tummy ache survivor

I'm thinking the first time this happens is before your relationship.

It's late, after a bad hunt and you can barely walk through the door because you're so tired.

Cas is behind you, he needs to go somewhere and he can't zap away so you volunteered to take him, after the last time with Dean.

When he shot him.

After you shower, desperate to get the Djin guts out of your hair, you're stumbling out. Cas is by your side immediately, turns out he didn't quite heal everything.

"I'm fine Cas, please, just help me to bed"

He doesn't protest, he knows it's fruitless, so he just gets you under the covers, pulling them cover you carefully before going over to the little table and chair in the corner of the room.

"What're you doing?" You mumble, one eye cracking open.

"Sitting"

"It's weird"

"Why? I do it often"

"Now I see why Dean gets creeped out by this" You push yourself to sit up against the headboard "C'mere"

He does, still confused.

"Sit, baby" You flip back the blankets, patting the mattress.

"I don't think I-"

"Cas, my sweet lil Angel, just sit. It's weird when you stare at people sleeping from the corner of the room"

"It's more normal to lay in bed with them?"

"Well, not really, but if you're okay with it, it's less unsettling that half glowing eyes in the dark"

"Okay"

He took his place beside you, still stiff and awkward.

You smiled a little, in that hazy, sleep deprived state where your inhibitions are lowered, and you rest your head in his lap.

"Hm, comfy" You muse, a little surprised, very content.

He doesn't know what to do, but something tells him to rest his palms on your head, slowly brushing over your hair. He's heard it's soothing to humans.

He sits with you for the entire night, never moving an inch until you wake up. And it's the best sleep you've had in a long time.

From then on, whenever a hunt hits too hard or you have visions of monsters when you close your eyes, you go to Cas. He's happy to be your comfort, he never thought he could be such a thing, and he's honoured to help you in whatever way he can.

As this continues, you ask him about things. Drifting off to sleep to the sound of his voice is more than you could ever ask for and the stories he tells are magnificent.

He keeps telling them after you've gone to sleep, making sure you stay that way and because he can finally tell them. He's never spoken of some battles before, ad even when you're asleep, you're a better listener than most.

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Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Your head felt heavy and foggy. Emerging from the depths of unconsciousness, you didn't know where you were.

« Who are you? » A voice. You couldn't tell right away where, who, or what it came from. It sounded computer-like. You turned your head and saw a form, shiny, metallic. You couldn’t see more, eyes still blurry, brain banging inside your skull. But your annoyance with the question was very real.

« What? Who are you? »

The voice didn’t answer. But you could make more of the shape. A human form, an armor, the voice masculine, filtered by a modulator, a helmet. A Mandalorian. Shit. You were in trouble.

« How do you know my name? » His next question stopped your train of thought. You frowned. The pounding in your head grew louder, more painful.

« I didn’t… I don’t know your name, I don’t know who you are. » Silence again. Now that your eyes had adapted to the semi-darkness, you could make out his stature, the way he leaned on a wall. A head tilt, questioning. Not a chatty person. Taking in more of your environment, you realized you were lying down, head propped, on what looked like a makeshift bed, you couldn't make more of the place you were in.

« Where am I?» You tried not to show your fear, but you could feel it bleed out in the quiver of your voice.

« On my ship. You were hurt. »

"What? I need to go…" You tried to get up, to leave, you had to go, but it hurt everywhere. Head spinning, the blood drained from your upper body, and darkness surrounded you. Before you succumbed to it, you heard the voice "Don't get up, you're badly…"

And then nothing.

The next time you woke up, it was harsh. Light blinding, noise banging in your head. A cool hand on your arm, a sting and blackness, again.

The rest was a blur. In a state of barely consciousness, you felt like you were gliding through time. Awake, the surroundings changing. Asleep, dreaming, or drifting. 

Another time, you woke to the sound of voices, muffled, modulated. Room in the darkness and hushed tones further away.

"She's been through a lot, those injuries..." 

"How long..." 

"I can take her to the medcenter..." 

"No, that's not what I'm asking, she can stay here..." And you drifted back into oblivion.

And then you were awake. It was sudden, you felt doozy, but conscious. Eyes closed, you listened to your surroundings, trying to gather your thoughts. You opened your eyes, but it hurt, so you closed them again. You let your mind scan your body. It was whole, every limb was accounted for, and apart from the headache, nothing else hurt. Softness surrounded you, fluffy mattress and soft sheets around your body.

Then a sound, like little feet pounding on the ground, a thump like something small jumped on the bed you were sleeping in. An animal? But the small voice that cooed sounded more like a child. It was shuffling closer to you. You opened your eyes again, tentatively, and glimpsed a small form, green, with large ears and brown eyes, that bore into you, curious and worried. You couldn't help the smile on your face. 

"Hey, little one, who are you?" 

A sigh and a modulated voice came from further away.

"Grogu, let her rest."

You turned your head to the voice. The Mandalorian, the one from before, was standing at the doorway, and the little one, Grogu, apparently, babbled excitedly, something you didn't understand, arms extended toward the man. He walked in and picked up the small creature that instantly snuggled into the arms holding him. You had so many questions just from this small interaction, but first, you needed to know where you were. Before you could ask, the armored man spoke.

"You are in my house, on Nevarro. You refused to go to a medcenter; you were very adamant about that. Do you remember ?" You shook your head, the motion bringing a soreness in your head, and you knew your face showed it because he sighed and added, "You need to rest. Don't worry about anything, you're safe". You wanted to talk more, ask all those questions that were bustling in your brain, but exhaustion overcame you, and you felt your eyes shut, the warmth of the bed and the weariness of your body letting sleep overtake you.

