The Red Keep

Rosylyn carefully opened the door to the Crown Prince's chambers and glanced around. The curtains were still closed but there was a lump in the bed. She shut the door behind herself, averting her eyes from it, and moved toward the hearth to sweep up the ash from the fire of the evening before.

"Mmh," a tired hum from the bed, and she paused, shortening her motions to make less noise. She focused on the hearth again, but the shifting of sheets called her attention, and she watched as you sat up, rubbing your eyes a little and stretching. You caught sight of the girl and smiled, shifting the sheet a little higher up your chest.

"Hello, dear," you called, stretching your arms. "Would you call for breakfast to be laid in the Prince's chambers? I fear I am up a little later than usual today."

Rosylyn stared at you with wide eyes, the small broom trembling in her hands before she nodded and hurriedly scurried from the room. She took the servants passages and ran down into the kitchens, sliding over the stone and panting as she waved her arms around.

"The princess! The princess was in his grace's chambers!" She managed to huff out, staring at everyone wildly. "She was in his bed!"

Ms Margaret (the cook) and the other maids and serving boys sitting around all turned to her with unimpressed looks.

"And? That's not news," Criston dismissed, returning to polishing a pair of boots.

"Hush now, she's only a chambermaid! It's probably her first time even encountering one of the royals," Ms Margaret admonished before turning to Rosylyn with a smile. "But they are right dear, she's in there more often than she is in her own chambers."

"But... he's her father in law, is he not?" Rosylyn asked, gnawing on her lip nervously as she clutched the broom in her hand.

"Aye, that's right. We don't go asking too many questions lass," Ms Margaret told her. "Sometimes she's in his bed in the morning, sometimes she's not, and I'd leave it at that."

Someone quietly murmured "and she's doing a lot more than sleeping" but one sharp look from Ms Margaret ceased all the chatter.

+++

"Hello, Sers!" You greeted happily as you skipped up to The Hand's chamber. You were wearing one of your pretty silky dresses, the kind that bordered on actionable in King's Landing, and you knocked only one moment before you opened the door and let yourself into the Crown Prince's study.

The two knights shared a look with each other, grimacing as they adjusted their feet. They could hear the murmur of conversation behind the door, of your tittering laughter and then the hush that settled before the rest of it.

The first sound was quiet thud, soon followed by a high-pitched whine. Then there would be a moan and another thud, perhaps the murmur of conversation returning for a moment before it ultimately descended into a veritable cacophony of noise.

When the thudding turned into a steady rhythm and your voice saying "oh, father, yes!" pierced the air clearly (followed by a quiet "hush now"), both knights walked five steps down the stairs to where the noise became a mumble that was easy to ignore.

"How many times is that this week?" Ser Ryam asked, raising an eyebrow as he turned toward Ser Lorent.

"Three in as many days," Ser Lorent responded, smirking a little. "I think that means you owe myself and Roland some coin."

"Fucking hells."

+++

"No father in law touches their son's wife so, I can tell you that right now."

"If my father in law touched me like that he would have lost his hands."

"She kisses him as if he were her husband and not his son!"

"The young one doesn't care! He's off out with his lordlings and leaves her to her own devices. No wonder she found comfort in his father's arms."

"Aye, and his father's happy enough to have it too."

"It's nice at least to know that his grace has found someone to cherish. It's been sad about here since he became a widower."

"Aye, at least he looks happier if nothing else."

"You could say that again."

Summerhall

"Do they think we're blind?" Mrs. Bennet grumbled, stirring her spoon quickly through the mixture in the bowl, taking a moment to wipe the sweat from her brow and look around at the group of maids sitting around the table doing various odd jobs. Some of the serving boys were in attendance as well, standing at the walls or sitting on the benches off to the side polishing boots.

"I mean, look here, I'm in the kitchens all day, never a peep outside, but even I know there's something happening between those two."

"She was sleeping in his bed yesterday morning when I came in to sweep," Cyrelle chimed in, shaking her head over the sock she was darning. "Naked as the day she was born, laying there all splayed out. Now what possible reason could she have to be there if they aren't bedding each other?"

"You only saw her sleeping?" Sharra exclaimed, snorting as she scrubbed at a spot on the silver platter she was polishing. "I saw them practically hanging off of one another in the solar the other night. She was on her own chair at first, but as Prince Daeron left the room, I caught a glimpse through the crack in the door and she was leaning over the arm of the chair, hands planted on his lap, nuzzling her face into his beard like she was a bloomin' cat!"

