Chapter Text
Working as a mechanic on Nevarro didn’t often gift you the visual of friendly faces, and that was no different with the Mandalorian—he never showed his face. You wouldn’t know his smile even if he decided to wake up one day without slotting Beskar all over his body.
But you knew his stance, the broadness of his shoulders, his preference for short range blasters with the safety close enough for his index finger to reach before firing at will. You didn’t really know people on Nevarro, but you knew their weapon of choice.
It was knowledge that had ended up being valuable, both to your survival, and to that of the Mandalorian.
“I’ll pay you for this information,” He offered bluntly. He never begged, nor did he show his true emotions within his modulated voice very often. The only vague emotion you’d seen him give off was anger—seething and insatiable— the first time he’d ever approached you for a repair.
“What good will this information give you?” You asked, genuinely. “I don’t know their names, this is hunter country. No one ever gives away their identity,”
“A weapon needs someone doing the firing,” He replied simply.
You agreed to his terms, partly from the initial fear that he would harm you, think you to be working against the Guild, but also from the generous sum he was willing to give you for every piece of information you passed onto him.
And thus, began a sort-of partnership that you’d never expected.
You were no saint. You knew the damage done by the goods you willingly sold to trained killers, assassins, Guild members. You saw the bodies dragged from their ships to the Guild, you saw the bounties that went out, kicking and screaming and spitting at their captors—
You saw the blood and dirt and flakes of flesh with every weapon upgrade or repair, but now, you didn’t bat an eye. It was business, it was your livelihood, and it was good money, thanks this this agreement with the Mandalorian that you’d made a while back.
Mando arrived back on Nevarro every few weeks. His condition was always subject to review; sometimes he flowed through your doors, ready for a quick exchange; other times, he took his time with it, sitting opposite you as you went through the recent repair logs, discussing the types of people that came through your doors.
Over the months, however, he always ended up sticking around for longer periods of time. Whether it was from earlier exhaustion, or the normalcy of having a conversation that didn’t end in bloodshed, you didn’t mind. He was the only constant in your life, splitting up your weeks and months when, before, honest interaction had basically been at zero.
“Are you not worried?” He asked one evening. It was late, and your shop was technically closed. You’d awoken to the subtle clicks of your entrance being lockpicked, hoisting yourself out of bed in nothing but your nightwear and grabbing the blaster you kept by your pillow.
You’d rushed to the shop front, aiming your blaster right at his chrome covered head. He’d raised his hands immediately, not once going for his own weapon. The feeling in the pit of your stomach as you lowered your weapon hadn’t been one of anxiety, but of warmth—he trusted you enough not to grab his weapon, not to even incline that he was going to shoot you.
“Worried about what?” You replied, flicking through the logbook.
“A bounty escaping, knowing that you shared this information,” You stopped flicking through the pages, freezing slightly where you sat opposite him. You sensed his sudden unease, deciding to look up directly into his visor.
“Tell me this, Mando,” You began. “What’s my name?”
He looked at you blankly, but you liked to imagine what facial expression he pulled beneath his helmet. In this moment, you imagined he was almost panicking, trying desperately to think back at what your name could be. It’d been over six months, yet names were never properly discussed. His silence proved that he’d just realised this.
“See? You don’t know it. My face is somewhat known here, sure, but my name? I try not to share it as much as you try not to show your face,” You sent him a raised brow smirk. Innately, you felt you had a responsibility to come across stronger than you looked, which is why you shoved down those subtle flickers of anxiety that arose from his question.
Sure, you had those doubts, anyone would. But living on Nevarro, doing what you did, it was an element of the job that you simply had to expect. You suspected Mando also knew that feeling well.
“You’re single-handedly keeping me in business, Mando,” You chuffed, almost sadly, but kept up an unbothered attitude. “I wasn’t going to turn this down and all these months down the line, no matter the danger, wouldn’t change that.” You ended, and you could have sworn you heard him breathe out, almost as if he was relieved that you knew these conditions from the beginning.
You kept flicking through the logbook, until you finally stumbled across a repair. “Here it is,” You perked up, shuffling yourself round so Mando could see the book over your shoulder. Your index finger grazed the page, just underneath the line he was looking for. “Repaired his blaster pistol last month. He didn’t look like a hunter, more like a scared blurrg, from what I can recall,”
“Young? Old?” Mando questioned.
