#mando!ghost

he doesn’t respond to that. perhaps, he deems your question not worth answering. a lot of your questions are treated the same way.

you tear the piece of bread in two and dip it into the bowl of soup he begrudgingly bought for you earlier. you’re tempted to put your feet up on the table but you doubt the nice old lady who owns the cantina would appreciate that. it probably would piss off the Mandalorian even more, you reckon, which makes the act all the more enticing.

“or you do know where we are going and you’re actually leading me to my eventual death?” you speak with half a mouth full of bread and sip some of the warm beverage. “or you don’t know where we’re going and you’re going to lead us both to our eventual accidental death? also, can we get something else to eat before you kill me? i’d like at least one last big meal before you strangle me to death.”

his helm slightly turns your way and it brings a smile to your face. “are you ever going to keep quiet?”

alright, granted they are stupid questions. which you like to ask on purpose just to get on his nerves. mostly because he won’t give you much to work with in terms of where exactly he’s taking you. or even who the fuck hired him. but since he’s bringing you in alive and not in cuffs, you don’t think you’ll be worried about it too much… for now.

“sometimes.” your bat your eyes, placing your chin on your palm to patronize him even further. “why? do you like my voice, Mando? i can talk for the entirety of the journey, if you like.”

it works. like a charm.

you watch in pure glee as his helm tips back and he lets out an audible exhausted sigh as he shakes his head as if asking the heavens to spare him from your presence. it brings you such joy to poke the nexu. serves him right. he shouldn’t have taken your bounty puck.

“dank ferrick, just–” he cuts off, muttering another curse under his breath as he pushes back his chair and stands up. he points a finger at you. “stay put.”

ori’buyce, kih’kovid. all helmet, no head. authority figures have never gotten along with you. their inflated sense of dominance just rubbed you the wrong way.

you’ve never been one to listen to them. you hardly listened to your mother since coming of age, you’d think this Mandalorian know better than to try and boss you around. of course, he doesn’t know that about you. he’ll learn though. with time, he’ll learn.

“i'll try to.” you murmured as he went to speak with the bartender. probably for information.

you suppose his first lesson in learning about you should start as early as now. you take it as your cue to slip out the back while he’s preoccupied.

Ghost comes back to the table and surprise, surprise, you weren’t there.

he sighs. “oh, for fuck’s sake.”

stay put, my ass. you roll your eyes as you make your way out of the cantina. you need supplies. a couple of nets, metal string and all the other goodies you're gonna need for where you're going.

the net was easy to find. Sorgan has an abundance of those, considering a lot of the locals are krill farmers. metallic rope? not so much. no matter, you'll find it in the next star system. probably somewhere that isn't a backwater planet.

but despite that, you actually like it here. so unlike where you grew up with all the noise and violence. you think your father, had he kept to his word, might have taken you to a place like this.

you could almost see yourself growing up here. playing with the other children in the river or hiding amongst the tall reeds. resting under the shade of the trees. feeling the warmth of the sun on your skin without having to look over your shoulder for your entire life. it’s very nice here. peaceful. a feeling you’re not quite familiar with.

probably never will–

you’re startled when something snags on your pant leg. your gaze snaps to the ground to see a… a baby? “oh!”

a very green baby. with the biggest (and cutest) ears and biggest brown eyes you’ve seen on any living thing.

“hi, there.” you said, uncertainly, watching the little critter with curiosity. you squat down to get a closer look. “where did you come from?”

it's a cute little infant creature. soft green skin, a hairy, wrinkled head and an adorable smile. you've seen many kinds of species whilst traveling across the galaxy but none quite like him. you wonder who had the thought to use a potato sack to make the tiny robe.

you giggle when the little guy grabs your finger with his claws. a woman's voice startles you.

“Grogu!” you turn to look in the distance, a woman running towards you, huffing and puffing under the warm sun of Sorgan. the length of her blue dress flows around her legs as she hurries forward, looking anything but pleased. “please stop running off, little one. i really can't keep up with you.”

she rests her hands on her knees and pants heavily once she comes to a stop. and it’s at this point when you realize that she’s close enough that there’s a noticeable bump on her belly.

stars, it’s no wonder she’s sweating.