A collective giggle arose in the room.

"At least you haven't had to hear them!" One of the attendants called out, scoffing as he replaced the laces on one of Maekar's boots. "I was walking past Prince Maekar's chambers the other night, when I hear this high-pitched wailing going 'Father!' and I was rocked to my core. I thought we had a ghost in Summerhall for a moment."

Another collective chuckle rose into the air, and after a few more moments of murmuring, slowly everyone descended into silence as they ceased their chatter and refocused on their work.

+++

Yanna frowned a little as she unlaced your gown and helped you push it off your shoulders. You were humming quietly to yourself as you readied for your bath, shirking your clothes into the capable hands of your maid.

Elda, the one kneeling beside the tub and readying your soaps and washcloths cleared her throat a little, glancing up at Yanna with insinuating eyes.

You did not often take a bath at this odd hour just past midday, and you looked particularly mussed. You were shiny with sweat and you trembled a little, giggling and chastising your own weakness as you clambered into the tub and then settled quickly into the water with a sigh.

Yanna stood there for a moment, averting her eyes to try and process the sight. Your thighs had glistened with... something before you had sunk down, and she could see bruises on the skin there. There were indents along your shoulders that made it look like you had been gently mauled.

She looked to Elda who's eyes had gone a little wide. The girl averted her face to the side, murmuring something about the soap, and when you closed your eyes, they both shared a look over your head.

'Oh my seven!' Yanna mouthed, displaying exaggerated shock.

'I know!' Elda replied without voice, shaking her head.

"Will you brush my hair, Yanna?" You asked, and the girls went stiff, returning to their tasks.

"Yes, of course, my lady," Yanna answered hurriedly, grabbing the brush and kneeling down behind you.

"It's gotten far too tangled," you murmured to yourself, slipping a little lower in the bath and sighing happily.

After the girls finished helping you wash up and left you to your own devices in the water for a few moments, they convened just outside your chambers, waiting to be called back in.

"I have made love before, but Ser Lucas did not leave me looking like that!" Elda broke out, gasping and pressing a hand to her mouth as she giggled and looked at Yanna.

"By the seven, Prince Maekar takes his dragon heritage rather too seriously," Yanna responded, leaning against the wall with her shocked eyes. "She was covered in bites and bruises! Surely that is not pleasurable."

"Oh, I don't know," Elda reasoned, biting her lip mischievously. "There is something to be said about a little pain in the throes of passion."

Yanna just laughed, swatting at her friend. They descended into silence for a moment before Elda spoke up again.

"Perhaps I misjudged the Prince. He must be a very good lover to have her so ditzy-eyed over him."

+++

Ser Lucas and Ser Willem stood on either side of the door to Prince Maekar's chambers. Behind the doors, a series of events was occurring that they wished they were not privy to.

Both men held their hands on the pommels of their swords and refused to move their eyes away from the wall across from them. Usually they would chat to each other, make quiet conversation as they stood guard, but this evening required utter silence and the pretence of being alone.

"Cease your whining or I will put you over my knee you spoilt thing!"

"You should not threaten me with something I would gladly have occur!"

A deep, frustrated, growl, the sound of you squealing, a thud and then a loud smack. A series of smacks followed, interspersed with moans and whines and you yelping "Father!"

Ser Lucas glanced at Ser Willem, just a quick flick of his eyes, and he was sure that they were both the same shade of red.

"Will you bed me now?" A quieter murmur but still clearly audible in the silent hallway.

"If you stick your arse up in the air, I'll consider it."

The hurried shuffling of sheets, another smacking sound, a gentle moan and a gruff growl, low murmuring, and then the sound of skin slapping skin, a steady and continuous murmur, punctuated by "Father! Oh, Father, yes!"

Ser Willem and Ser Lucas looked at each other, just once.

"We never speak of this."

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains vivid depictions of gore. Stay safe!]

The helmet is both friend and foe. 

His longest companion and the one thing that stands between himself and the rest of the universe. Well, that and fifty more pounds of beskar plate, give or take. His new gear seems a little lighter.

He's used to it, though. 

Used to how it cups his ears and muffles everything. Used to how it leaves the bridge of his nose bruised and tender whenever he's a little too active for his own good. Used to the headaches he gets behind his eyes if he keeps the infrared on for too long.