“On the young side, definitely. Looked more like a runaway than anything else,” You added, feeling a strange pang of guilt in your chest. Usually, you divulged the weapon information of other hunters gone rogue, wanted by the Guild; assassins and thieves, or whatever other dirt washed up on Nevarro and in your shop.
This, however—you remembered him. He was young, he was scared, shaking like a newly born calf when he’d bumbled into your shop.
“That fits the bill,” Mando stated, before rising from his seat. You followed suit, making your way back round your front work desk and slotting the logbook beneath it. You tried to keep your expression blunt when you turned back to him, but you couldn’t help the wave of overthinking that landed in your brain.
You stared at him, leaning against the desk until your shoulders rose to cover your neck. You couldn’t stop yourself from letting out a sigh, but evidently that was enough for you to get the Mandalorian’s attention.
“What?” He spoke harshly, in the same old modulated boom you were used to hearing. You forced yourself to stay still, trying desperately to find his eyes beneath the abyss of his dark visor, but of course it was no use.
“Don’t break into my shop next time,” You diverted your emotions. “Just knock if it’s after hours,”
Mando nodded once, the moonlight gleaming off the chrome that surrounded his face for just a second, before disappearing once more. He shuffled a leather gloved hand through his satchel for just a few seconds, before approaching you at the work desk.
Unceremoniously, he placed your pay in front of you, each credit dropping with a small ping against the metal surface.
“See you,” Mando said bluntly. You nodded in return, before the Beskar covered man left your shop swiftly, shutting your door gently on his way out. You stared at the credits disapprovingly, before going to relock the door behind him.
You forced yourself to shuffle through your pay, counting the credits so you could note them in your budget, but you furrowed your brows as you finished rounding them up. You must have counted them wrong—there were an extra five hundred credits than what you’d agreed with the Mandalorian all those months ago.
Shaking your head, you went about recounting them, only to get to the same exact outcome. Was it an honest mistake in his counting, or had he overpaid you? Tipped you, helped you, heard the way your voice had almost faltered when you’d told him he was keeping you afloat?
You were awash with a new type of conflict—somewhere between thanks and extreme anger. The thanks were certain; he’d listened, and he hadn’t needed to do that, but he’d done it anyway. The anger; this implied you owed him now. As much as you’d come to enjoy his occasional visits every few weeks, the man was still an utter mystery to you. You didn’t want him to have the option of springing up in here and asking for a favour, knowing that he’d done one for you prior.
But there was still a warmth—it came subtly and out of the blue often, when you were around him. You could have slapped yourself at how fast it came this time round, taking you by surprise and speeding your heart rate up beneath your ribs.
He’s a bounty hunter. Get over it.
You placed your usual cut in your savings bundle, in the safe by your bed, but the extra five hundred stayed out of that bag. You shuffled back into bed with no indication of tiredness flooding over you again. All you saw in the static darkness of your grimy bedroom was the outline of that damn helmet—
And the wonder of what lay beneath.
The next week and a half was long and soul-crushingly slow. You’d had about three repair requests total, completing them all in a matter of hours, not making more than a few thousand credits from the sales. Nevarro had seemed restless recently, with less hunters returning to the Guild for more pucks. Maybe it was just a slow week.
Mando arrived back in the evening again, after you closed your doors early for the weekend. The sunlight trickled over Nevarro sparsely, but that evening was particularly warm, so you decided to have some fun.
Your shop had a back courtyard, nothing major, but you’d transformed it into a mini-firing range a year or so back. You were firing a classic blaster when you heard him approach from behind you—you jumped out of your skin at the sight of him, blaster raised, defensive stance donned.
“I told you to knock, Mando,” You boomed out, clutching your heart and switching the safety on your blaster immediately. Mando raised his arms in subtle apology, but you could have sworn you saw the subtle shake of his shoulders beneath the Beskar.
“You sounded... busy,” He spoke, and you squinted at him, feeling your cheeks flushing. The bastard was laughing. He was silently giggling beneath his helmet, the only indication of his lapse of stoicism being from the tiniest movement of his chest and shoulders, almost indecipherable.
You shot him an amused scowl. “Did you—,”
“I locked it,” He replied, already knowing what you were asking. You gulped down surprise at his immediate response, turning back to your makeshift firing range and trying desperately to calm yourself down.
