responses, an absence of specific knowledge of a woman’s anatomy will always hold him back.

The sudden understanding that you know much more about this than him totally changes the dynamic, and you find you’re no longer shy about things. He needs you to take the reins for a minute, and you can do that. He wants you to show him, so…

You grasp his hair tightly enough to angle his head, pressing a kiss to his forehead, then turning his face along your body. “Look,” you tell him, then you untangle your other hand from the blanket next to you and slide it to join his at your pussy.

His hand is already at the correct angle, he just doesn’t know he’s centimetres away from one of the ways to make you see stars, so you tilt up your hips a little, uncurl his thumb, and nudge it to rest over your swollen clit.

The pace of Din’s thick fingers slows almost to a halt as he realises he’s getting an actual lesson now, but you can cope if it yields results.

You place your own fingers atop his thumb and press, moving side to side twice to roll against your clit and make it obvious what it is and where it is, even though the sudden hard pressure is far too much at once and makes your whole body jolt. He inhales sharply and repeats the action himself, causing your hips to jerk again, but you hiss and stop him quickly.

“Indirect pressure to start.” You bring his thumb slightly higher, then pull down again so the sensitive bud is re-hooded, then gently start moving in circles, moaning when he takes over and manages to mimic the movement and pressure exactly.

Your Mandalorian has skills; he just needs to be shown.

Encouraged, you find the words to give him another tip. “Think of it like… a turbo mod on a speeder. Build slowly, but when I’m about to come, you hit the button like I just showed you. If you press too hard before you’ve got the speed up, the engine chokes.”

“Understood,” he murmurs, and you can hear the gratitude laced in his honeyed baritone as he begins to move his fingers inside you again, now with the added stimulation of his thumb carefully pulling blissful notes of pleasure from your clit and sending them along your spine in waves. You fist the blanket again, moaning happily at the results of your brief lesson.

And - fuck - he’s already doing it better than anyone else ever has. You wonder why you never thought to correct your previous lovers’ fumbling attempts, but deep down, you know none of them would’ve responded well to coaching. Just another reason Din is the most amazing man you’ve ever met. So focused on your pleasure and determined to learn, even if that means admitting he doesn’t know something.

And you discern then that he also must have no concept of how the earlier (presumably accidental) curl of his fingers hit you in exactly the right spot, so you summon just enough focus to give him the final advice he needs to get you where you need to be.

“Inside, front wall, deep. Curl your fingers… a-ah, gentle to start,” you stutter as he immediately follows your direction with far too much force for a supposedly tender encounter. You’ll be able to explore faster fucks later, but you both wanted intimacy this first time, so right now, you need him to learn pacing.

But he gets it and adjusts, catching on that this is another thing he needs to build up to and slowly starting to top the thrusts of his fingers with gentle curling rubs of your G-spot as he passes - exactly as he did by accident earlier.

“Oh fuck, yes… keep going… perfect…”

The fire inside you builds again alongside his confidence in his newly acquired skills. And now that he knows precisely what to do, he’s back in control. His technique becomes pure warrior and everything you expected of him, sure and steady as he claims your body in his name even as it leaves your lips in a gasp. His thick fingers continue their slow, surging strokes, now with pinnacle sparks as he times the gentle pressure on your inner wall with soft yet decadent passes around your clit.

And somewhere in the back of your serotonin-filled brain, you just knew he could handle you with the same skill and reverence he has for his weapons. You are at the complete and utter mercy of the same talented hand you gently explored the night you first shared a meal, utterly consuming you, and you’re gasping, writhing, mewling in delight, until, at last, you are teetering on the cusp of an orgasm.

The hunter in Din accurately reads your moans and tensed muscles and how you move more urgently against him, your body telling him how close you are, and he responds perfectly. He pivots on the elbow he’s leaning on to bring his hand to your chest where he teases your nipple again, adding an extra thrilling sensation to the mix.

He is still looking along your body, but you want his lips again, and you use the fingers still in his hair to crash your mouths back together. He falters for only a second as his attention is momentarily split, but then he’s back in control, coordinating the thrusts of his tongue with those of his fingers.

Oh so close now, it’s bubbling up inside you, and you buck your hips up into his hand. He immediately understands the instruction for what it is, increasing the pressure on both the spots you showed him…

…and it’s like lightning along your spine…

…and you’re surging, moaning, trembling, everything building in a sensational wave, until - stars - you’re fucking there!