“you should listen to your mom, kid.” you said to the little green guy, smiling as his claw clung to your finger. you pick him up and walk over to meet her halfway.

“he barely listens to his father.” the mother added with a tired laugh as you hand her back her child. “thank you.”

“no problem.” you nod to her. she holds the kid up to her shoulder and gently pats his back. he reaches up to pull on her earlobe. she turns her head to kiss his little cheek in response.

just when you thought you'd have a moment to yourself, you spot the familiar hulking stature of Beskar coming towards you from the same direction the woman came. the closer he is, the heavier his steps become as you watch him storm towards you with what you assume might be the intent to strangle you.

“i thought you said you'd stay put.” he spoke through gritted teeth, laser focused on you.

you don’t know how much you enjoy more; the thought of him having to search through the entire marketplace of this little village on Sorgan or him becoming even more angry when he found you. the little kick you get out of getting under his armour, his skin. knowing that there is more man than metal, knowing that you are capable of making his blood simmer and boil like water over a heated pot. that’s what’s keeping you sane at the moment.

your shit-eating grin is too hard to tamper down. “i said i'd try.”

“you can't be running off like that.” the tone of his voice raises.

so does yours. “ah, well. can't do much to stop me, now can you?”

“wanna bet on that?” he steps forward with the challenge.

your eyes narrowed considerably as his shadow looms over you, threatening to swallow you whole. the chill of his glare seeps into your bones but you refuse to back down.

some days you wonder if you like deliberately knocking on death’s door. it’s often exhilarating, sure, though you wonder if it’s worth it. dying by the hands of an angry giant doesn’t seem like the best way to go.

“i didn't realize there were other Mandalorians in town.” the woman says, cheerfully interrupting the tense atmosphere.

the silence that follows was damn near palpable. surely not. your face drops at the mere thought of it.

“you've got to be kidding me.” you glance at the Mandalorian, exasperated. “there's more of you here? is that why you brought me here?”

he ignores you, turning to the woman in blue. “where is he?”

her face brightens even more. the kid blinks up Mando, wide brown eyes staring in curiosity. “oh, you know him?”

“wish i didn’t sometimes.” Mando replies dryly.

“well, i reckon he’ll be glad to see you then.” she says, adjusting the babbling baby in her arms. “come on. i’ll take you to see him.”

“that would be much appreciated.” Mando dips his head in gratitude. “thank you.”

she turns, throwing one last smile as she begins the journey back to her village. “this is the way.”

the words bleed into your chest. a phrase you’ve heard far too many times as a young girl. words you clung to when your mother’s voice raised too high, when the days were too rough and when you went to sleep hungry.

this is the way. your father had said those last few words to you before he left.  

the other Mandalorian is her husband. you facepalm when you realize this moments after seeing her kiss the side of his helm.

stars, you should've guessed with the way she didn't seem so phased by the sight of your Mando.

“i made some new friends today.” she says, gesturing her head to you and your Mandalorian.

friends. you look to him and see him glancing at you. a scoff escapes you before you can stop it. some friend he is. you think you’d rather be stabbed ten more times throughout your lifetime than consider this guy your friend.

you sat cross-legged next to your Mandalorian. while the young lady who led you to the village, then her hut moved around the table, pouring a cup of tea for you, herself and for the kid playing on her Mandalorian’s lap.

his armour is silver. the mark of a horned creature on his pauldron. he’s quiet. nearly as much as your Mandalorian. not as cold but just as intimidating. the woman is oddly cosy around him. if you didn’t know as much as you do about Mandalorians, you’d say that she’s a lover, but…

the kid. the little green guy babbles nonsensically, bouncing and joyful as a child can be whilst the Mandalorian listens and holds on to his little claws.

no. she’s a lot more to him than a lover. and that kid... he’s a foundling. these three…

your chest squeezes painfully when you realize…

they’re a clan.