Now, you were a strong woman, that was no question. But the constant mystery of the last six months in Mando’s presence had provided you with more than you’d bargained for. Was it a reflex to suddenly feel invested in this guy’s life after a while? To want to know his backstory, his missions, his favourite breakfast food or blaster style?
The extra credits from your previous trade had only increased these feelings. What was it about a man in a mask? Or, more specifically, what was it about Mando?
And now, as you awkwardly struggled with the safety on a blaster you’d been firing since you were twelve fucking years old, all you could think about was the tone of his voice as he’d said I locked it.
“You shoot?” Mando questioned, moving round to stand next to you. You shot him a smirk, trying to conceal the thoughts within your head.
“I don’t just repair blasters, if that’s what you mean,” You could have cringed at how cocky you’d sounded, but it was too late.
“Show me,” He spoke. He didn’t demand it, but the way his voice arched it was as if he could make anyone do anything he said, just from the steadiness of that modulated drawl.
You did as you were told. You shook off your limbs subtly, before flicking off the safety and aiming at the targets you’d made. In flashes of green, you hit one, two, three targets with ease, right in the centre of their bullseye.
You changed it up, feeling a surge of confidence, or perhaps the want to impress this stoic man. Skilfully, you flipped the blaster in your hands until it had transferred to your other hand, firing another three times on the same targets and hitting them dead centre once more.
Your index finger clicked the safety on, before you stood in place, admiring the shots you’d fired.
“Try this one,” He said beside you, before he plucked the blaster from your hand and replaced it with this own weapon. You looked it over as it slotted into your grasp. It was heavier than yours, bigger, with a more distanced safety, probably because of the hand width that the Mandalorian possessed.
You furrowed your brows at his blaster, smiling at the way the steel glinted. It was well cared for, polished and gleaming, but slightly worn away around the trigger. Well-used. His own personalised weapon.
You raised the blaster towards the targets, all too aware of the way that chrome helmet was tilted towards you. You steadied your arm, applying just the right amount of pressure against the trigger, before it fired in quick succession—
You analysed the blast fire, the weight, the wind, fixing your trajectory upon impact with the trigger in a matter of milliseconds. When you stopped firing, overseeing the new collection of burning holes in the targets, you realised you’d hit them all dead centre again.
To your delight, or to your utter amazement, Mando let out a low, long whistle from beneath his Beskar.
“That’s a custom weapon,” He spoke afterwards, moving to stand before you. “Not many people could change their shooting style like that to fit the blast radius,” It was the closest thing to a compliment that you’d ever heard him offer.
You stayed silent as he replaced his blaster with your own once more, sheathing his weapon before his visor looked straight into your soul. It was shameful, how you realised you could probably stand there and analyse the chiselled and curved edges of his helmet for hours, how if you focused strongly, you could see him breathing beneath his heavy armour.
You forced yourself to step back, looking back towards the shop. “Right—business,” You said, heading inside immediately with Mando following on your tail.
You dropped your blaster on your work desk, grabbing the logbook and getting ready to flick through it once more, before Mando spoke up.
“I seek no information today,” He revealed. You froze, before slotting the logbook back beneath the desk slowly, trying to wrap your mind around his reason for visiting you.
“Okay,” You said, upon rising from beneath the desk once more. All of a sudden, you remembered his money—burning a hole in the safe in your room. You perked up, slapping your hands on the desk for lack of what the fuck to even do before getting round to almost scolding this man. “Then, I have a bone to pick with you,”
Mando dropped himself onto his usual stool, flicking his cape behind him and leaning back in subtle comfort. You swallowed, trying not to interpret anything from his clearly at ease behaviour, before heading to your bedroom quickly.
“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” He spoke up from the shop floor, and your heart skipped. Was that an attempt at a joke? At some comedy? You had to stop yourself, as you got to the floor and riffled through your safe for his overpaid credits, from allowing a warmth to spread through your gut.
You wanted to curse, as loud as you could. Had it really been that long that you were getting flustered over words from a Mandalorian? Undoubtedly the most hostile and unwelcoming people the galaxy had?
Or, was it just Mando himself that had you overthinking every sentence, every visit?
Credits secured in your fist, you made your way back out to the shop, dropping yourself opposite him and grabbing his arm suddenly, not stopping to think that this man could probably break you in half with his bare hands.