The room was quiet, the house dark. You felt the need to use the 'fresher all of a sudden. A quick mental check of your body told you all your bones were healed, and nothing, not even your head hurt. You slowly sat up, one tentative foot after the other on the ground. Everything seemed to work. You were kept in that cell so long, bones barely mended that it was like a new sensation, not to hurt, no pain, just weariness of the body. Standing up and one small step after the other, you managed to get out of the room. You felt slightly weak but not too much. You were probably fed and changed during your stay. You imagined you had slept for at least a few days.

"You shouldn't be up." The voice startled you, and you almost fell, but two hands gripped you tightly, without hurting you, keeping you upright.

"I need to use the 'fresher." Without a word, the Mandalorian guided you to it.

When you were done, he helped you back to bed and brought you some water. No words, just small acts that made you feel safe. You should be wary, you knew Mandolarians, you'd been around them enough to know how deadly they could be. Especially his type, if your suspicions were correct.

"How long have I been here?" 

"Three days. The doctor came twice a day to take care of you. He says you had old injuries that didn't mend right. He took care of it. But you might need more time." This felt like the most you'd heard him speak. The modulation was soothing, something from your past that always brought comfort.

After a beat of silence, he added. "You said my name before you lost consciousness. Do you remember?"

"You mentioned that before. Are you sure? I don't know you, have never seen …" Behind your unfinished sentence lingered a question you didn't voice: "Do you know me?" A shake of his head brought relief. He didn't know you, but you were safe.

Instead of dwelling on the matter, he embarked on another subject.

"When I found you, you were hurt but outside your cell..." His hesitancy made you interrupt him.

"I was running away, your intervention was what I needed to try to escape." 

There was a beat of silence as he was trying to find the right question to ask.

"How long were you held captive?" 

"When are we?" At his answer, you did a quick calculation." About 8 months." 

"Why were you captive?" His questions were measured and straight to the point.

"Why? You want to bring me in? You're a bounty hunter, aren't you?" 

"I don't have a quarry on you." That seemed to be enough for him to settle the matter. It wasn't for you, but you knew he would feel less wary of you if he had all the information. At least part of it. You settled into telling him the reason you were captive.

"The person you were here for, he didn't appreciate my thieving skills." 

"You stole from him?" 

"Let's say I took what he had stolen in the first place and gave it back to the people it belonged to. He was enriching himself and stealing the resources of the inhabitants of that planet. I just wanted to help. But got caught after a while." 

At your confession, there was a slight pause. The Mandalorian didn't give much, you couldn't see his face, and his posture was calculated to give little tell. But you'd been enough of his kind to know he was hesitating and about to ask another question, a difficult one.

"Did he... did he hurt you in other ways than what the doctor saw?" You understood what he meant.

"No. No, just light torture here and there. It happened less recently, he forgot about me. I was entertainment when he had receptions." 

You could tell he wanted to ask what type of entertainment, but you were happy he didn't press further. You didn't feel ready to talk about it now.

He stayed quiet, his helmet tilted toward you, his gaze searching even through the beskar. You didn't speak, studying his countenance. 

You had so many questions. What were you going to do? When should you leave? Where would you go? It started to feel overwhelming, yet his steady presence grounded you. You only voiced one question, one you didn't even have to finish.

"Did you bring him...?" 

"I brought him cold." The finality of his statement took away the weight you still had on your chest.

"Good." 

As if satisfied by this, his search over, he started to leave you, but just before he added, "You can stay as long as you need." 

"I don't want to impose." Your protest was barely out.

"You are not. Besides, Grogu likes you. We can talk more in the morning." 

And with this, he left, and you surrendered to slumber.

The next few days passed in a daze. You felt yourself heal slowly. Heal from your past injuries, but also from the running around of the past years. You rarely settled anywhere for more than a couple of years. And while young, it was exciting, growing older, it got tiring. You knew you couldn't stay here, that eventually you would have to leave and start the cycle of moving again. But this forced rest helped you recharge. Mando, as he asked you to call him, never pressured you to leave. He inquired after your health in a way that showed it wasn't urgent but caring, going about his daily business around you as if it always were like this.

Your routine evolved, from getting out of bed only a few minutes at a time, long stretches of sleep in between, to staying up for hours, walking outside, and playing with Grogu.

Those quiet moments brought you too much joy and comfort. A sense of ease and belonging you shouldn't feel.

And so you settled comfortably. Way too comfortably in the presence of a Mandalorian, you knew his kind, the faceless and nameless Mandalorians, and of their creed. You should have been guarded. But instead, you felt safe. And you slipped, giving access to parts of yourself you didn't want to. Apart from jobs you did, your approximate age, and the name you gave yourself when your new life began almost two decades ago, you started giving more. Things from your past that you didn't want anyone to know, places you'd seen, people you met, and a small knowledge of his culture.

You felt his caution slip, day after day. As welcoming as he was, he always seemed guarded in the first few days. Never bringing back the fact that you apparently called him by his real name on your first encounter, something you didn't remember and barely believed. Studying you as you moved around, trying to understand you, deciphering your every move and word.

But eventually trusting you with, you soon realized was like his son, a quick explanation giving little details of you, they became a clan, one you didn't need, being very well aware of the necessity of foundlings in the Mandalorian culture, one of your first blunders. One he noticed but let pass, probably storing it somewhere in his brain for later.