The heavenly climax washes over you suddenly, intense swells of euphoria spreading out from your centre and all your neurons firing in ecstasy as he works you through the most powerful orgasm of your kriffing life.

You cry out with abandon, the blazing hot rapture completely draining your mind and body until you know only him and the blissful pleasure he delivers unto you, and he groans in harmony as he feels your cunt clamp tightly around his fingers, legs shaking, fists cramping around his hair and the blanket.

His name is but a whisper on your lips as you ride the glorious swell of satisfaction up and up until you crest atop a peak you never could have imagined scaling, so giddy with the intensity of him taking you there, then surrendering to the exquisite cascade on the other side of unimaginable.

Din’s strokes grow slower as your fluttering inner muscles begin to unwind, and you can feel his smile as he continues to kiss you, not as deeply now, but gently and passionately.

And when your body finally relaxes, he slowly pulls out his fingers but keeps his large hand cupped over your sex, perhaps enjoying the heat coming off you.

Fuck. It takes you several long moments to come back from your reverie. Nobody has ever made you feel that good before, and your mind can’t quite comprehend that it’s happened, so you just slowly kiss your gratitude into his mouth.

Eventually, your lips separate, and you hear him inhale a deep and ragged breath. With your eyes still covered, your ears pick up more than usual, and you detect that he has words in his throat but is having trouble saying them. He finds the courage to, though, giving you the same utterance as he did after your first kiss. A single word, but much more hesitant this time.

“Okay…?”

“Fuck yes,” you assure him immediately, and the chemical bliss that still swirls in your brain completely dissolves any inhibitions you might have felt before. “That was… fucking spectacular, Din. Fast learner…” you praise through deep breaths, stroking your appreciation through the soft wavy hair you can’t seem to let go of.

Din buries his nose against your neck - in abashment or relief, you’re not sure - and mumbles there, “Should’ve told you I never learned… specifics….” He trails off, but before you can respond to reassure him, he leaves behind his annoyance at himself and turns his attention to praising you instead, lifting his head and peppering your jaw with kisses. “You did good, cyar’ika; thank you for showing me. You won’t have to do that again.”

Hmm, well, there are probably a few more things you might need to teach him if his experience is as limited as it seems. But actually, his willingness to learn and his gentle coaxing of your instructions made it a lot simpler for you to help him.

“If this is the outcome, I don’t mind at all. I’m just… not used to it. Don’t think anyone’s ever cared enough about my enjoyment to ask for input before, so… thank you for caring. You made it easier for me to show you. And you learn kriffing fast.”

He has made his way back down to your neck with his lips now, and you feel him smile against your skin, finally letting himself be proud of delivering the orgasm he promised you.

You shift slightly, rolling more on your side to face him. He removes his nose from your neck and his hand from between your legs to let you turn more fully, resetting his palm over the swell of your ass and kissing your forehead like you did to him earlier.

When you’re in position on your side, you add, “I hope you’ll give me the same sort of guidance with what you like…” and feeling bold from your recent euphoria, you bring your hand up to find and then settle over his hip. Then you slowly slide it down until you’re resting over his cock, still trapped behind his underwear and still rock hard. And you give him a gentle squeeze just below the head.

“Ah, fuck…” he moans, and his hips stutter, seemingly unable to decide whether he wants to press against your willing hand or pull back from it.

Unsure yourself, you simply glide down his length through the fabric without adding any pressure, then curl your fingers underneath to gently cup his balls, revelling in the discovery of exactly how impressive he is. You had some idea from that morning he woke up with a raging hard-on as well as from feeling him rut against you earlier, but exploring Din’s cock with your hand (even through his underwear) is a victory you didn’t even know you needed so badly until this moment. You reverse your route along his throbbing shaft to repeat your smooth caresses up and down.

Your gentle movements cause him to groan lustfully, and he finally makes up his mind and rocks forward into your palm, albeit with significant restraint. But after a moment of pulling delicious sounds from him, he grasps your wrist, not moving you off him but stilling your soft strokes.

“Feels too good, mesh’la…” he groans. “I promised to fuck you… don’t want this to be over before I can get that far.”

You catch your lip between your teeth and lift your fingers off him, bashful and sinful in even measures, relocating to the waistband of his undershorts and slipping one finger inside to tug at the elastic. “Gonna need these off to follow through with that promise, riduur….”