You dropped the credits in his gloved hand, sitting back as he stared at the pellets he now cradled in his palm.
“Not what we agreed,” Is all you said in explanation, picking up a tankard of water and sipping some down your throat, for lack of knowing how to cover up your neon cheeks after the exchange. The weather. It’s just the heat.
“I upped your pay,” He retorted.
“Bullshit, Mando,” You retaliated, allowing a few chuckles to escape your lips. Your face softened then, as you looked over to him, sitting awkwardly, still not knowing what to do with the returned credits. “Your money is your money, Mando. I’m fine with what we agreed,”
His fingers finally clasped around the credits, as his body went back to relax against the wall once more.
“Your shop,” Mando began. “You said I keep you in business,”
“That doesn’t mean I want more of your credits. Owning a washed-up weapons repair shop on kriffing Nevarro isn’t ideal, but neither is being a bounty hunter,”
“You’d earn more as a hunter with the way you shoot,” Mando replied instantly. You perked your brow, sending him a small smile.
“Are you saying I’m not a good weapons mechanic?”
You almost burst out laughing with the way Mando straightened himself, immediately being on edge. His fists tightened, almost as if he was suddenly overthinking if he’d insulted you or not.
“N-no,” He partially stuttered out, but you couldn’t keep your laughter contained. You burst out in giggles, overseeing his complete lack of sarcastic understanding. It was endearing; it made him appear more human.
“Joke, Mando. It was a joke,”
He relaxed after that once more, albeit more hesitantly. He went to slot the credits back in his bag placed on the floor, and as he did so, you allowed yourself to indulge. Beskar gleamed as he leant down, showing the twist of his torso and outlining strong triceps on the small amount of him that was unarmoured.
His neck was slender, compared to the size of his helmet. You wondered how the hell he wore that thing constantly. It didn’t look light, nor did you expect it to be all that comfortable.
If he saw you gawking when he rose once more, he didn’t make any indication of noticing. To avoid revealing what you’d been doing, you moved to cross your legs as a save. “So, why’re you here?” You finally asked, remembering that he had no reason to have visited you.
Mando tensed up slightly at your question, but not enough to come across as surprised. He’d already admitted to not needing information from you today.
“Habit,” He replied honestly. His one-word answer cut through you like a knife, striking your core and filling it with that warmth one again. It wasn’t often that you felt exposed, but sat opposite him, in your home, hearing him be so unapologetically honest had simply made those thoughts rise to the forefront of your mind once more.
You wanted to know him, but you also knew that asking him these things would result in nothing good.
You forced yourself to swallow down these rising wants, to push them away completely, before putting on a small smile. “That’s a funny way of saying that I’m your only friend,”
All effort to force those feelings away dissolved, as soon as you heard the low, modulated chuckles from beneath his helmet. They floated through the room, along with the image of his shaking shoulders and tight chest as his laughter tumbled to the floor.
You felt your cheeks flush immediately, knowing that it would be a noticeable blush. You grabbed your tankard, bringing it to your lips as you continued to indulge in looking at him, as he calmed down from the small burst of laughter that he allowed himself to show you.
There was something pulsing within you that you simply couldn’t contain; that want; that desire, after so long without knowing anyone on this godforsaken planet. Before you could stop yourself, words were already tumbling from your mouth.
“I don’t see many people on this planet, besides you,” You admitted. Mando slowly turned his visor to you, making it known that you had his full attention.
You immediately felt too vulnerable, resulting in you standing from your seat and heading round to your work desk, slamming the tankard down on the top. “It’s... well, it’s nice. I hope that, even if you don’t need information, you continue to come by,”
You held your breath as soon as you stopped talking, too afraid that you’d overstepped a line. Not that this transaction with him had ever been professional, but you knew Mandalorian’s were inherently focused on their job, and their job only.
When he didn’t reply, or move, or do anything, you started to panic. You played it off as best as you could, by downing the rest of the water in your tankard and averting your gaze to beneath your work desk, like you had the immediate need to start taking inventory.
Mando rose a few moments later, grabbing his satchel and placing it over his shoulder. The breath caught in your throat as he approached your desk. You almost gasped as a gloved hand reached for your forearm, dragging it out to hover in front of him.