you’ve might have heard of them. something about a Mandalorian and a child wreaking havoc on Nevarro. something about a girl getting kidnapped by him. you don’t know, there was no time to keep track of that bounty whilst you were avoiding people who were after yours.

you cleared your throat, attempting to get up. “this is a conversation between the three of you, so i'm just gonna–”

“no.” your breath hitches when the Mandalorian sitting next to you clamps a hand on your thigh, forcing back down. “sit.”

the warmth of his palm seeps through the fabric of your pants, through your skin, right down to the bone. something in you just shuts off. you don’t know why you listen. sit. like a damn massiff.

you glare at him. he doesn’t bother to look at you.

the woman looks between you and him, curious as a lothcat. no doubt she assumes that your… relation to the Mandalorian might be similar to hers. it makes you want to scoff again.

“friend of yours?” she asks the Mando next to you.

“quarry.” you pipe up before taking a sip of your tea. “was doing just fine before he grabbed me.”

her eyebrow raises. she and her Mandalorian glance at each other before coming back to you. your Mando sighs deeply, shoulders slumping down as he shakes his head. “i saved her from getting killed.”

“you wouldn’t have had to do that if you hadn’t followed me because your presence drew in other bounty hunters.” you reply, not even bothering to look at him.

“they were going to find her either way.”

“yeah, and i had plans for when that happened.” there’s a pause in the air that makes you smile. you glanced at him, tilting your head. “remember?”

reminders of how you two met will always bring a special kind of joy in your heart. because the frustrated noise that comes through the modulated vocoders was all too satisfying that it made you snicker.

“you're strangely chipper for someone who's been abducted.” the woman points out, gesturing at you with her cup of tea. the child crawls into her lap and whines, pulling at her dress. she glances at him, gently whispering, “hold on, honey.”

she lifts the spoon from the cup, blows on it and brings it to the baby’s lips. the little guy hums in delight before her Mandalorian plucks the child from her lap when he’s done.

“it was that or the other hunters who wanted to bring me in dead.” you explained, shrugging.

a smile tugs at her lip. she glances at her Mandalorian. “sounds awfully familiar.”

“Cyare.” he warns, barely turning his helm to her. “don't.”

she gives a closed mouth grin, absolutely radiating with joy. now that seems familiar. you suppose it’s a rite of passage to annoy the first Mandalorian you come across. it brings a smile to your face.

the hand on your thigh squeezes again. you swat at it, quietly hissing, “quit it.”

your Mando clamps down on your thigh again, harder this time, his help tilting to you when you scowl at him. the bastard doesn’t budge no matter how much you try to remove his hand this time. you grit your teeth as he speaks to the couple.

there’s mention of routes to take. the safest and fastest both coming with their own advantages and disadvantages. it's hard to care when you're the one being transported like cargo and you're not under immediate threat.

“that system is crawling with Imps. best you avoid it.” the other Mando informs you.

it’s hard to keep track of the conversation beyond that, so you don’t. your eyes continuously drift to the hand on your thigh the entire time and for the first time, you rue the day you ever met him.

later, you and your insufferable Mandalorian loosely follow the woman and her foundling to where she’s leading you.

While walking beside him, you roughly jerk your elbow against his arm. “must you be such a pest?”

he retaliates by shoving you. “only following your lead, sweetheart.”

you promptly grind your teeth in silence and try not to let the endearment needle its way under your ribs. you’re led to a small barn, where you’ll both rest for the night.

two beds, thank the lucky stars, on either side of each wall greeted your sight when you entered the barn. it was a cosy place. made entirely of wood and thatched with tall, golden grass. the beds each had a pillow and a blanket laid atop layers of grass and a thin mattress.

hopefully, if the deities are willing, you’ll be able to sleep through the night long enough to see the light of tomorrow.