It could be your use of Mando’a, or maybe it’s the suggestive way you spoke, but you’ve never seen (or rather felt since you have no sight) anyone whip off their underwear as fast as Din does then.

The instant he is fully unclothed, he rolls you both again, repositioning himself above you as before, but this time his weight doesn’t pin your legs, and you spread yourself wide for him, drawing up your knees to let the length of his hard cock nestle directly against your soaking cunt.

You both moan in harmony as he slides through your folds a few times. You’re already plenty wet from before, but the feeling of him utterly naked against you has you gushing even more, and his thrusts are smooth and eager as he coats himself in your slick.

You kiss each other messily, both more focused on the feelings far south of your mouths, quickly giving in again to the sublime sensations.

And when you can’t bear it any longer, you deftly slip your hand between your bodies, somehow concluding in a tiny cognisant part of your brain that you might need to be the one to do this since he’s never had sex face-to-face before.

He guesses what you’re moving to do and pulls back a little, allowing you to angle your hips just right and gently notch him against your aching hole. And when he feels your hand leave him, Din takes his cue and pushes forward slowly and gently.

And finally - finally - the tip of his cock breaches you, drawing a whimper from your lips, the sensation so exquisite that your brain almost short circuits, and you instantly clamp down around the welcome intrusion.

The head is just barely inside you before his breathing transforms into desperate gasps, and he stops moving entirely to simply pant hot breaths against your cheek. Through the haze of your bliss, you recognise it as him needing to slow and control his body’s reaction, plus you’re choking his dick with your eagerness which can’t be helping matters this early on.

You smooth your hand back up to his chest and massage his muscles beneath the softness, doing your best to relax your desperate pussy and give him time to adjust.

“Osi’kyr,” he growls, and by now, you’re pretty sure it’s a curse in Mando’a. “So fucking tight, baby, I-I need to….”

You hum and coo soft and encouraging sounds for him, nuzzling against his jaw and placing gentle kisses wherever you can reach until he claws back his control and manages to refocus, heralded by more measured breaths and the return of his lips to yours.

Then Din shifts forward again and continues to slowly spear his dick into your eager wet depths, taking his time and showing you with his groans how he absolutely revels in the feeling. You try to keep your inner muscles relaxed as he fills you, even though the pleasure from feeling him actually in your pussy after waiting for so long is utterly rapturous, but through your own moans, you somehow manage the almost impossible task until - at last - he is fully seated.

Fuck, so full…

He is, without question, big. Both in length and girth. But it’s a good sort of big - the kind that has you feeling deliciously complete as he nudges your cervix, not that has you screaming in agony and pulling back. Thanks to all of the prep plus his slow entry, you feel only intense pleasure and no pain at all. You’re glad you can use the word substantial rather than monstrous to describe him; you experienced the latter only once and were sore and unhappy for days after.

A couple of seconds go by as you both savour the depth of the moment - physically and emotionally. Then he pulls back a fraction but doesn’t seem to want to go anywhere, simply pushing straight back inside you. The smooth motion rubs him past your G-spot delectably, pressing gently on your clit as well, and it pulls a wanton moan from you.

Keen to encourage anything he accidentally does that you like (as he requested), you find your voice and throw him some random words. “Depth, angle… fuck… s’good.”

“Slow and deep?” He repeats your advice from earlier when you were directing his fingers. When you nod, he grins against your mouth and starts a gloriously smooth rocking motion into you, seemingly pleased that he might just be able to get another orgasm out of you without risking too much friction and sending himself over the edge too soon.

It’s heady and spectacular, and - kriff - how quickly you’re keyed up again. But the face-to-face position means he’s unable to grace your most sensitive places with sufficient force, and you had enough of the edging earlier, so you bring your legs up further to wrap them around his narrow hips, tilting your pelvis to adjust. At the new angle, the head of his cock slides more firmly against your G-spot, causing you to sigh in elation as your clit gets stimulated more directly from the new position.

Din grunts when you clamp your thighs around him, snapping his hips with a little more vigour at the end of each short but deep thrust, and stars, the extra power is exactly what you need. “Yes! Fuuuck….”

So so good, throbbing, pulsing, connecting; you’re dying from pleasure as he spears into you, but you’ll surrender willingly, smiling and moaning at the rapturous sensations as the blindfold wicks away the joyous tears in your covered eyes.