He dropped the five hundred credits into your palm as your eyes flicked over his helmet at light speed. He stepped back, removing his grip from you and placing his visor upon your face one last time, before turning on his heels and heading for the door.
He unlocked it, but didn’t open it. You felt your pounding heartbeat as he cleared his throat.
“It is,” He let out lowly. “Nice.”
The door swooped open and shut behind him gently before you could say anything in return.
He didn’t come back the next week. You wondered if you’d scared him off, if your tiny confession of enjoying his company was too much.
You thought back to the way he’d said the word— Nice— as if it wasn’t something that was often spoken in his vocabulary. For a man of little words, you were increasingly amazed at how he managed to convey things with his body alone, being weighed down and covered up by Beskar at all times.
The credits still weighed on you. You’d given them back to him, you’d made yourself clear, but then he’d given them back and left without a trace.
You prayed to some god out there that it wasn’t a Mandalorian way of saying goodbye. From what you knew of Mandalore, which was very little, you knew they weren’t the gift giving types, but it still made you think.
Yet all that he’d done, despite the deal, the trade of information and the abrupt middle of the night awakenings, those small attempts at light-hearted banter and void visits had given you just a shred of hope.
People on Nevarro were cut-throat, you knew that better than most after making your home there for so long. That’s why this shook you to your core, sparking this unlikely partnership with someone such as Mando.
Stars, you missed him. It sounded ridiculous when you said it in your head, but you did. Contact was little to none on this planet.
You didn’t speak more than a sentence to people needing repairs. You didn’t sit down and talk, and fuck, the loneliness was something you were used to— yet six months of regular meetings, even just to trade information, had offered you a warmth you hadn’t realised you’d missed—
Until he was gone.
It wasn’t until three weeks later that you ventured out of the shop, certain that you were going mad. You hardly frequented the bar at the entrance of the city, choosing to stay safe and locked away in your small isolation inside the shop, but the absence of people was sucking you dry.
You entered the bar, making sure not to seem out of place. It was still an odd feeling, seeing people sitting around and drinking. You knew a lot of the locals— returning customers for repairs, all of which were hunters.
Perhaps there was some unspoken understanding that you weren’t to be touched, as the small nods of hunters hit you when you accidentally met their eyes. It almost made you feel known, but at the same time you hadn’t felt much since that last conversation with the Beskar clad hunter.
You were heading towards the bar when a voice rang out behind you. “Miss!” You swivelled on your heels, hitting his eyes.
It was Greef Karga. You knew him, everyone on Nevarro did. He was the Guild contact here, the one that most hunters got their pucks from for the next job.
“Karga, hello,” You replied, not politely, but not harshly. Being polite got you nowhere on Nevarro, and you knew that despite his smiles and willingness to be friendly, Karga was a snake in the grass.
“Drink?” He questioned, and you found yourself accepting his offer. You made your way to his booth, slotting yourself in opposite him. He grabbed a bottle of blue liquor from the floor by his feet, clicking at the droid behind the bar for glasses. “What brings you here? You don’t usually venture from your establishment,”
You regarded him, all too aware of the blaster on your hip for safety.
“Slow few weeks. Fancied a change of scenery,” You replied bluntly.
“Ah yes, business is slower than usual currently,” He admitted. A droid placed two shot glasses on your table, scuttling back to the bar. Karga swiped them towards him, uncorking the bottle and filling up both glasses. “But your repairs are stellar, and I hear your custom blasters are best sellers,”
He dragged a glass towards you, which you took once he’d taken his hand away. You swilled the liquid around, trying not to look too despondent.
“Parts are sparse,” You admitted. “Fewer hunters need new gear. I’m starting to think there’s someone better than me on Nevarro,”
Karga let out a coarse laugh, which you first mistook for a chesty cough. His smile was indication enough, however, of the funniness he obviously though that required.
“No, my dear, there’s no one better,” He replied. You chose to ignore him calling you dear. Opposite you he raised his glass to the sky, prompting you to do the same. “To good business in future,”
You nodded at him in response, before downing the blue liquor in one gulp. It burned as it slinked down your throat, hitting your stomach and causing a warmth to spread through your gut. Nothing like the small conversations the Mandalorian gave you, but it made you feel something— and that was in short supply around here.
Karga sighed in refreshment after slamming his glass back on the table, but his gaze fixed on something behind you as you deposited your glass back down. “Ah, Mando!” He exclaimed.