His life is fed to him in a series of analytics, energy readings and static-softened visuals. 

And he's used to it. It's normal.

...

He's back in his ship, the kid in tow. He's just taken off and climbed down into the hold, trying to decide whether he's going to come to terms with the fact that he shot his proverbial gift horse point blank in the chest and he knows damn well that Karga's underplate is just trashy durasteel--

What the hell was that noise.

He swings his head around, takes a step forward and the toe of his boot hits something that gives a little. 

The something groans. 

His rifle is ready before he even thinks, and he's a breath away from jabbing the prongs down. But then…he sees the kid watching him intently out of the corner of his eye.

And he hesitates.

There's blood on your face when you get up, squinting in the dim light of the hold. You're in a babbling panic and he can feel himself start to relax a little. You're either not a threat or you're a damn good actor, and he'd bet the last of his credits on it being the former. Your nose looks almost as bad as his does after he's graced a belligerent quarry with a thunderous Keldabe kiss.

The ingot of beskar has him...he's not sure, really. Angry? No, not entirely right. Heated, maybe. Simmering. Guilty, too, as he shoots the kid a glance from the safety of his impenetrable visor. Beskar is everything. It's what keeps the Mando'ade safe, and to come across it so casually…

He weighs it in his palm, thinking hard. He can't take you back to Nevarro, but maybe you'll find Sorgan agreeable. You don't have much choice in the matter. 

He'll see if he can trust you with the kid; having the little womp rat in the pilot's seat with him hasn't exactly been a viable option or one that will contribute to the longevity of his sanity.

He retreats back to the cockpit, keeping his helmet audio sensors jacked up to the maximum sensitivity and switching on the thermal to keep an eye on you. Just because you don't know he's watching doesn't mean he isn't. He'll see how you behave when you think he's not paying attention.

You sing for the kid. 

He isn't expecting that. He expects you to cry or have a meltdown. But no. 

You sing. 

...

If he has to say when he first got the idea that he might be in over his head, it's probably during your stint on Sorgan. 

It's not when you pass him the food you had saved for him, although that does get him to pause for a second. He remembers staring down at the small bundle in your hand for much longer than he needs to and then feeling like an idiot for expecting you to take it back or throw it in his face. You're probably just trying to get on his good side.

It's not when he's got his helmet off for a few rare moments during the daylight, wolfing down the food Omera left for him and watching you play and sing with their younglings and the kid in a way that makes him feel fucking homesick, of all things.

It's not even when you almost get naked in front of him. He doesn't actually care about that. Well, not to the point where he would bring it up. He wears beskar, he's not made of it. That is to say, he...appreciates a good view when it's freely offered, but he won't be some slack-jawed dirt scuffer ogling anything within reach. He averts his eyes, turns his head. It's better that way. Less complicated.

It's not any of those instances. Rather, it's right after Cara tells him you took down 'a few' raiders. 

He rushes to the hut post-fight, his adrenaline still slamming and six fucking raiders are on the ground. You. You weren't even supposed to catch a hint of action.

Seven fucking raiders, he realizes once he enters the hut and comes helmet to helmet...er, helmet to face with you. You're whipping out the knife as he comes in and you're fast, operating on instinct, your other arm secure around the Foundlings in your lap while you glare fiercely upwards at him. 

He is abruptly, painfully aware of his body's enthusiastic reaction to the challenge you're unwittingly issuing. Arousal hits him with a tenacity that's borderline pubescent; stars, what the hell is the matter with him?

The vibroblade whirs and trembles in the dim light, but in that breathless instant it isn't a knife. It's the deadly solo weapon of a ferocious mudhorn, protecting their egg with every fiber of their body. He can tell that you don't see him in that moment, all you see is a threat encroaching on your territory. Your eyes scream danger!, that you wouldn't hesitate to take him apart if he dares to approach and he feels the air in his lungs seize at that look. Him, the Mandalorian that shacked up with Ranzar Malk's gang and somehow managed to leave without getting his brains blown out the back of his helmet. 

He would get hard over someone covered in blood with a lap full of younglings. Ticks every fucking Mandalorian box he's got; the paternal, the protective, the primal--

He shoves it down and blames it on the fight. He hasn't had a real good spike of adrenaline since Nevarro and it always gets his blood pumping. 

Obviously it's the fight. It's got nothing to do with you.