you pick a bed, plop down on it and start taking down your shoes. the room is quiet for a long time as you both settle down. well, while you settle down anyway. Mando just lays back on his bed while you take off your shoes and unfold the blanket. you lay down under it and wish you’d had the chance to at least take a bath because you just hate feeling grimy when you have to sleep.

you turned to face his direction and curled your arm under your head. even laying down, he still manages to look like a massive beast that could easily strike at any given moment. he’s every bit the Mandalorian as your father was. every bit the Mandalorian you’ll never be.

it’ll always hang over you. this gaping hole in your chest whenever you look at him and never truly connect. aruetii. outsider. a foreigner to your own kind.

his voice startles you. “thought you were going to sleep.”

he hasn’t moved an inch. somehow, you’re not surprised that he knows you’re staring. someone who’s constantly a threat to others must have his head on a swivel.

“i’m trying to.” you said.

the room falls into silence once more. your eyes slowly blink as you watch him breathe. his chest moves up and down, a reminder that there’s more blood and bones under those layers of Beskar.

he sighs, finally fed up with your staring, and turns his head. not enough to face you but shifted enough in your direction. “what?”

curiosity has been burning at the back of your head for days since he took you. you’ve been tampering down question after question has not been easy but since since this is the perfect time to pry–

“were your parents Mandalorians or were you a foundling like the little green guy from earlier?”

the quiet on his end makes you want to take back the words and swallow them back down. he shifts a little. “what do you know about the Creed?”

it’s not as hostile as you expected. in fact, he seems more intrigued by your knowledge. so you take that as a sign to continue. “a little more than most people do.”

“oh, yeah? and who told you about it?”

flashes of another helm haunt your memory. your curiosity suddenly wanes. there’s a moment when you wished you hadn’t asked and kept your thoughts to yourself.

but you answered anyway. your voice is frail and quiet, “my father.”

“and where is he?” Mando asks.

“dead.” it’s the first time he looks at you. “or he just didn’t care enough to come back after he left. i don’t know, it’s been years since i last saw him.”

what do you know about your father? past the fact that he was a great father until he wasn’t. you’d already gotten used to your mother not giving much of shit about you from a young age, but your dad? that… yeah, that one hurt real bad.

it still hurts. suddenly not mattering to the one person who showered you with love. suddenly finding yourself standing on your own with no one looking out of you. leaving for a mission that mattered more than his own kid.

your back leans against the wooden wall and you sigh. a hush follows you, a sorrow that falls upon the room.

you don't remember much about him. just... moments when you didn't feel on edge. when you felt his arms around you as he lifted you up and told you stories about how someday, Mandalore will be restored to its former glory and you would be there to witness it.

it's all a distant haze now. all smoke and dust that clouds your eyes when the world goes quiet.

the Mandalorian sits up from his bed, prompting you to do the same. you're almost startled by what he says next. “is that what your mother told you?”

a weird inquiry. it doesn't sit right under your ribs. it feels almost accusatory.

there hasn’t been a man who you crossed paths with that didn’t have a bone to pick with your mother. that’s how much of a piece of work she is. always ready to antagonize, ready to con and kill if and when necessary. she’s got more enemies than the Empire had stormtroopers and that’s saying something.

but it’s the way those enemies seem to somehow gravitate toward you that you always have to be on guard. every day, you’ve had to stare them down as they bear their teeth at you while they draw near.

are you staring down another one right now?

you angle your body to slowly face him, narrowing your eyes. “what do you know of my mother?”

“same as most.” he says. “that she's a liar.”

you scoffed. that you already knew. “yeah, and?”

he pauses, tense as the air. you stand still, poised and ready for an attack. even if you keep your eyes locked on him, it’s second nature to log every potential weapon in the room. there wasn’t much to work with. no chairs, your usual go-to. your knife is always in your boot but he would overpower you in an instant if you don’t scream for help fast enough.

you also doubt a bunch of krill farmers could do anything to him.

although, one thing does stick out to you. why is he not concerned that you know more about his culture than the average person? why is he not interrogating you for answers about that?

moments passed and he didn't move from where he sat. “you really wanna know who hired me?”

your eyebrow raises. “does it matter if they want me dead?”