As you once again get closer, he manages to bend his head down to your breast and lick, lave and suck a mark right over your nipple, and the mild pain of the action on such a sensitive spot feels divine. It prevents him from thrusting into you quite as far, though, so he swiftly returns his lips to yours and brings one hand to your breast to soothe where his mouth left off.

All the sensations he’s evoking and delivering build quickly in tandem, and before you know it, you’re on the cusp of your second orgasm.

And as your rhythm starts to falter, he once again realises how close you are, and this time he’s one hundred percent in control of it, tearing away from your mouth just long enough to growlingly demand, “Come for me, riduur,” and thrusting as deep as he can into your pulsing cunt and matching it with his tongue in your mouth.

And fuck, you do.

With Din atop you, inside you, all around you, the pleasure sparks and explodes through your body like an electrical fire, rippling out from your core and flowing through every nerve ending, making you tremble beneath him as every muscle contracts.

You rip your mouth from his and all but scream his name, and you’re lost to the sensations - dazed, dumbfounded, keening with desire…

…unceasing, hot and bright…

…clenching, possessing; he belongs inside you, and you can’t let him go.

You’re crying behind the blindfold in utter joy, hearing him groan with you as he derives intense satisfaction from your pleasure, even at the expense of his own, buried deep inside you and letting you simply pulse around him while he steadily jerks in time, keeping as much pressure on your hot buttons as he can until you’ve crested your second epic orgasm and are shakily coming down the other side.

But when your legs unlock from around him, and your feet shakily return to the bed, he allows you only a moment to catch your breath.

A second’s pause, and then Din is chasing his own need, finally starting to move inside you with exquisitely longer thrusts, faster now, breathing raggedly. Still, he manages to grind out a brief instruction which shows that even now, in pursuit of his own pleasure, he’s still concerned about your comfort. “Stop me if I’m too rough, baby.”

Mind still reeling, you realise you really like this new name… a sex name? If he’d tried it on you before, you would’ve turned your nose up, but somehow it works perfectly in the bedroom.

You scramble to regain enough of your wits to respond verbally, panting all the encouragement you can muster since he kriffing well deserves it after making you come twice when nobody else has managed it even once. “Rough is good too… I like rough… take what you need… I’m all yours.”

You’re not lying. Although slow and deep hits the right spots, fast and hard is him displaying dominance, and you fucking love that. At your breathy words, he growls and doubles down his efforts.

The power behind his hips has each and every urgent thrust into you sparking blazing white flickers behind your covered eyes, and the borderline sting from his impressive size and fast strokes dances between discomfort and delight.

Din is no longer kissing you, but he’s used to fucking anonymously, so you can understand if what makes him come is maybe a little less intimate than you’ve been so far. It’s completely fine, of course, you just want him to enjoy himself as much as you have, and frankly, there’s very little you can do to increase his pleasure here anyway.

You wrap your hands around his biceps to feel the power rippling there as he holds himself up above you, and you suck in an appreciative gasp as he hits a particularly delicious angle.

His thrusting increases in pace a fraction more as he hears you, so you give him some additional encouragement in the form of more moans; again, not lying since you’re getting thoroughly railed, and you fucking love it.

In this position, you doubt you’ll come again without more direct pressure on your clit, but you’re not disappointed. Your focus is now on his pleasure, although your own continues to bubble alongside his - near boiling point yet unlikely to spill over, but sensational all the same.

The harmony of your mutual moans, the slick sounds of his frenzied movements, the power in his tightened muscles… it all hits your awareness simultaneously yet layered, a cacophony of wondrous perfection.

But then he surprises you and drops forward, still keeping up his pace but changing the angle slightly, which makes you both moan delightedly. Then he presses his forehead to yours in a Keldabe kiss, soft curls now somewhat damp with sweat from you both, and he says things in Mando’a. Many things. You have no idea what he’s saying, but the passion in his voice comes through, as does his repetition of words. Between his thrusts, you hear the ones you know several times - his endearments - and you also catch the last one that leaves his lips since he’s already given you a translation: kar’ta. Heart.

Din kisses you then, searing and meaningful, and you return his passion in equal measure. You don’t know the context of his utterances, but you can’t help but feel like he’s just fucked all of his feelings into you and is now sealing his disclosure with a blazing kiss while he continues to pound into you with fervour.

He pulls back only to release a broken moan and whisper in Basic, “… I’m close….”