He immediately slows, immediately makes himself smaller, and you respond by allowing him to take the knife from you. Your face is damp with sweat and tears when he presses his forehead to your own, and he urges you to stay awake for just a bit longer.

His little mudhorn.

When he pulls you to your feet is when everything falls apart and everything slides into place for him. 

You collapse against him, the blood from your shoulder staining his gloves a dirty crimson and he realizes he's panting, like he can't get enough air through his filters. Like something is wrong with his helmet. 

But no, he's apparently just panicking. Just entirely losing his cool. Which is fine, honestly, he's allowed to have a mental moment every now and then. A little inconvenient, with the kid cradled sound asleep in the crook of his elbow and you slung over his shoulder and the breath wheezing in his chest like a hacksaw blade. It's fine, though, his helmet affords him some liberties. He can easily play it off like there's trouble with his modulator.

Things somehow get more complicated instead of less, though. 

...

He knows your name but he still calls you stowaway, the word colored with amusement or exasperation. He doesn't think about it and he definitely doesn't want you working on his ship. The sooner he can get you out of his hair, the sooner he can get on with the shit show that his life has turned into. This would be miles less complicated if you weren't so hellbent on being helpful, if you had just stayed on Sorgan like he thought you would.

He's not sure why you being on top of his ship when he isn't around sends his brain into high gear, but he's also not fast enough to stop himself from scolding you like an anxious parent when he sees you topside, body buried in that booster. For fuck's sake, you might have agreed to come with him from Sorgan but you had not signed on for the rest of this. He needs to figure something out before you end up actually injured.

He's not sure what he had originally planned to do to Calican. He forgets it the second he realizes that Toro has you at gunpoint.

The sound of pain you make when Calican torques your wrist down has him ready to kill, legitimately kill, tear that little bastard apart just for touching you, and he realizes he's fucked. 

He's exhausted, thirsty, sore, and it all just fades to background noise because Calican has you. And the kid, he reminds himself, knowing he's lying. It's a false equivalence, but he's clinging to it. That shot he takes has his guts twisting in fear, he's certain of his aim but he isn't sure and the kid is fucking wailing like a banshee--

The relief that hits him is a tangible force, like water to his parched body. He vaguely remembers dropping to his knees because his legs won't stop shaking, running his hands over the child to assure himself that they're alright. And you, you, even though he had been such an asshole before he left, you still…

He can feel you shivering even through his beskar. Your bravery is accidental, honest, haphazard. You weren't raised like him, weren't taught to find your calm in the hum of vibrating steel or the crack of blaster fire. You've never had to stare down four stormtroopers at once and proclaim that you liked your odds, you've never had to fight your way out of an entire town. 

But you chucked your knife aside in a second for the kid. Your only means of defense, and you pitched it to take the kid. He can respect that tenacity, even if it was a fucking stupid move.

His little mudhorn. All helmet and no brains.

When he comes up the ladder and you...and you...and he thanks the stars for his helmet because you can't see where he's looking, can't feel his eyes raking over you like he's some kind of scumbag. 

He's never seen you without your tunic before, he looked away on Sorgan but he can't bring himself to now. He feels weak and he can't get enough air because of course, of course you're beautiful, he knows that already even though he doesn't think about it. On top of that you're perfect and your breast band looks like it's on its last legs and really, he is not prepared for this level of trial from the universe.

The mark on your hip makes him want to go back to Tattooine and put a few more holes in Calican. He tells himself he only touches you because he's not certain you can manage the task by yourself, but...but your skin is warm, warm even through his gloves. He doesn't care about the stains. The fact that you do gives him pause, makes his chest tight.

The salve is a lie. He can't even remember what he came up to the cockpit for originally, but he'll sure as shit take the out that you've given him to retreat before he does something even dumber than putting his hands on you.

He's no stranger to self-gratification. For someone like him, it's a necessity. But this adds a new layer to his tame, stale fantasies; it has him fucking his hand in the tiny excuse for a shower in the fresher just to blunt the sharp, hungry edge in his stomach. What is wrong with him? He's so tired, he shouldn't even be able to consider something like that right now, something like...something like peeling you out of your breeches and fingering your cunt until you forget all about how sore--

Maker, what is the matter with him?! 

When he opens the fresher door and you're there, he almost trips over himself before he can hit the switch in time to kill the light. Stars, he's too tired to think straight. He's warm and clean, sated and his bunk is calling his name. 