Your heart stopped.
You stayed utterly frozen in place, feeling a mixture of anxiety and adrenaline surge through you.
“That was fast. I wasn’t expecting you back for another few days at least,” Karga continued.
You tried not to let the hurt surge through you. So, he had been back since your last meeting. He’d been back, and he hadn’t come to visit. You tried to rationalise your hurt— he held no obligation to stop by the shop, he held no responsibility, yet— you wished—
You wished he would have.
“I trust you know our resident weapons mechanic,” Karga continued, gesturing to you. You forced yourself to turn round and look at him— face to face. His helmet stared at you blankly in response, and you wondered what expression he held beneath.
Maybe it was annoyance, thinking he was finally rid of a nobody mechanic from the inner city.
Maybe it was surprise, or hurt, or pain. You knew that despite the immense effort you were putting in to keep your stare blunt, he’d see right through you.
“Yes,” Mando replied after what seemed like hours. You turned back to Karga, pushing your glass to the middle of the table in dismissal.
“Thanks for the drink. I’ll be going,” You got up swiftly, standing in front of Mando after leaving the booth. He looked down at you, chrome visor focusing on your eyeline. You found yourself flicking your eyes from the left and right, as if you could see the placement of his eyes beneath the helmet—
Then you looked away.
You sauntered out of the bar, ignoring exclaimed farewells from Karga as you booked it out of the bar, heading straight back to the shop. Your strides were fierce, your heart pounded painfully beneath your ribs and you couldn’t stop yourself from balling your fists.
You felt like screaming, but you kept your mouth shut and your jaw tense. You felt like punching, kicking, pounding something, but you didn’t, instead opting to breathe it out as you entered your shop and slammed the door shut behind you.
It’s fine. It’s fine.
You yelled at yourself to calm down, to accept that it was nothing. God forbid, you’d gotten worked up over the smallest indication of human interaction, from a man whose face you’d never fucking seen, no less.
It was stupid. You’d long grown out of enjoying fairy tales, and this wasn’t one. You were a grown woman, hyper-fixating over a six-month long dodgy deal with a bounty hunter that you didn’t fucking know— not really, anyway.
In a frenzy, you unsheathed your blaster, heading out to your courtyard. You fired at will, not stopping to aim your blaster or even try to hit the targets. When that got dull, you actually started to try—you positioned your feet parallel to your shoulders, straightening your spine and extending your neck—
You fired, hitting the targets dead centre every time, just like normal.
You fired until your trigger finger began to ache, until the incessant anger and hurt in your chest had dissipated to a low roar that you could manage in other ways—with the bottle of Coruscant whiskey that you only saved for special occasions; big deals, good months, and, evidently, to feel something other than red, hot and seething anger.
You went to sheath your blaster, when the hairs on the back of your neck pricked up—
You turned swiftly, raising your gun and keeping your eyes wide open. You faltered when you saw the familiar glint of moon rays on chrome. Mando stood in the courtyard doorway, just as he’d done the last time you’d seen him.
Your elbow buckled, dropping the blaster to your side as you kept yourself composed. You stared him down like you were unbothered to see him. You had a feeling he knew that wasn’t the case, though, and if he’d been there for a few minutes before then your incessant firing would have proven otherwise.
“Mando,” You spoke first, keeping your voice steady. “What information do you need this time?” You kept it professional, not wanting to think back about the way you’d been so blatantly vulnerable to him before. He probably thought you to be childish, over-emotional, idiotic.
You’d rather he thought you to be that, than weak.
“What were you doing with Karga?” He demanded it this time. His voice was low, lower than usual, despite the modulator. You sheathed your pistol, stepping towards him once. He didn’t move aside.
“Drinking,” You stated the obvious. You made a move to try and get past him, but a Beskar covered forearm leant up against the doorframe, stopping you even more so.
“He’s bad news,” He continued. You let out an annoyed scoff.
“I know who Karga is. Kriff—I live here,” You accidentally let your annoyance travel through your words, making it exceptionally clear that you were pissed, if it hadn’t been obvious before.
You grabbed his forearm, tugging it away from the doorframe and pushing your way inside. He let you pass eventually, watching as you grabbed a bottle of whiskey from beneath your work desk. You jumped up onto the desk, letting your legs droop over the side as you uncorked the bottle.