He’s done well to last this long. Part of you never wants this to end, but he deserves a release.

You raise one hand to grasp his hair and tug, raking the nails of your other hand across his broad shoulder and down his back, and he moans at the feeling.

“Come inside me, riduur… please…” you pant, begging him with the endearment, despite its inaccuracy. In this moment right here, nothing seems more fitting.

And Din must agree since your words and actions make him groan loudly, and his hips stutter on a few final deep thrusts. Then he cries out, and you feel him pulse into you, his release epic and intense as you squeeze his throbbing cock with your internal muscles and milk him to his very last, his body shuddering above you as his breathing falters and he fills you with his hot seed.

Complete and utter satisfaction envelops you, perfectly post-orgasmic even though you didn’t come a third time. Holy fuck, that was incredible.

As his muscles begin to relax and he sucks air back into his lungs, you lay soft kisses wherever you can manage in your blindfolded state - his nose, his cheek, the corner of his mouth where his now barely discernable moustache ends. He returns from his euphoria and relaxes fully above you, dropping more of his weight onto you gently while checking he’s not crushing you, then bringing his head down to nuzzle against your neck, panting deeply as you stroke his hair.

You both take a few moments to catch your breath. Then he lifts his head and leans in for a soft and gentle kiss, which you’re more than happy to return.

When you part, you ask Din the same question he offered you. “Okay?”

He doesn’t give you a direct answer; instead, he rests his forehead against yours once again and emphatically tells you in deep and resonant tones, “I love you.”

And that’s more than enough to show just how okay he is.

Something inside you swells in harmonious beauty from hearing him say those three words together in Basic in that precise order. He’s said it in Mando’a, has referenced it in Basic and even Ewokese, but this is the first time he’s declared it outright in those terms, honest and raw.

You try to repay him the feeling by recalling the words in his own language, and you slowly and carefully pronounce them, hoping it’s correct. “Ni… kar’tayli… gar… darasuum.”

Your Mandalorian whimpers at hearing you say it, and you think that’s a win. However, it also makes him shift slightly over you, which has the effect of re-angling his slowly softening cock where it remains inside you. You’re still so sensitive that you inadvertently clench around him, causing him to hiss at his own over-stimulation. He kisses you again as he carefully draws himself out of you, then rolls off you to the side.

The loss of him both inside and atop you makes you feel momentarily empty and untethered. But then you hear him sit up and inhale loudly. You feel his fingers at your pussy, drawing patterns against you in the mix of your gently leaking fluids. “Holy shit, mesh’la….”

Din’s words are full of awe, and you’re assuming this is probably the first time he’s been treated to a close-up look at a cunt, particularly one he’s stuffed full of his own cum. Definitely without the helmet. But although you’d usually be quite self-conscious about having someone stare directly at you down there, you adopt a knowing smile and let him look and touch his fill, twitching slightly when he grazes past overly sensitive areas, which (ever the fast learner) he notes and quickly avoids.

With the blindfold still on, your other senses tell you what’s going on when you feel him scoop up some of the sticky fluids and hear him suck them off his fingers, his moan letting you know how much he appreciates the taste of the two of you combined. It makes you grin even brighter; the helmet means this is almost certainly his first and only taste of a woman unless he’s licked his fingers clean after being with previous lovers. But the surprise you detect in his lustful noise suggests this is wholly new to him.

You’re a little surprised he doesn’t mind tasting himself. Then again, anything new is fascinating to someone whose lifelong enclosure within a helmet has prevented him from exploring the delights of flavour and other oral activities.

“Plenty of time to explore taste later,” you smirk, fractionally concerned that he might try to dive in with his tongue right now, but you’re way too sensitive for that. Not that the idea doesn’t excite you… kriff…

“You… may need to give me some guidance again,” he says, hints of shame and regret undercutting his words. Then he repeats his earlier declaration. “I should’ve told you before that my experience was… limited. Hard to admit….”

Smiling kindly at him, you say, “There’s no room for regret here, Din. What we just did… it’s never felt that good before. Never. People who already think they know what they’re doing just stick to a script, but everyone likes something different. So if you ask and take directions well, it’ll always turn out better. You were the one who suggested back on the bordok wagon that pointers in advance would be beneficial.”

“I… I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable - I know you prefer to give up control, and you found it difficult to say much back on the wagon. I figured this would require more… skill, but I hoped I could just work out what you needed from your reactions.” Din continues to swirl lazy patterns on your inner thighs with your combined cum as it leaks out of you.