Then he touches you, absently grabbing your arm to guide you to your bedroll. Skin to skin. Without the barrier of his gloves or the beskar. 

You jump and he feels the goosebumps that rise on your arm. He touches you again because he's curious, hungry for the brush of his skin against your own. Just once more. He gets bold in the darkness and he presses his chin against your forehead, mumbling some platitude before he tears himself away. 

When he wakes back up, he can't remember if he dreamt it or not.

... 

Falling in with Ranzar once again is a terrible choice. Made of desperation and sheer stupidity; the supply situation is worse than he wants you to know and of course the Crest needs more repairs. So he swallows his pride and throws his lot back in with an unfamiliar set of stakes. 

Xi'an telling that smug ex-Imp shit Mayfeld to ask about Alzoc Three has his blood curdling. She snickers, knowing full well that he was a nervous wreck for cycles afterwards, but anything to get a rise out of the fucking Mando, right? His stomach twists into a tight knot and if he's a little more aggressive with that Devaronian, well, these things happen.

The part about the beskar he makes up on the spot, just to watch Mayfeld squirm. People usually believe him when he pontificates about 'Mando' things, so this is absolutely not the most outlandish tradition he's ever claimed his people take part in, not by a long shot. Mating rituals are always entertaining to embellish; on at least two occasions he's convinced gullible drifters that Mandalorians build nests. 

He can still feel your fingers intertwining with his, can still hear the syrupy, "sweetheart" that you coo in parody of an endearment. It's only after the others leave that you allow him to see you, really see you, see the fear that has you in its grip and he can't stop himself from wrapping his entire body around you. 

He wants to protect you and you aren't even his to protect.

He can feel it seething underneath his skin. The nasty, bastard urge to let himself loose. It's been ages since he felt so close to the edge and he loathes it. He actually debates slamming the hatch shut and ditching Ranzar's shitty little gang in that prison. But he thinks of the credits, thinks of you and the kid going hungry…

Damn it all.

Once shit goes sideways, he barely remembers any of it. Xi'an, the knife sliding home in the shoulder that got crushed on Alzoc Three. Flashing red lights, that bastard Burg throwing him around like a rag doll. 

Qin.

He doesn't kill, even though he wants to. Maker, how he wants to, his finger twitching on the trigger as he stands over Mayfeld's unconscious body, illuminated by nothing but those hellish red lights. 

But he doesn't let himself loose.

Feverish, legs shaking, he all but staggers back to the Razor Crest with his quarry in tow. This is a familiar feeling, returning limping but ultimately triumphant.

His already-shuttered world focuses down to a single, white-hot point of blind terror when he sees that fucking droid, that droid, that droid-!

The heavy blaster trembles unsteadily and he jams the palm of his off-hand against the grip to brace it when he pulls the trigger. Panic rises sour in his mouth; he's certain he hasn't made it in time. So when he realizes you're still alive, the relief makes him absolutely frenzied. 

Dragging your body out of that bunk...you could have weighed a thousand tons and he still would have managed it, just to grip you tight again, just to feel you. You're solid and real in the drifting, fevery dreamstate; an oasis of calm for his battered body.

He can't keep his eyes open. He barely manages to get Qin off the fucking ship, barely manages to plant the transmitter on him and get the fuck out of there before the Republic's finest arrive to blow the place to pieces. 

He's never told anyone else about the atrocities of Alzoc Three. He doesn't remember most of what he says to you. And sure, he could blame the poison for the words that spill out of his mouth, but that isn't the only reason.

It's you. 

You, listening. Your hands are on his chest and Maker, he could die, no one has touched his skin in years and there's no way he dreamed that he took your arm in the hold that one time, no way he imagined the drag of his stubble along the skin of your forehead. 

He's so used to getting headbutted that he doesn't even know how to react to you. You're so tender, like he could break, like he might shatter into thousands of pieces at the slightest amount of roughness. He hasn't been taken care of like this since he was a boy. He doesn't...stars, he can't keep track of what he's saying and he can't keep his eyes open... 

He wakes up on the floor, his head in your lap, and he indulges himself when he picks you up and settles you carefully into the co-pilot seat. His fingers trail gently down the side of your face and his sigh is heavy enough that he feels his whole body sink an inch.

His little mudhorn. All heart and no armor.

Karga's message gets under his skin, hammering down on his last nerve. He knows he's angry, dangerously angry, inches from letting himself loose again but it only matters when he turns around and sees you staring up at him, your eyes wide and lips slightly parted. He had actually forgotten you were there for a second. 