And then it was trusting you with himself. Shedding some pieces of his armor, being more at ease in his own house, walking around in his flight suit and helmet. You even notice his gloves off more and more. Which sometimes meant you could graze his skin when you passed objects, Grogu's toys, a glass of water, a mug of caf. Light touch that brought tingle and warmth.

And as you got better and better, as you were able to stay up longer, you both evolved to spending evenings together, quiet moments of reflection and discussion, ones that seem like old friends when you forgot that none of you actually talked about your past, of certain parts of your situation. But you managed to talk about parts of the galaxy, as you are both very well-traveled, about Grogu, about your days.

And you learned to respect him, and, if you were honest, even admire him. His devotion to his son, to his tribe, creed, even if he didn't talk about it much. It was something you always respected and admired. But his steadiness, his skills and unaffected intelligence, his quiet presence, all of it turned your admiration to something more. Something that made you feel warm in his presence. Something you hoped would stop once you leave.

So you started talking about finding a job, here or elsewhere, Mando telling you he could talk around if you wanted to stay, and you accepted, startled to realize you wanted to put roots here.

One day, as you were playing with Grogu, about a month after your arrived, letting a ball roll between the two of you, him catching it, squealing with delight and tossing it back at you, with a precision you fond uncanny for a child his age (even if he was over 50, you still couldn't wrap your head around that fact). The game was starting to tire out Grogu, who showed signs of boredom and started looking for something else to play with. As you were getting up, you absentmindedly talked to him, never sure he understood, but his eyes, always expressive, showed signs he might, so you continued.

" Grogu, when do you think you're Buir is coming back?" 

"What did you say?" Mando was standing by the door to the living quarters, his stature looming over you, still like a statue. You could feel how dangerous he was. Not that you didn't know it, but you sometimes forgot.

"Kriff, you scared me. I didn't hear you come in." You were stalling, you knew it, and he knew it.

"That word, how did you know it?" His tone was not menacing, but not kind either.

"I've traveled, you are not the first Mandalorian I've met." You tried to look innocent and added, "although I haven't seen a Children of the Watch in a long time." That was a mistake you realized as soon as it left your mouth, still tired or too comfortable with him. He came closer, wide and menacing. Your brain screamed danger.

"How do...?" 

"I told you. I traveled." You brushed it off and quickly turned to Grogu, who had been watching the exchange with some worry, busying yourself with putting toys away and talking about dinner.

You could feel Mando watching you, searching, trying to see the truth and lies. But eventually his countenance changed to slightly more relaxed.

"Greef Karga, the magistrate, mentioned there might be some work for you. If you still want to stay. You don't have to leave right away, but..." Again, you interrupted him.

"That's fine, I'm feeling much better, might as well get a job and find a place to live." You knew you needed to go. Too many mistakes were made, and you are feeling attached too much. To Grogu, yes, but also to Mando, if you stopped lying to yourself.

He looked at you like he wanted to say something. But instead, you heard a sigh, frustration, or regret, it was hard to tell.

The next day, walking to the city for the first time, you listened to Mando as he showed you around, taking in the streets, the market, and the people surrounding you. You felt good here, at peace, in this growing community, rebuilding itself from past wounds, a little like yourself.

That's what you got from your exchange with Greef Karga, explaining with grandiloquence the past this planet lived through and the ideas he had for the future. You could envision it, he made compelling arguments. You knew the type, you knew that he was the king to embellish things, just so you would agree with him. But he seemed sincere, and you wanted to believe him. And if Mando brought you to him, you would trust him. Your decision was made on the spot. You would take the job, and you would move into the unit he was offering. You would stay for the community, for what it had to offer, for a glimpse of ease and a sense of belonging you felt. Not for a silent Mandalorian and his child.

That was a lie, but you didn't want to acknowledge it yet.

Life in Nevarro was exactly as you expected it. Quiet, yet bustling, easy, yet interesting. You settled in your small but cozy unit, decorating it, sensing your desire to settle for a bit. Your job was challenging and kept you busy. People were welcoming, and after a month, you realized you actually liked your life here. That, without really deciding it, your thoughts of leaving the planet were slowly being pushed to the background, and you were making plans for the next day, next week, next month. You were staying.

You thought you wouldn't see Mando and Grogu much, no real need for it. While you had stayed at their place, they hadn't been much into the city, their life was further out.

But eventually your path did merge. In town, in the market, at Karga's, more and more. Small talks, longing looks. Walking around the city is comfortable and easy. You hated it because every time your eyes would see a reflection akin to the sun on beskar, your heart skipped a bit. And when it was actually him, you would feel the butterflies in your stomach. And every time, Mando would come to you, walking a small distance together, Grogu stretching his arms so that you would pick him up for a cuddle for the duration of your walk. Walks that got longer and longer.

And then, before you knew it, they were both fully back in your life.

It started with helping out with Grogu, picking him up from school when Mando was late from whatever job he was doing, apparently helping the Marshall. You loved doing it, helping, and spending time with the child. You felt so thankful for the trust Mando gave you. Trusting with his son, but also, you felt it, trusting in you, even with your secrets, like he had decided that whatever your past and knowledge of Mandalorians were, he accepted it and wouldn't push.

And each time, the moments you spent at his place stretched longer. From just waiting until he got home, to staying a bit, to actually having dinner together, that is you and Grogu with Mando at your table, but eating later. Until one night you stayed over because it was late, and he insisted you didn't walk back home. And then you were staying the night more often because you watched on Grogu while Mando was off-world.