“it matters if they don’t.” he counters with a soft voice.

it makes you pause, makes you wonder things you’re not sure you want to wonder. he's never spoken to you like that. he's always made it known that you're a nuisance to him, that you're a thorn in his side. this is... this is new.

though you're all too aware of the implications behind his words. it’s never a good sign when a warlord wants you brought in alive. usually, it means they want to torture you. and quite frankly, you’ll take your chances with death any day when it comes to bounties like that. “are you going to tell me if they don't?”

the silence on his end tells you all you need to know. you hum and nod in conclusion.

“yeah, that's what i thought.”

you don't think it's worth bothering him about it. he's pretty tight lipped about everything, as anyone of his kind. very secretive, keeping their cards to their chest. you can understand that.

it doesn't, however, mean that fact doesn't make you clench your teeth. to the point where you feel like they might shatter.

your father told you a bit about the Resol'nare. a code to live by. a way of life of any honourable Mandalorian with common sense. which is everything that you are not.

you barely know Mando’a. forget having armour and a decent education in your father’s culture. at the very least you got the self defence part down but you don’t think that’s worth much when you don’t have a clan to look after, to add any value to. and with what your own parents put you through, you doubt you’d find yourself raising a kid anytime soon, let alone an army.

you’re not worth any of it. you’re worth nothing to no one.

it shouldn't hurt you anymore to admit that. it shouldn't. you've learned to accept it. yet...

if it didn’t hurt, you wouldn’t be holding back tears every time you see a mother and father and their child. the clan from earlier. a vision of what was once yours. what was not meant to last. a fate that wasn’t meant for you. you've long resigned to something far less dignified.

Mando's head tilts in a way that makes you wonder if he's curious. if he has more questions to ask. he probably does. you're struck by a sense of... intrigue. you're intriguing to him. why does that burst a flame of heat in your chest? the thought of being interesting to the most interesting person around. it's not easy to grapple with. him wanting to peer under your layers to see what makes you tick.

you should be more concerned with what he's saying to you. about the people who hired him. why they want you alive. why they even want you to begin with. you can’t think of anything you have to your name besides the clothes on your back. you can’t think of anything they’d want from you.

why wouldn’t they want you dead? with your track record? your mother’s? don’t even mention the kind of crowds your father pissed off. you don’t know anyone who doesn’t want to put a knife to your throat. it’s a scary world out there. harsh and unforgiving to your mother’s and father’s crimes.

when you think back to the clan of three, you wonder if they’ll end up with the same fate as you. the thought makes your chest tight with a foolish kind of apprehension. an unsettling kind of hope that they don’t succumb to the same misfortune you’ve had to go through.

this Mandalorian, the one staring you down like you’re a caged animal, is a new kind of misfortune. he represents everything you’ve lost. everything you could’ve had. he is, perhaps, deep down, something you could’ve been.

(you envy him. you envy him in a way that burns a hole in your chest. like vines coiling up from deep within and wrapping around your ribs, your heart, your throat–)

you’ve never had anything in common with any of your other enemies or strained acquaintances. none of them have ever evoked a deep ache in your chest that makes you want to scream at the heavens, demanding it brings back what was denied of you.

a purpose. a family. honour.

the Mandalorian is not a threat. for now.

you rest your back against the wall, shoulders drooping.

“i’ll ask again.” he finally speaks after observing you, after making sure your defences are lowered. smart. “what do you know of your father?”

he doesn't demand an answer. the softened tone of his voice feels like he's extending his hand from you. coaxing you to take it, coaxing you to hold, to have. to nestle in his lap and lay your head on his chest.

there's no demand. just... something. something warm. something kind. an awaiting embrace. a place to rest. somewhere soft.