It was silent. You could tell he was trying to find something to say, to bring up the obvious tension, but you also got the sense that Mando didn’t often apologise.
Why should he? He didn’t promise to come back.
He hadn’t promised. You had no idea why you were so ticked off, yet there you were—seething, angry, hurt, perhaps on the brink of tears, but possibly relishing in the fact he’d come to the shop after your little encounter. You felt sick at your own feelings.
“Are you... mad at me?” He spoke finally. The breath caught in the back of your throat. His hesitation made it clear; he didn’t often delve into the workings of others. He was being kind by even asking you about this.
You felt like a dick. All of a sudden, you could see even more so that you were being incredibly irrational. Weeks of zero contact had turned you into a moron. A lonely, overthinking moron.
You glanced up at him, holding the whiskey between your thighs. You let out a sigh.
“No,” You let out. “I’m sorry. It’s been... a strange, few weeks,” You chuckled slightly after speaking, bringing the bottle to your lips and taking a small gulp. “Loneliness is a disease, Mandalorian,” You added, taking another sip and slotting the bottle back between your thighs.
Mando moved from the doorway, striding towards you slowly. You stayed in place, focusing on the warmth that the whiskey provided you with. You finally looked up when he stood before you, not close enough to slot between your hips, but close enough for your knees to graze against Beskar.
He reached out for the bottle, grabbing it from between your thighs and making his way around to the main shop. You went to turn, but the leather of his gloved hand slotted itself between your jaw and your neck, pushing your gaze to the back of the shop.
“Don’t look,” He told you, warningly.
You did as you were told, all the while counting your shallow breaths as they quietly shook from within your body. You heard the subtle glug of the bottle, the drip as the liquid sloshed around within the glass, and then the bottle was being slotted back between your thighs from behind.
Mando’s arm wrapped itself around you as he made sure it was back in place, his glove grazing over the top of your thigh and skimming your waist as he retracted his arm back. You’d be lying if you didn’t relish in those small touches.
They set your skin alight, despite there being no skin-to-skin contact involved. It was the closest he’d ever come to you, allowing the gentler side of himself to appear. You’d never see him this way; guard down, a softness to his voice and his unknowing gaze.
You knew that he’d just raised his helmet to take a sip of whiskey—that was enough to make you gulp back the desires within your gut. You couldn’t believe he’d felt comfortable enough to do that around you. You hesitantly turned, waiting to see if it was allowed, but fully turned to him when he didn’t push your gaze away like before.
You swivelled on the top of the desk, bringing your legs round to droop over the other side, while Mando grabbed his usual stool and dragged it closer to you.
He sat, sighing slightly as he did so, before looking up at you sat before him.
“Solitude,” He spoke. “I prefer that word,” His voice was soft. You knew he was tired just from the way he spoke; he was exhausted.
“Solitude implies a sense of peace,” You replied, stepping carefully over your words. “Do you feel peace in your ship, all alone?”
“Do you feel peace in this shop?” He hit back with, avoiding your question completely. You were about to say no, but you stopped yourself. This shop was all you had, all you knew. Your choice of loneliness, over solitude, was an obvious indication of the way it made you feel, and you wanted to bet that Mando knew that, but—
Without this life, you didn’t know where you’d be.
“It’s all I have,” You admitted, finally. He nodded subtly, not moving his visor from your face.
“And this,” He said, gesturing to the Beskar he donned. “Is all I know. This is the Way,”
You looked down, swinging your legs back and forth for lack of what to do. You wanted to know more—you always wanted to know more about Mando, that was a given. But right now, you wanted to ask him everything.
“Is that why you stopped coming here?” The words trickled from your lips pitifully, but you had no choice but to accept that you’d spoken them.
Mando was silent for a few moments, but he made no indication of looking away from you. You wondered if, beneath the helmet, he was actually looking at you. Maybe he was zoning out, or was focused on the wall behind your head instead.
“I feared continuing to visit you would become a habit I could no longer break,”
There it was—that warmth. It erupted within your gut, winding its way up your spine and neck, circling down your limbs and to the spot between your legs that you always chose to ignore. You tensed up immediately, forgetting about the whiskey bottle between your thighs as the sensation only increased the wobble of your upper thighs.