It was so easy, you were surprised. It shouldn't be, it always was easy. It was as if you had always been here, part of their little family. And every time you came back to your unit, you felt lonely. This was bad because you were getting attached. You could feel it. And you were afraid Mando was too. It was not something that should have happened.

One night, it slipped into the conversation, this something growing between you. Both of you on the couch talking, Mando in his flight suit and helmet, gloves off, Grogu put to bed, you needing to leave but staying. Talking about work, yours and his, and like a confession, it pours out of his mouth, the word "mesh'la" (beautiful).

The silence that ensued, his from the realization of what he said, yours from the understanding, heat creeping up your neck, it puts weight on the word. And he notices your reaction, of course, he does. The question that comes out of him flusters you even more.

"Have you been. ..?" He stopped, the end of the sentence settling on his tongue but never spilled.

"What?"

"With a Mandalorian… you know so many words."

You pondered your answer. "No. Never."

It was time to go back home.

You woke up suddenly, groggy from sleep as a dream slipped away through your consciousness. Warm hands touching you, cold metal under your own, voice deep and metal-like murmuring in your ear, "Would you look at that," as his lips unraveled you, a feat only possible in the daze of unconsciousness, face masked and unmasked at the same time. You felt the need inside your body, slick and deep. The vision was slowly going away, and you tried to catch it, willing yourself to fall back to sleep, to fall back in those beskar arms that you've wished to feel for so long. You knew it was not possible, even if you felt that sometimes the unnamed feeling was reciprocated, even if you felt his gaze and persistent touches. But how could it be with the secrets that surrounded both of you? Dreams were the only moments where you let yourself feel it, where you let the heat of your desire overtake you. Those dreams that grew more intense whenever you stayed in his house, reminiscing on those first days, weeks, when you observed him in quiet and learned to admire and respect him, before you learned to love him. The scent and feeling were overpowering in this house, your dreams always more intense, like this one you tried desperately to fall back into, cursing whatever woke you up, until you heard it again. A sound, something falling, or banging, it was hard to tell. You jolted awake, a million thoughts running in your head. The more logical, Grogu was awake and full of mischief, the more anxious one, someone had broken into the house. You pushed the fear aside and got up, tiptoeing to the sound, trying to understand what it was.

Walking quietly, you heard heavy breathing as you rounded to the 'fresher and were faced with a sight you didn't expect. Skin. Bronze skin displayed, a naked back, muscle and softness, tan and bruises bent over the sink. You let out a gasp before closing your eyes, before the head turned to you, hiding behind a wall.

"I'm sorry, I didn't see anything! I didn't see your face! I swear, Mando. I'm so sorry," you were pleading, hoping he believed you, because you didn't see anything, just glorious skin that made your own tingle, food for thought, but not his face. Part relief and disappointment, something you pushed aside.

"It's OK, I believe you." The voice was modulated, the helmet back on.

You opened your eyes and peeked inside the 'fresher. He was standing by the sink, armor off, the top of the flight suit pushed back, leaving his upper body naked. You couldn't help but rake your eyes over his body until you noticed more bruises and a wound on his side, gushing and deep.

"Mando! You're hurt!" You rushed to his side, hands ready to help, when you stopped, not wanting to cross another boundary.

"Do you need help?"

The helmet was on you, and you sensed his gaze, searching you, overwhelming as tension settled around you. Then a sigh. "Yes"

Rummaging through the medpac, you got what you needed, pushing Mando to sit on the side of the bath so you could help him better, allowing better access to his body. A wet towel in your hand, you lightly washed the wound. As delicately as you tried, you heard the pain he felt, a whimper, almost like a moan, coming out modulating. A sound that had you flustered, rubbing your legs together, need encompassing you. It was only now that you realized how you were dressed, only a long shirt covering your body to your thighs, both in a state of undress you had never been in each other's presence. The breath you drew as a reaction brought Mando's gaze to you.

In the midst of this realization, it was as if all pretense had fallen. After applying the bacta patch on his wound, you picked up the towel and continued to clean his body, even if there was no real need, except to bring comfort with a cool cloth. Soothing the bruises sustained even through the armor. It must have been a mighty opponent. And hearing his breath heavier and heavier, your own, echoing. Caressing his strong arms, his shoulders, settling on his torso. His hands gripped your hips, and his voice sounded like a warning.

« Cyar'ika. »

You breath hitched at the word, and Mando pulled slightly away, head tilted to study your eyes.

You felt his gaze piercing you as his hands on your hip started to stroke you. Hands without gloves. A rare occurrence, the brush of his fingers on you. When you were hurt, once or twice, as you were healing in the comfort of his home, fingers brushing when he handed you something. And now soft fingers gently circling over your shirt.

« You understood that word, didn’t you? »

You didn’t say anything. Just looked at him, imagining brown eyes. On instinct.

“Tion’cuy gar?” (Who are you?)

You didn’t answer, just shook your head, not because you didn't understand, but because you couldn't answer, not now. The silence was charged with more than questions, and your hands, now on his shoulder, continue their caress, light strokes on his body. Towel forgotten, so you could feel his skin under your own. You were so close, closer than you ever had been. His fingers boldly went under your shirt, making your breath catch. A slight whimper that made him pull it up slightly, discovering parts of yourself. Skin for skin. A dip of your head and your lips connected with his shoulder, a slight touch, barely a kiss. You wanted to lick his skin, taste the salt on him. Your eyes were drawn to his back, catching something you hadn’t seen earlier, when you caught a glimpse of him. A mark on his shoulder blade, an exploding star, faded and distorted by time and age, but one you knew so well.