“he wore Beskar.” your hands rub on your thighs as you sigh. “same as you.”

it's the first time you've mentioned it to anyone. some people know. usually those who grew up with you.

your father didn't show his face much around people. you only realized at a much later stage in life that the only time he ever took off his helm was around you and when you were alone with him. you don't think even your mother got to see his face. but you did. to this day, it's still unclear if that's a good thing or not.

you don't know if you want to keep remembering the face of the man who abandoned you.

“didn’t get to see him many times, but i suspect that was my mom’s doing.” your eyes stayed on your knees. “i thought that one day, when i was older, he’d take me to see his covert. he promised that i’d get to see it. he promised that i would walk amongst other Mandalorians.”

what a dream that was. you wish he hadn't planted it in your head knowing he wasn't going to be there to make it come true.

that was cruel of him. perhaps more cruel than your mother has even been to you.

“but he left when i was ten.” you shrugged, eyes cast down. “then my mom told me he died a year later.”

you never really believed that.

you knew your dad. practically invincible as any Mandalorian is. while the thought of him abandoning you would be unlikely, you can’t imagine how or why he wouldn’t come back for you. if he was dead, you would know that somehow.

someone would’ve bragged about it. showed you a sliver of his armour that was taken as a trophy upon his death. someone would’ve mentioned something about a dead Mandalorian to you. with details.

you’ve gone looking. you’ve checked. there’s no body. only death could have prevented him from coming back if he truly loved you.

yet...

the Mandalorian lays down. he faces the ceiling with a hand under his head and the other on his stomach. a long silence stretches over the two of you. you watch the hand rise and fall. you’re struck with the urge to place a hand on his chest just to feel his breaths. just to bask in the warmth of his strength. he probably won't allow it.

but you don’t understand why he wanted to know about your parentage. you think he’s just curious to know why you’re dead set on annoying him every step of the way to his destination.

you hope he got his answers. because you don't think you can give any more of yourself like that to a man who's keeping you chained to him.

slowly, your eyes drift shut as you try to finally fall into slumber. only to be startled by his voice once more.

“i was a foundling too.” your eyes snapped open. he continued when you said nothing. “maybe older than the green baby but a foundling, nonetheless.”

you... you weren’t expecting that.

a small piece of himself. the image of him without his armour. the image of a young boy, terrified and alone. a child. lonely and cursed to walk the universe alone. a child without purpose, without protection. without a clan. like you.

a foundling.

he was lucky.

tears line your eyes as you screw them shut. you forfeit the thought of any deities ever favouring you enough to give you the chance he got.

a foundling.

he was very lucky indeed.

Clan Djarin and the small village send you off with supplies to last you weeks. the Mandalorians nodded to each other while the baby and his mother waved at you. parting ways with them was bittersweet.

but it left an ache in your chest.

“you’re awfully quiet today.” Mando intoned. “something wrong?”

you stopped believing in gods a long time ago. they couldn’t protect you from the kind of trouble your mother brought home.

but just this once... you pray to whatever deity is listening out there that the mudhorn clan stays together for as the stars burn. if you couldn’t be granted anything for yourself, then the gods could at least let you have this.

his ship has been quiet this morning. the chatter that usually fills the air (usually from you) is absent. your drive for getting on his nerves has simmered down since last night. no doubt it'll come back with a vengeance later but for now, you just simmer in your own thoughts.

“nothing.”

he doesn’t push. not like last night. you watch his helm shift as he refocuses on flying the ship.

you wonder who his buir was. you wonder what they saw in him that your own couldn’t see in you. perhaps one day, you’ll find out. or you won’t and won’t care to.

the journey leads you from a backwater scughole to a bustling city with high towers and skyscrapers that seem to touch the sky. you already miss the wood and dirt and all the green. concrete jungles seem to be where you usually gravitate when you’re about to get in trouble.

hence why you’ve grown to be extra cautious around any big city.

it's good for business, depending on which area within the city but that's where most criminals dwell. there are three kinds. petty thieves, lone wolves, gangs or the big corporate suits who run entire systems.

you’ve dealt with all kinds of them. considering that you fall into the ‘petty thief’ category, you know your own kin pretty well. you know where to keep your eyes and hands, careful to not let anybody pick your pockets. being distracted is the last thing you should be unless you want to end up with less credits than you woke up with.