“Like you said,” Mando continued, and you could have sworn that his voice sounded strained. Like he was holding back, like his body was almost forcing him to stay quiet. He stood suddenly, causing a small gasp to leave your lips involuntarily, as he strode forward to slot himself partially between your legs. “Loneliness is a disease,”
You went jelloid when a hesitant hand was placed on your thigh—
Stars, it’s been a while.
You were slowly beginning to unwind, as Mando placed his other hand on the opposing thigh, slotting himself further between your legs. As much as you wanted to speed this up, to feel skin touch skin, you didn’t know if that was actually possible for the Mandalorian.
“M-Mando,” You stuttered out, but it only made his grip tighten around your plump skin. You instinctively raised your hands to his chest, feeling the smoothness of his Beskar. “Just— wait,” You managed out, despite all of your senses not wanting him to stop what he was doing. His visor shot to your face quickly and his hands fluttered away from your thighs.
You wanted to cry— that’s not what you’d meant—
You swiped your hands across his Beskar chest plate, reaching down for his large forearms. You heard the breath hitch in the back of his throat, as a small moan escaped his modulator.
You placed his arms back on your legs slowly, but he still looked on his guard, wondering what you had to say.
“Loneliness is a disease,” You spluttered out. Your cheeks were flushed a neon red, and you could feel the rapid heartbeat erupting from beneath your ribs. “It’s— overwhelming,”
When he didn’t move or speak, you wanted to kick yourself. Had you done it again? Revealed something that was too much and reduced yourself to a vulnerable mess? For a moment, you thought Mando could smell the weakness within you, but even you didn’t realise you’d unwind this fast at the most subtle of touches from the Mandalorian.
You froze when he raised a gloved hand to pinch your chin. His thumb was firm but gentle, his other fingers curled just beneath your jaw, and his stare was unwavering.
Stars, your whole body throbbed at his touch. You wanted more, but you also didn’t want it to end as quickly as it had started, and you’d meant what you’d said— overwhelming. It was a red, hot heat that you hadn’t felt in years, it was something that you’d have to get used to again, and from the fumbling touches that Mando gave you, you felt he might be in the same boat.
His thumb slowly made its way to your mouth, gliding back and forth over your bottom lip. You were positively glowing, feeling the intimate touch of the hunter for the first time after what seemed like months of fantasy—
You’d had dreams of him, falling asleep to the image of his helmet or the way he slumped on your stool every so often, so desperate to see what lay beneath his armour.
“You’re overwhelmed?” He needlessly questioned. The way his voice trickled all over you was enough to make your body surge towards his once more. You had to stop yourself from reaching for his waistband, overcome with a hunger that you hadn’t been expecting. “It’s okay. We have time,”
With five simple words you could have collapsed to the floor right there. All too soon, his touch vanished from your skin. You leant forward has he removed himself from you, stepping back while you tried desperately to get his touch back.
The whiskey bottle between your legs slipped suddenly, toppling from its place between your thighs as you realised you’d started to open your legs wider where he’d stood between your hips. You grappled at air to try and stop it falling, but it fell from the desk—
Right into a skilful gloved hand. Mando gripped the bottle with a ferocity that you knew he’d wanted to grip you with, before stepping forward once more. He slotted the bottle between your thighs once more, but right in the nook of your upper thighs—
You shivered uncontrollably as both hands came to cradle your thighs, pushing them together to keep the bottle in place.
You watched, defeated, as he picked up his satchel from the floor and slung it over his shoulder, staring at you atop the desk when he was ready to leave.
“If I see you drinking with Karga again, I won’t be as gentle,” Despite his efforts to keep his voice strong, you heard the breathy way he spoke.
It filled you with a confidence that had disappeared as soon as he’d first placed the bottle back between your legs.
“You’ll have to catch me first,” You challenged. You couldn’t stop yourself from sending a smirk his way, and it had the desired effect—
Mando dropped his helmet to the floor as the most subtle of groans escaped his lips. He swivelled and turned, heading for the door immediately afterwards.
He opened it, letting in the cold Nevarro air. You watched as he slinked out of the door, pulling it shut from the outside—
And then there was silence. You breathed out a shaky breath that you didn’t realise you’d been holding, grabbing the whiskey and taking a large gulp as you tried to regain your composure fully.
You went to bed that night utterly elated, his chrome visor appearing behind your eyes all the same.