And as you realized this, you felt Din's hands freeze on your body, a shock sound coming from his mouth as he surely recognized your own mark, one that looked like a shooting star, on your hipbone. The one you used to joke was a mirror of his, yours before the crash, his after. In a time when helmets and armor weren’t yet put on, they weren’t deserved or won. Before the creed. Before you left.

And both your names echoed in the other's mouth as you push out of each other's arms. 

The daze of the moment is gone, but there is horror that lies ahead as you run away, run to your room, pulling up clothes, hearing his steps, usually so calm, so silent, now heavy and loud.

Your name, your real name, the old one forgotten when you left, rings out, a whisper, hurt in his voice.

"You were dead."

You stopped, back turned, you didn't want to see his face, even with the helmet, you knew you would feel it, the hurt, the anger.

"I faked it, I ran away."

"Why?" You turned. His voice was cold, mean, you couldn't bear it.

"I couldn't… I couldn't swear to the creed, so I left." There were no words, there was nothing but a helmet, voiceless, a mask in front of you. You have lost him, you knew it, lost the connection, lost the sense of belonging to this small family. You felt the tears and closed your eyes, willing them to go away. When you opened them, he was gone.

The steps that brought you home, the way back, were blurred in your mind from the overwhelming thoughts and blurred in your vision from the tears, the one falling freely.

It was over.

As you went through the motion of your life the next couple of days, waking, working, eating, poorly sleeping, rinse and repeat. Yet you couldn't help but feel a lingering hope. It oscillated with despair as your life moved in front of your eyes, one you barely participated in, lost in that night. If only it were repeated in a loop. If you had talked sooner, maybe he wouldn't be angry? If you had not helped him, touched him, you might still have his presence, you could live with only that. And as you lost yourself, you thought about what was next, but were unwilling to decide until you saw him again, and hoped that after thinking, he might forgive you and at least talk to you, if only that.

But that thought was crushed. Walking through the market, you saw him, his figure first, giving you butterflies, seeing him with the child buying food. When the purchase was over, his head turned your way, where you stood frozen, people pushing past you. A second that felt like a century, one of suspended hope and dread, one where you forget to breathe, hear, and see. Until he turned and was gone. The cold you felt was real, shivers and weight, surrounding you as you went back to the sanctuary of your home, where you decided to pack and leave.

Nothing held you back in Nevarro, not anymore.

Unfortunately, you had responsibilities. You could just pick up and leave, but you liked it here, liked the people with whom you worked, and you wanted a chance to say thank you and goodbye. So with a lie ready you announced your departure, giving yourself a couple of days to gather your things and find your next place to go to, studying your datapad, with different planets on your radar, ready to buy a one way ticket to a promising place, green and lush and cold, needing the opposite of Nevarro, the opposite of heat and dry, the opposite of metal and warmth.

The bangs on your unit door startled you. Three knocks, decisive, not giving you any second thoughts. You weren't expecting anyone, but you were definitely not expecting Din, as you opened the door in surprise, and when he pushed past you. Standing inside your small space.

You hadn't seen him this agitated, this restless, since you left the Tribe. Before you stood a reminiscence of a teenage Din, the hot head, full of revolt, subdued by time but never tamed. The one you shared your dreams with, your sorrows, your first kiss. He was angry, he was demanding, but he wasn't speaking.

With your back against the closed door behind you, you waited. And you tried not to let the small hope bloom in your chest as soon as you saw him.

"You are leaving. Again. Running away, without owning to your actions." The accusation, the underlying insult of cowardice, crushed the hope but flared the anger. You might have left long ago, you might have forgotten a lot of your Mandalorian upbringing, but you couldn't stand being called a coward. Even if you had fled, even if you were doing it again. Suddenly, resentment made you push away from the door, stride toward him, stand tall and large, looking at him straight into his eyes behind the helmet.

"Yes, I'm leaving. Why would you care?" Daring him to say anything else, after he had turned away from you.

"We welcomed you, we were your family, the Tribe was there when you needed. You betrayed us."His voice was rising with every word, standing in front of you, menacing and dangerous. Everything that wasn't said but didn't need to, echoed in the silence: leaving without saying goodbye, betraying his trust.

"But you weren't! My family died, and I never felt accepted. YOU never felt accepted either. I remember our talks, I remember what we used to say! I couldn't swear to the creed. I respected it. And I respected your own wish to swear, but I couldn't, because I never felt part of it. So I just left."

"You could have said it! They would have understood!"

"They wouldn't! And maybe leaving like I did was wrong, but I was an angry teenager, and my only ally left me when he swore to the creed. I felt abandoned because you were going away, I felt utterly alone, so I just left."

"You left us! You left me." Finally, the words were out. You could feel his anger abating, so did yours.

"I'm sorry. I truly am. I regretted it as soon as I left, but couldn't look back."

"I missed you. I grieved you." He was so close to you, so close you could hear his breath, the tremor in his voice, the sadness. It made your heart break over again.

"I know. I'm sorry." The tears were back, you didn't want to cry because you were the one who inflicted the hurt, but you couldn't help it. "I missed you, too. So much." Closer even now that you could almost touch. An untouched boundary that needed to be stepped over. One Din crossed when his hands pulled you into him.

"Close your eyes." He breathed it like a plea, desperate.