Maker, he could just push his-

He jerks that thought to a grinding halt, shoving himself back into his armor even faster and smothering the anger down with it. No no no, a thousand times no. Just because you might be willing doesn't give him the right to take like a fucking--

No.

...

He needs the distance, needs to recenter himself. He comes up with the excuse of having you guard the ship. He figures it'll work, it'll afford him the time he needs to get his head straightened out again.

Until you stumble into him. 

You're soft and warm, everything that he can't have and stars, he is so fucked. So fucked. Every jury in the galaxy would condemn him for the writhing, heated things that run through his mind when you stare up at him, all concerned. He doesn't deserve to be looked at with such care. It makes his skin crawl, makes him feel like a liar. If only you knew the shit he had done. You would never look at him like that if you only knew. 

He sets a brutal pace when he leaves the ship, the kid slung across his chest in a makeshift birikad. Of course it's stupid to overwork his body like this, he's the only one who can keep watch tonight after all, but he needs strenuous activity to silence his thoughts. 

His plan backfires horribly, as they often seem to. Really, he's uncertain of the last time one of his plans functioned properly.

He had warned you about the comlink button. You must have forgotten. At first, it's comforting to hear you rustling around and murmuring in his ear after you wish him a good night. Dangerous, because he nearly dozes off, but comforting. 

But then…

His hands slam down on his cuisses and he sits bolt upright, his heart in his throat. That noise-! It sounds pained, a breathless little whine. Did something happen? Are you being attacked? 

Heat floods his face when he realizes what's transpiring. He tries multiple times to broadcast through, but he can't override the frequency without having the comlink there. He could mute the whole channel.

He doesn't, though. He tells himself it's in case there's an emergency, but really...really it's because he's a bastard. He sits there with his jaw locked, impassive, listening to you begging for him and clenching his fists tight enough that his forearms ache for hours afterwards. 

He doesn't sleep that night.

When he finally gets back to the ship it takes every ounce of his restraint to move past you with nothing but a little forehead bump. It feels like a lie of omission, because what he wants to do--

No.

He shuts himself in the cockpit, locks the door and, once the Crest is safely in hyperspace, he shoves his hand into his flight suit and wraps his fingers around his aching cock to finally jerk himself off. He wonders where you were when you were fucking yourself, wonders if you would cry out like that if you knew he could hear you.

His hand is dry but he doesn't care. He's so wound from the prolonged arousal that one isn't even close to enough. He's gasping into his helmet, the visor foggy and the whole damn thing is as hot as a Mos Eisley rooftop and he wrenches two orgasms out back to back, his balls tightening up against his body as he paints his stomach with shuddering ecstasy. 

It's only as he's entirely exhausted, on the brink of coming a third time while fantasizing about sinking his cock into your wet, hot cunt that he allows himself to do it.

He whispers your name, and he wishes he could scream it.

…

He doesn't want you to get trapped in this mess, why can't you see that? It's dangerous, and he can't find the words to impress upon you just how fucking dangerous it could be. He trusts Karga about as far as he can throw him.

He tells you he wants you to stay safe. He lies and says he doesn't want you to come along; he tries to close himself off. Your tears make him want to bang his head against the wall, he doesn't want to hurt you but he doesn't want you to get hurt. 

And then he fails. He fails, falters, falls into your embrace like the greedy, selfish fuck that he is and he takes.

He's ruined everything. Everything.

You're staring up at him like he just ripped the heart out of your chest and he's ruined everything. The way you shrug off his help, the way you move like you're wounded, you won't meet his eyes anymore…

The idea that he might have actually harmed you makes him queasy. He wants to hold you, to make sure he didn't do anything too--that he hadn't...Maker, he had been so rough-

He damns himself over and over because it hurts. It hurts. He didn't expect it to be this bad. He never says the right thing. It's not your fault that his control snapped at the first brush of your mouth on his knuckles. If he had control in the first place, this wouldn't have happened.

It's not your fault that he gets so caught up in the fantasy of having you that he takes what isn't his. It's not your fault that he's touch-starved, sensation-muted, shut off from the rest of the universe by layers of clothing and beskar so that all it takes is the slightest--the barest fraction--of tenderness and he goes to pieces.

He could never blame you. None of this is your fault. He's just an idiot. 