“I prefer it, yeah,” you admit, “But it’s not impossible for me to guide. It was only difficult when I didn’t know exactly what you needed to know. And I’m happy to give you any extra lessons you want. As long as you return the favour.”

“I thought…” he trails off, then tries again. “I assumed your experience was… broader than mine. What would you need me to teach you that you don’t already know?”

Okay, you’re apparently having this conversation now. Seems an odd time for a talk that’ll likely reference things you’ve done with ex-lovers, but what the hell. You guess his jealousy is probably at an all-time low now he’s just blown your mind with two orgasms more than anyone else has ever managed to give you.

You ignore his comment about experience and answer his question. “Well… how to go down on you, for a start. Every guy likes something different, so you’ll need to show me your preference.”

Din is quiet for a moment, and it quickly dawns on you that he may not even know what you’re referring to. Has anyone ever done that to him? If he keeps himself hidden, then likely not.

“Do you… know what I’m talking about?” you ask gently.

“Yes.” He sounds shy, and you think your assumption was correct. “It’s not… I haven’t let anybody do that before… so I wouldn’t know what to tell you.” Bingo.

Still in a soft voice, though careful not to patronise, you tell him, “If you’re interested in trying it, you can tell me what feels good. You know which parts of yourself are most sensitive - where and how you like to touch yourself - so even if you don’t know for sure, you can suggest things for me to try. And we can figure it out together. It’s easier than me running through every technique I can think of until we land on the best ones for you.”

“How many techniques are there?” He sounds exasperated, slightly overwhelmed at all the new information coming his way on the previously unknown topic of cock-sucking.

You chuckle a little, not at him, but at the situation. It still feels odd to be the teacher, but when he asks things outright, you find it much easier to be specific and not embarrassed by giving an explicit answer. Plus, the orgasm endorphins still haven’t worn off, and being blindfolded helps.

“Maybe that was the wrong word. If there’s a manual, I’ve never read it. And I’m by no means an expert through practice either, by the way. But I’m aware there are plenty of different options for, y’know… pressure, speed, angle, suction, depth… uh, hand-involvement, tongue-placement… um….”

You trail off since your experience is limited to what two former boyfriends liked, plus an awkward encounter with Taron that ended with his surprising admission that he didn’t much care for blow jobs, so you’re sort of speculating already.

But then you think of another way to illustrate your point. “The things I just showed you I like aren’t guaranteed to work on all women. I mean, the layout is the same, yeah, but someone else might need a lot of pressure on their clit earlier on, or enjoy more friction, or hate having their nipples touched, or… I mean…” You flounder again, then conclude, “Everyone’s different, so like you said before: helpful pointers guarantee success.”

Wait, does he know the word ‘clit’? He didn’t know where to find it. But you’ve finished your stream of advice now, and you don’t want to assume ignorance on his part, so you refrain from clarifying. Context should be enough if he didn’t know the term before now.

Din is still and quiet for another few seconds, apparently having finished painting your thighs with cum for now.

Inhaling decisively, he says, “Then I look forward to more lessons.”

And with that, he lifts himself off the bed, and you hear him pad over to the refresher. He quickly returns with a damp cloth and generously wipes up the mess he’s just spread all across your thighs. At least he doesn’t need lessons in appropriately chivalrous aftercare.

You’re still boneless and content to remain lying where you are, having barely moved since he rolled off you, and you play back the encounter in your mind, evaluating and appreciating. It was more than satisfying, despite his inexperience. Definitely an enjoyable celebration of your victory here on Endor.

Eventually, Din lies back down in his usual spot, working his arm around you to draw you close again, kissing you softly. You cuddle up to him and are pleased to discover he’s still completely naked and hasn’t even gone for his underwear again.

“How are you doing without the helmet?”

“Fine,” he answers immediately. “I said I wouldn’t regret it, and I don’t. It’s… hmm… liberating? Like… I’m finally in control of my beliefs instead of them controlling me.”

Thank the stars. You don’t know how you would feel if he suddenly became awkward about it again, especially after all you’ve just shared.

“How are you doing with the blindfold?” he asks in return. “If you wanna take it off, I can put my helmet back on….”

“No, not yet, please.” You try to keep the pleading tone from your voice, but it’s tough. “I will gladly give up sight to spend more time with you completely bare like this. I like the intimacy of it.”