"Din…" You hesitated, knowing what was about to happen, overwhelmed by the idea, the faith placed in you.

"Do it, Cyar'ika. I trust you."

And so you did. You closed your eyes, the last tears falling from your lashes, down your cheeks, hearing the unmistakable sound of his helmet being taken off and put on the ground. You felt his breath before his touch, then his fingers, lightly brushing the tears away, before you felt his mouth on yours. Lips light, tentative. A second kiss that felt like the first, after so many years. But one that soon felt like home, meant to be, and like no time had flown by, not years, not decades, but merely seconds, as both of you reacquainted yourself with each other. Lips full, tender than demanding, touching, pulling, your teeth grazing his lower lip, a moan coming from so deep inside his throat.

And hands, hands that touched each other, that took off gloves, pieces of armor, and clothes.

In the darkness of your place, shutters closed and drapes blocking light, only shapes that could be seen, you rediscovered his face, under the beskar, his skin under the armor, bodies alight with need and pleasure, shared past and shared breath, to the point of not knowing where you began and ended. Soft cries and gasps and sweet praises murmured in the dark.

Tomorrow, you'd have to reclaim your job, tomorrow, you'd have to think about your future here.

A/N: The sound Din makes when he is hurt is directly inspired by this post and what he murmurs in reader's dream by this one

Read more about Din and his cyare: Stars are Fire

you’re sitting on a bench with one leg tucked beneath you, sunglasses pushed up into your hair, one hand wrapped around a paper coffee cup. older, obviously. no—not old. just more you somehow, softer around the edges and sharper in the places that used to undo him. the same mouth. same tilt of your head when you’re trying not to laugh at something.

his chest does something stupid.

then he sees the ring. gold. obnoxious. bright enough in the afternoon sun to feel personal.

well… great.

“dean?” you say, and your voice hits him with all the subtlety of a shotgun loaded with nostalgia.

he should walk away. absolutely. give you a polite smile, maybe a quick hey, how’ve you been, nice kid, gotta go kill something ugly, and leave before his face starts doing anything embarrassing.

instead, he stands there with his hands in his jacket pockets and says, “hey.” smooth.

your smile spreads slowly, surprised and warm, and it makes him want to both grin back and fake his own death. “wow,” you breathe. “i didn’t expect to see you here.”

“yeah, well.” he glances around the park, at the moms with strollers, the barking dog, the kid currently trying to eat sand. “i do a lot of park stuff now. big park guy.”

you stare at him. he regrets everything. then you laugh, and it’s so familiar it kind of hurts. “sure,” you say. “very believable.”

the little girl looks up from the sandbox. “mommy, look.”

mommy.

dean knew. obviously he knew. context clues. the kid. the bench. the snack bag. the terrifying amount of wet wipes beside you. still, hearing it lands somewhere weird and low in his stomach.

you turn, softening instantly. “i’m looking, baby.”

the kid holds up a lumpy sand pile. “castle.”

“gorgeous,” you say, deadly serious. “architectural masterpiece.”

dean huffs before he can stop himself.

you glance back at him, and for a second it’s so easy to remember motel rooms and gas station coffee and your bare feet on the impala’s dash, the way you used to steal his fries and kiss him when he complained. he remembers your hands in his hair. he remembers leaving. he remembers you letting him. some things don’t die. rude of them, honestly.

“she yours?” he asks, because apparently he enjoys pain now.

your expression softens. “yeah. she is.”

he nods, looking back toward the sandbox. “cute kid.”

“thanks.”

“takes after you.”

your eyebrows lift. “that almost sounded sincere.”

“it was sincere.”

“dangerous.”

“i’m growing as a person.”

“are you?”

“no.”

you laugh again, quieter this time, and his eyes drop to your hand before he can stop them. the ring catches.

you notice. you always used to notice everything, especially the things he tried to hide badly. your mouth twitches. “you okay?”

“yeah,” he says too fast. “yeah, no, totally. great. you know. kids are the best.”

silence. your face changes just enough. your lips part, and then press together, and your eyes go bright with the kind of amusement that means he’s about to suffer. “kids are the best?” you repeat.

dean looks away. “yep.”

“you?”

“what, i can’t appreciate the youth?”

“the youth,” you echo, delighted.

“future of america.”

“she’s four.”

“with architectural skills, apparently.”

you’re laughing now, one hand over your mouth, and he feels warm in the worst way. caught. ridiculous. exposed down to the bone by one stupid sentence he didn’t even mean to say out loud.

except he did mean it. sort of.

he means the kid is cute. he means you look happy. he means there’s this ugly, tender part of him imagining what it would’ve been like to be the guy sitting beside you on this bench, holding the snack bag, knowing which wet wipe brand doesn’t irritate your daughter’s hands. he means he wishes he had earned a normal life with you before someone else did. which is insane.

so he clears his throat instead. “anyway,” he says, rough around the edges. “your husband around, or do i have time to flee before he sees me being charming?”

you blink. then you look at your hand. then back at him. “my husband?”

“the—” he nods toward your ring. “the big gold situation.”

your face does something complicated. then wicked. “dean.”

“what?”

“this is my grandmother’s ring.”

he says nothing. absolutely nothing.

your smile gets worse. prettier, too. unfair. “and i’m not married.”

his mouth opens. closes.

the kid drops her shovel and yells, “mommy, i need juice!”

you stand, still smiling to yourself as you grab the juice box from the bag. “yeah, baby, i’ve got you.”

dean watches you crouch beside her, careful with the straw, brushing sand from her tiny fingers. something in him shifts. not fixed. not easy. just awake.

when you look back at him, your expression is softer than your teasing. “you can sit, you know.”

he should say no. he should run. instead, he sits on the bench beside your coffee, close enough that his knee almost brushes yours when you come back.