His insides lurch as a new horror dawns on him. What if you didn't want it? What if you were scared of him? What if this whole thing was just him forcing himself on you, playing out his lonely little fantasies--

Maker, he's a bastard. He's a greedy, selfish bastard. 

Stay, he wants to plead, he wants to beg, let me explain. But he's the one who doesn't deserve that sort of chance and he can't...he won't fault you for not giving it to him.

He peels his helmet off after you go back down the ladder, sitting in the captain's chair with his head in his hands.

This is the Way.

He never worried about not coming back before.

...

You leave in the middle of the night. 

He watches you, the way you're so tender with the kid as you tuck them in the final time, and it twists a blade between his ribs. The beskar can't do anything against you; it crumbles like wet sand. 

All he can do is tell you to stay safe, and he doesn't even trust his voice to say it. Inches from you, inches; he wants to drag you against his armor, tear off his helmet, shove himself between your legs and devour you until he can't, until his body gives out and until his words finally fucking untangle so he can apologize, try and explain his broken emotions instead of just losing himself in the world-shattering warmth of your body--

Please don't go, I need you, I love you. 

But he still lets you leave, his throat numb and aching with everything that he desperately needs to say to you. He cops out and he draws his fucking circle and he taps his knuckles and he doesn't say a single goddamn thing.

Not even when you give him the vibroblade back.

…

He's certain Cara wants to legitimately kill him. He made the mistake of giving an honest answer as to why you vanished in the night.

I hurt them.

He leaves it at that and Dune is livid, she's kicking crates over in the hold and accusing him of every horrible thing under the suns and honestly, honestly, he deserves it. He can see that she absolutely wants to murder him. Even if she doesn't know the specifics of his sins, she knows that he's a bastard and calls him one in about fifteen different languages. 

Kuiil just studies him silently and the old Ugnaught doubtlessly knows more than he's letting on, but he's keeping his mouth shut.

It's better this way, though. Driving you off isn't some heroic deed, it's a selfish gesture of the highest caliber and an avoidance of the consequences he made. He may not have told you to leave in so many words, but he might as well have. You obviously cared about him. 

And he told you he didn't need you.

He thinks of you offering yourself, offering everything to him in what he now realizes was a plea for him to not throw himself at death, and his stomach churns in a nauseating mixture of forlorn arousal and guilt. 

Maker, he's a bastard.

...

The gun is so heavy in his hands. He can feel his shoulders ripping to pieces underneath the strain, rotator cuffs shrieking for mercy as they're pushed beyond their limits. His control is wavering, unraveling. 

He doesn't care. 

His chest aches but the words won't stop, pouring out of him in a screaming torrent of primal Mando'a anguish. Battle-rattle. Now he can talk. He stomps his feet and he squares his shoulders and he roars; he is the loudest, the loneliest, the largest target on the battlefield.

He loses himself. He's killing, indiscriminate, unthinking, wave after wave of white armor chewed through like paper. He's loose. He hasn't done this since Alzoc Three. His shoulder throbs hard with the memory, phantom pain or real, he doesn't know, blood everywhere and the heady scent of smoke and ozone in his helmet. He's killing again, he's killing and killing and killing and--

He hears you over the thundering report of the E-web and he thinks he's imagining things. 

He hears you crying out a warning in his people's tongue and he fears he's finally lost his grip on reality along with his control. 

He doesn't register that it's actually you for a split second and then he sees you. You. Why are you even here? You're not supposed to be here, you're supposed to be safe!

You see him, he knows you do, your eyes are locked on his visor. You're finally seeing what happens when he gives in. He feels like he's failed all over again and it's torture. His body grinds to a halt, everything that he's ever done wrong running in front of his eyes like a cheap imagecast and he can hear you screaming for him to move, but he just...

A hot, fresh wound blooms on the back of his skull from the unexpected impact and he knows a death blow when he fucking feels it. He reels with the gun, staggering, struggling, adrenaline and grit the only things keeping him in motion and Gideon gives him that slimy smirk before he's engulfed in a shrapnel-filled explosion.

The next thing he knows he's laying there, just staring up at the blazing sun while the darkness of Alzoc Three creeps in. He can feel every beat of his heart in the back of his head as he bleeds out in the sand. He wonders idly whether the blood loss from the head trauma will kill him first or whether he'll be treated to the sight of Moff Gideon standing over him with that smug little grin before he's permitted to die.