Then a yawn takes over your body, and suddenly you’re annoyed at your brain for wanting to shut down your enjoyment of him when both helmet and clothes are off.

He hums in amusement and says, “I like it too, but we’ve had all of three hours’ sleep since the night before we fought Nantoogen. Two battles and some fucking amazing sex means we need to recharge - if only so we have enough energy for even more amazing sex.”

“Well, I can sleep in the blindfold if you’re okay leaving the helmet off?”

“I’m good with that.” He says it without pause and with relief colouring his tone.

Fumbling with the blanket, which has somehow been pushed to the end of the bed in the earlier throes of passion, Din draws it over you both, then once you’re plastered along his body in your favourite sleeping position, he reaches up to the wall above the bed and turns off the lights. The blindfold is thick, so not much changes for you, but you no longer detect slivers of light from above and below it.

Then he kisses your forehead, and you both fall quickly into the most restful post-coital sleep you’ve ever experienced.

Chapter Text

Sensations. At first just an inkling of goodness, then as your brain slowly comes back from the depths of sleep and starts to interpret the signals your body is sending it, the sensations evolve and expand into subcategories, branching out into… comfort… bliss… titillation…

When your eyes crack open, everything remains dark. But you don’t panic. Some kind of latent understanding is in place that tells you there’s no need for that. Eventually, you remember the blindfold and acknowledge the feeling of the material across your eyes.

The rest… well. The sensations are new, but they’re also flagged as good by your sleepy mind. Soon, you’re alert enough to trace the origins of the feelings, and you give a lazy smile as you breathe in the joy that your gradually increasing awareness brings.

You’ve turned over in your sleep - or maybe Din turned you over - and your lover is now pressed up firmly against your back, providing warmth along the entire length of your naked body (comfort), smooth and slow strokes of his large hand from your waist down to your thigh then back up again (bliss), and hot, open-mouthed kisses on your shoulder and neck (titillation).

Then a fourth sensation rises within you as you become aware of his hard cock pressed against your ass… desire.

“Mm-hai,” you mumble in a vague greeting, shifting yourself fractionally backward into his warmth, inhaling as he responds with an equally subtle shift against you. Not quite sexual yet, but wanting. Definitely wanting.

“Sorry,” he breathes against your ear, licking the shell gently before placing a kiss just behind it. (He doesn’t sound sorry). “Couldn’t resist. I can stop…” he whispers, making absolutely no attempt to do so. He’s really making the most of being without the helmet.

A vaguely negative utterance flutters in your throat. “Don’t stop… s’a nice waken… way t’wake up. Feels nice…” Your brain is working, but your vocabulary hasn’t booted up yet.

“Good, because I don’t think I can stop,” Din confesses, gently capturing your earlobe between his teeth and sucking it softly, before dipping back down to your neck and grazing his teeth along the flesh there. Illustrating his inability to exercise restraint, he seals his lips against you and sucks, pulling the blood to the surface behind your skin and branding you with yet another mark.

Kriff, you may need to check just how many of those he’s left on you.

You moan a low approval of the feeling, almost fully awake now and able to process just how turned on he’s already made you while in your previously unconscious state. You can feel how slick you already are between your legs, and you move your hand to catch his as it grazes back up your thigh to your hip, redirecting it straight to where you want him most.

The enjoyment of your first encounter seems to have given you a surprising yet welcome confidence in guiding him.

Din lets out a hum of approval as you part your thighs just enough to push his whole hand between them with yours over it, getting him to cup your pussy, then nudging his thick middle finger down to glide over and then between your folds, feeling the increasing wetness build. You encourage him to just gently slide one thick finger back and forth between your inner lips for a while, showing without telling how to begin with light strokes in contrast to his instant deep dive the last time.

Soon enough, though, you gradually press more firmly on his other fingers, requesting he start moving more than just the single digit, sliding a little deeper just past your entrance and spreading the slickness as it collects. Then you slowly press the heel of his palm over your clit and begin to lose your focus for teaching as the sensations build you toward pleasurable distraction.

He is sharply attentive, responding perfectly to every subtle twitch of your hand as you show him a new way to get you ready, breathing against your neck while he learns what you like from this angle and with this level of sleepiness enveloping you.