“so,” you say, settling beside him. “big park guy.”

he looks at you, then at the kid, then down at that stupid, harmless ring. “yeah,” he says, quieter now. “guess i am.”

Soap did. Technically.

But over the next ten months, things only became more suspicious. Ghost always sat beside you during briefings. You always looked for him first after nasty fights out in the field during missions. Neither of you were affectionate, but somehow that made it worse. Every interaction carried this unbearable intensity, like a live grenade with the pin halfway pulled.

Then the operation ended with the enemy successfully neutralized.

The team crowded into a dim pub near base, Soap sat across from you and Ghost, still mentally trying to solve whatever strange thing existed between the two of you.

That’s when he noticed the silver ring on your finger, he could swear it wasn't there before.

He blinked. “Ye married?”

You took a sip of your beer. “Yeah, for a few years now."

Soap stared at you in disbelief. "Ten bloody months and ye never mentioned that?”

You only shrugged, amused, "I don't really talk about my personal life at work, MacTavish"

“What’s next?” he laughed, turning toward Ghost. “You married too, Lt?”

“Yeah,” Ghost answered calmly.

Soap barked out a laugh. “Aye, right.” He took a sip from his whiskey, "Good one, Lt"

“He’s not joking,” you said as a matter-of-factly.

Soap looked between the two of you slowly.

Everything clicked into place at once.

The staring. The arguments. The tension.

Soap rubbed his temples with one hand, speechless. “Steaming Jesus.”

You sidle up to Jo’s side, swinging an arm around her shoulders as she leads over the cards table. You give her a wink, bending to whisper something in her ear that makes the men grumble about cheating and makes Jo give you that toothy smile of hers. She flips her cards so you can see them, and you have to school your face into careful neutrality. Sam peeks over her shoulder too, lips barely parting in what you know is an expression of concealed surprise and what the men think is a disappointed frown at her hand. The first puts his cards down triumphantly, followed by the two to his left. One makes a comment about how much she owes them, the words dying on his tongue when Jo lays her hand on the table and grins sweetly, batting her eyelashes for extra honey-sweetness.

“You know what, if Sam wasn’t here, I’d kiss you for that,” you tease, elbowing her ribs.

“You still could,” she replies, shuffling the cards to deal the next hand.

You pretend to think about it. “Keep winning and I might come back.”

You catch Sam’s eyes watching you with that barely restrained smile on his face, tracking you over the top of Jo’s head while she focuses on the game. He slides closer to you one half-step at a time, boots scuffing on the worn wood of the roadhouse floor, treads catching on the nicks and grooves of ancient logs with stories far more interesting than yours. His arm winds around your back, fingers dipping into the back pocket of your jeans as he tugs you closer, the gesture possessive to anyone who doesn’t understand this little game of yours. You pretend to flirt with Jo, she pretends to flirt back, Sam pretends he’s jealous and makes a bit of a fuss about PDA; you’ve been playing this game since before you and Sam ever got together.

There’s a piercing electronic scream, the kind of whining that tears through speakers and drowns out the voices of anyone who’s talking. A few people sitting under the sound system cover the ears and grimace, scowling at the speakers like they’re some kind of bad omen wishing death upon the room. A slurred voice comes over the microphone, holding it way too close to his mouth; so close that you’re certain it’ll smell like cheap beer or whiskey until someone bothers to disinfect it. Jo sighs at the table, excusing herself to deal with the patron, but Ellen beats her there, waving her daughter off as she grips the man’s shoulders and walks him out of the bar.

“What’s that all about?” you ask when Jo sits back down.

“Keeps trying to start a karaoke night.”

You frown. “What’s so bad about that?”

Jo sets her cards down, turning in her chair to face you and Sam. “Well first of all, he picks terrible songs.”

You snort, burying your face in Sam’s shoulder as you laugh.

“And second?”

“And second, y’ever heard a hunter sing before?” Jo asks, deadpan.

“No,” Sam answers.

“There’s a good reason for that.”

You turn in Sam’s grip, his arm loosening to let you adjust, his lips pressing a sneaky kiss to your cheek in the process. You sink just slightly further into his warmth, shoulder pressing against his side and soaking up the heat he seems to radiate through his worn flannel. The stage is empty, microphone still on the floor with the cord running from it in an electrical snake, disappearing into the shadows. There’s no spotlight on the stage, just the faded washed-out reds and blues of neon signs, yellow turned sepia from overhead lighting shining through dirtied lampshades. Inconspicuous for a stage, tucked in a corner in a wedge shape, the lip just high enough for your boots to clear it without making you trip.

“Hey Sam?” you murmur, eyes still locked on the stage.

“Hm?”

“Watch my drink, will you?”

You hand him your glass, condensation sliding down his fingers despite the spark of heat that appears when your hands touch. You tug his collar, guiding him to move his head so you can kiss him fully, his hand sliding from your pocket to let you walk across the roadhouse floor.

“Where’re you goin’?” Jo asks you.

“Y’ever heard a hunter sing before?” you parrot.