The sound of the battlefield around him echoes in his ears, the slow throb of his pulse threatening to drown it all out. 

Someone's hands claw underneath his arms and he almost vomits in his helmet from the blunt stab of pain in the back of his head, only vaguely aware that he's being dragged backwards.

White glares alongside him and it's a miracle that he can even raise his hand enough to get his thrower clear of his body. The motion sends a new wave of agony up to his destroyed shoulders and he bites down on the inside of his cheek hard enough that he takes a chunk out. Your voice hits his ears and he wishes he was dead. You weren't supposed to get involved in this, you weren't even supposed to catch a hint of action.

Seven fucking raiders.  

He can feel the life leaving his body. It's incredibly terrifying, an overwhelming sense of dread that bears down on his chest through the beskar and makes it so, so incredibly hard to breathe.

You push your forehead against his in that familiar Keldabe kiss gesture and he can't help the sob that escapes him because he can feel everything and Maker it hurts so much. If this is his retribution, he accepts it with open arms. He deserves it, he knows he does, for every terrible thing he's done, for how much he hurt you. He'll take it all.

But you're still here with him. Your voice scares the darkness out of his helmet, keeps him conscious long enough for that droid to save his life. And isn't that just a kick in the teeth, having a droid (a droid that he killed once, no less) pump him full of some off-market pressure spray bacta that has his heart rate tripping over itself to haul ass back up out of the sand. 

He doesn't complain. He's not sure why any gods, Mandalorian or otherwise, would want to keep him around, but he's not going to complain. 

You put his helmet back on before you do anything else and his heart squeezes in his chest at the gesture.

You came back for him. You came back for him. 

…

He feels like the air has been sucked out of his helmet. He's struggling, gasping, and it's bad. How did he not notice the wound? How? 

Your tunic is bunched up against your side under your cloak, soaked rusty with blood; he can see the marks on your skin where his armor burned you when you carried him and it's ugly, so ugly. 

When had you even gotten shot? He's trying to think, trying to think through the panic, and then Cara speaks up and he realizes that his retribution is ongoing. 

You were running to get him. Running through a hail of gunfire, of course you would get tagged by one of the bastards. You've been wounded this whole time.

His little mudhorn, bleeding out on the lava flats.

You're trembling with pain and shock, stammering out half-sentences, trying to tell him you're sorry, trying to go to sleep and he wants to scream. He's spent his entire life fighting only to find out that he's helpless in the end.

He's shaky with the cauterizer but he needs Cara and Greef to hold you still, he doesn't trust himself enough to do it. He grits his teeth and he pins your head down with his helm and when you vomit, he rolls you to the side so you don't choke. The smell permeates his helmet; burning skin and hot sick and Alzoc Three's darkness is trickling in and he's begging, begging you to sing that song the kid likes so you don't lose consciousness.

Your voice cracks and dies with his heart.

…

The bacta tank costs about as much as an ingot of black market beskar. He doesn't bat an eye. If he's reducing it all down to clinical credits, food and fuel, he owes you that much at least. It's not military grade, but it's also not back-alley medisludge. It just might take a little longer for you to wake up. 

If you do at all. The amount of blood you lost doesn't paint a spectacular picture for the odds of survival.

He buries Kuiil where he fell out in the lava flats. He stands over the grave for a long time, his fists bunched up and his eyes aching.

Karga throws him jobs like apologies, three at a time whenever he comes asking. Pucks slide across the table and he's back out the door, shoulders rigid. He's scared, he can feel it, gripping his spine like a vice. What if you don't wake up? What if you don't pull through? You almost had to bury him, and now he has to wonder if he'll have to bury you.

He slams another bail jumper in carbonite, betting yet again in favor of the forty-sixty split of mortality from the mobile freezing option. He doesn't talk, aside from when he's dealing with Greef. He spends his days in silence, moving from planet to planet with forced tunnel vision. Your shatter-voiced lullaby haunts him and his skin hums with barely-leashed threat, he wants to fucking explode.

The full racks sway gently in the hold and he stumbles up the ladder to the cockpit, picks up the silent kid and just presses their foreheads together. We'll go back today, he decides, maybe they'll be awake today.

Out of his periphery he sees the kid raise their tiny hands and place them on the jaw contours of his helmet. It makes his stomach cave in on itself when the child whimpers, those huge eyes welling up. 

"I'm so sorry, kid." He mutters. "I ruined everything."