And, kriff, with his fingertips playing a beautiful overture at the mouth of your pussy, you’re soon so drenched that you don’t even think you’ll need his fingers entirely inside you first. It’s not like his dick wasn’t already stretching you just a few hours ago.

So you shift your hips enough to free his erection from where it’s clamped between your bodies, admiring his remarkable ability to restrain himself from thrusting against you until now. You prop up your leg and feel him spring free into the gap between your thighs, then you lift his hand from your cunt and encourage him to spread your slick along himself.

Din seems to understand and gives his beskar-hard cock a few strokes but releases himself quite quickly with a grunt, moving back to your wetness to scoop up more lubrication and then returning to the task you gave him.

He lets you keep your hand over his, and you get an idea of how he handles himself. Not a precise idea just yet (that will come later when your hands switch places, and yours is the one against him), but enough to note that he seems to like long strokes with medium pressure, though he avoids coming up over the head for now. You lock away the knowledge to practice another time.

When he’s thoroughly coated in your juices, you don’t hesitate - you want him inside you. So you shift again to press your thighs back together, pulling up your knees a little and re-angling your hips until the blunt head of his cock is notched against your entrance.

He feels what you’re doing and helps position himself, makes a vaguely interrogative sound in his throat (are you ready?), and you nod eagerly. How you’re able to communicate so effectively with neither words nor sight is a curious but fleeting thought, suppressed immediately by the oncoming bombardment of physical sensations.

Din slides into you smoothly and steadily with the copious lubrication. However, the sudden fullness is overwhelming since your tight pussy hasn’t been opened up in advance, and you release a semi-strangled cry that describes both pleasure and a touch of pain. Kriff, maybe you somewhat overestimated your ability to take his thick cock with so little prep.

He stills at the sound and nuzzles his face against your neck, understanding that you need a moment to adjust to him (and probably needing one himself), gently stroking his fingers across your hip.

But soon, your whimpers fade into purrs, and you start to gently rock yourself against him, encouraging him to begin thrusting languidly.

And fuck, it’s good. So good. Exquisite…

From this angle behind you, he hits your G-spot directly, sparking little flashes of instant pleasure with every stroke of his throbbing cock as he gradually increases the power behind his thrusts when he sees you can take it, though still keeping it slow at this stage.

And oh, it’s incredible… almost narcotic in the way your whole being is saturated with a sleepy and satisfying chemical flood.

You’re both sighing and moaning in bliss, and suddenly you’re desperate for his mouth, missing his lips against yours. So you turn your head toward your shoulder and drop a kiss on the forehead you find there, and he instantly lifts his mouth to lock with yours. The angle is a little tricky, just like when he kissed you over your shoulder out in the forest before you fought the bounty, but the intoxicating glide of his rigid shaft plunging into you more than makes up for it.

Din slides his hand up to your breast and massages it hungrily, fingers still wet from your pussy which he uses to rub deliciously smooth passes over your nipple. Fuck, yes. It feels fantastic and makes you moan in gratitude.

Still, you soon want more, so you move his hand back down to your cunt and press his fingers over your clit, showing him that he can rub those smooth circles from this angle even while he’s inside you, then leaving him to it and taking over at your own breast. And, oh, he’s got that rhythm down to an art already…

He growls at the way your cunt tightens around him when he starts to graze past your clit in earnest, and he slightly picks up his pace, which makes you moan even louder. It’s like he’s inside your kriffing mind as well as your pussy, and now that he has the skills, he reads you and plays your body so perfectly it’s as if the universe put him on this moon solely to pleasure you like this.

The heavenly thrills he’s evoking with his fingers and cock envelop your body and bring you closer and closer to your peak, and you can sense he’s right there with you. You need something more from him, though, and your intoxicated mind sends the words to your lips with no inhibitions. “Harder… faster….”

Your instructions are followed instantly as you give in to the quickly building sensations and teeter on the edge. Din perfectly coordinates an increase of the pace and power he uses to fill your cunt with his thick length, as well as the pressure he’s applying to your clit with his fingers, now hitting that perfect place deep inside you just right and sparking flashes of fire from every hot button he’s working so ably, and…

…holy fuck… you topple effortlessly over into oblivion with a cry of joy.

You become still and tense as your powerful orgasm hits you like a knockout punch, mewling his name in adoration and gratitude for the pleasure he brings you, pussy pulsing and clenching around his stiff dick as he puts even more power into his pace…

…and it’s breathtaking, elemental, transcendent…