Sam and Jo exchange a glance as they watch you drop Sam’s hand and walk away toward the stage. Jo gives him a look that asks does this happen often? and Sam gives a half-hearted shrug in reply that says I have no idea what is going on. Jo laughs, shaking her head and turning back to the poker table, focusing back on her game. Sam watches you, watches the way you weave through the crowds like you’re barely anything more than wind, trailing hands moving people out of your path, sweet voice apologizing for your presence. The lights reflect off your shirt and make it glow, the threads throwing colour back into the space that so desperately needs it. You turn around once just to see if Sam’s still watching you, and he catches the light reflecting in your eyes like a sunburst.

“Aw what is it now?” Dean groans, appearing over Sam’s shoulder.

“What’s- what? What is what?”

Dean rolls his eyes, smacking Sam’s shoulder. “You’re doin’ the heart eye thing again. Who’re you lookin’ at?”

Jo nods toward the stage at the same time that Sam punches his brother back. Dean makes an exaggerated whine of pain, rubbing a hand over his shoulder as he glares at Sam out of the corner of his eye. On the stage, you’re smoothing your hands over your jacket while you pick out a song from the jukebox, tongue sticking out of your mouth as you think, weighing the options. Sam already knows what you’re gunning for, an old favourite you play every time you can sneak the tape into the Impala’s tape deck when Dean’s not paying attention.

When the music starts, Dean makes an exasperated groan at your choice of song. Not because he hates it; because, really, he likes it. He’d just rather die than admit he likes something you also like, because it’s fun when he can rag on you for your music taste. You tap the microphone experimentally, quickly muttering apologies when it whines through the speakers again. You’re a little nervous; Sam can tell because you’re doing that tic you always do, the one and only giveaway that he’ll never not pick up on.

You start the song, voice carrying through the din of the roadhouse in that way that doesn’t demand attention but attracts it anyway. You’re not particularly good; or maybe you are, Sam doesn’t care either way. Neither do the patrons, because they’re turning to watch you in that way that squares their shoulders and makes them pretend, they’re not interested in the roadhouse siren on the stage. The tension slowly bleeds out of the place as the song continues, Jo’s smile morphing into something appreciative, Sam still watching you with those puppy-in-love eyes, and Dean shifting his posture into acceptance.

“Is that-,” Dean asks Sam.

“Yeah.” He’s a little breathless from shock and surprise, but he’s smiling proud. “Yeah, it is.”

When the song ends, you hop off the stage and weave back through the crowds that are fixated on you. Nobody says anything, nobody makes a sound other than an occasional cough or murmured sentence to a buddy across the table, but they all watch you. Because now, there’s a strange kind of light in the roadhouse, the kind that gets brighter the more people look at it, that grows into something bigger than yourself, bigger than anyone in the roadhouse. Someone else takes the stage after you, cycling through the CD’s until he finds something he likes. His voice is scratchy, whiskey-rough and cigarette tinged, but it works.

“You were saying?” you say to Jo when you read Sam’s side.

“Yeah…about that. There’s one hunter who can sing. Sort of.”

You grin, nudging her. “What do you mean, ‘sort of’? I’m like-.”

“A badger?” Dean offers.

“Shut up,” you laugh.

Later, after Dean’s gone back to the motel with a girl he picked up by winning pool twice in a row and splitting his winnings with her and Jo’s started working to clean up the bar with her mother, Sam pulls you into a quiet corner of the roadhouse. The shadows fall across you just enough that Jo and Ellen know you’re still in the bar, but enough that they can’t see what you’re doing. It’s dark in the kind of way that seems to eat your words and chew them, spitting them out all garbled so that when they reach the ears of the women running the bar, nobody is any wiser as to what you said.

“That was pretty cool,” Sam says, squeezing your hand.

“Well thank you, kind sir.”

Sam laughs, running a hand over his face. “How long’ve you been hiding that?”

You shrug. “Oh, I dunno. The whole time?”

Sam kisses your forehead, lips brushing along your hairline with the kind of gentle reverence that only he carries with him. Another kiss to your hairline, then one to your cheek, a final one on your nose and makes you blink, startled by how close he is to you.

“C’mon, Sammy. Kiss me properly.”

Your hands lock in his collar, dragging him to you, fingers trailing a delicate path up the back of his neck so that they tangle in his hair, yanking softly at the ends in the way you know gives him goosebumps. His mouth moves on yours in the kind of rhythm you’ve come to expect from him, the one that promises love and safety and everything good in the world. You kiss him back, tasting beer on his breath and love on his tongue, feeling the heat from his blushed cheeks against your skin.

“Alright lovebirds, get outta here,” Ellen says, swatting you apart with a dish towel. “I got a bar to close.”

“Yes ma’am,” you and Sam say in unison, both giving her mock salutes.

She gives a full laugh, shaking her head just the same way Jo does. “You headin’ back?”

You and Sam exchange a glance.

“Well…Dean’s back there with a girl,” you say, grimacing. “Don’t wanna interrupt.”

Ellen catches both meanings. The truth, and also the hint that she should let you and Sam get to have a few uninterrupted hours to sit on the porch with Jo and talk about everything, teasing each other and laughing, talking over each other like three people who’re learning to be kids again.

“Fine. But you’re outta here before three, got it?”

“You’re the best,” you sing, hugging Ellen before taking Sam’s hand and scampering off.

“Thanks,” Sam says, chuckling around the word as he feels himself getting tugged by you.

“You comin’ back to sing again?” she calls after you.

“If you’re good!” you shout back, already halfway out the door.

“Guess I’ll be the best behaved woman out there then,” Ellen says to herself as the door closes behind you.