things are... different with Mando.

there’s a wide berth that allows both of you to walk on by.

your eyes scan the area as you keep walking beside him. not one bounty hunter or pickpocket dares to come near. everyone either stares you down or looks away as you and Mando pass.

regardless of him acting as a repellent, you don’t feel brazen enough to throw caution to the wind. there's at least a hundred to one if you’re being realistic. your fingers snag on the cloth covering his elbow. he barely glances your way in question but your eyes are cast forward.

eventually, though, someone does take the risk to approach. or rather, approach and walk beside the Mandalorian.

both of you tense as soon as he’s close enough. one green Trandoshian. he doesn't say a word for a moment, waiting for acknowledgement. he gets it from you, barely, when you glance at him and catch the malice in his golden eyes.

he doesn’t get any from Mando, though. not yet. no, the armoured warrior keeps marching forward as if nothing happened. but you felt the sudden strain in his arm.

he’s already prepared for a fight.

when the moments pass, the interloper grunts first and still gets nothing from Mando. finally, he gives up.

“how much for the armour?”

the answer he gets is immediate. “not for sale.”

you wonder how many times this has happened to the Mandalorian for him to have a response lined up already. it almost gets a snort out of you.

the Trandoshian inhales deeply, his head leaning forward just a bit. golden eyes now fixating on you. your hairs stand on end. your jaw clenched shut at his exhale, a low hiss as his tongue flicks over a row of sharp teeth. the urge to reach for Mando’s blaster skyrockets by a thousand.

you can’t recall ever having a good experience with Trandoshians. then again, you can’t recall anyone who has. this kind is especially ruthless to anyone and everyone who looks like they’re easy to pick on.

this one reinforces that fact tenfold when he leans a little to the side to get a closer look at you. a cruel grin pulling at his teeth when he smells your fear. “how much for her?”

Mando stops walking that instant.

the hairs at the back of your neck stand on end. you feel as though the sky clouds and pours heavily until it drowns the whole world as you know it, filling your lungs with water and holding you down until you can’t find the strength to scream for help.

it’s unlikely that the Mandalorian will sell you, let alone even entertain the thought. he did not go through all the trouble to find you and bring you back to his employers just to give you up halfway through the job. but you feel that pinch. that awareness of being at the mercy of another. your life, once again, being put in someone else’s hands, precarious and delicate.

it’s why you preferred to be alone. the path of loneliness is easier to navigate when you don’t have to worry about getting a knife to your back. even if you don’t have a covert to stand with when the days are rough, even if you don’t have at least one vod watching your six on a job that looks like it’s about to go tits up in five seconds, you can at least count on your solitude saving you from things going far worse at the hands of someone else who doesn’t have your best interests at heart.

but for now… that person is not the Mandalorian who’s keeping you captive.

because he steps into the Trandoshian’s vicinity, blocking you from his line of sight. and he steps up to the intruder and looks him dead in the eye.

you watch with bated breath. the two staring each other down. you know everyone else was as tense as you are, waiting for all hell to break loose at the first sign of trouble.

“say again?” Mando asks. it’s a low rumble in his chest. a threat, daring the man to repeat that fatal mistake. “i didn’t quite catch that.”

you’ve faced countless adversaries. men who wouldn’t think twice about plunging a knife down your throat. men who control entire systems. women who would sell their own sisters to the highest bidder. starving teenagers who look for their next meal. all of whom you’ve survived with the skin of your teeth.

you don’t think you ever want to face a Mandalorian. although technically, you’ve faced him before, you realize now, with the hairs on your nape raising on end, that if he wanted you dead, he would’ve put you to the ground before you had the chance to leave your last hiding spot.

there’s a moment when you think it’s all going to shit. one hundred to one odds. an entire street of decrepit souls against you and the Mandalorian.

but you don’t see the Trandoshian’s expression falter. you only know that he’s backed away by the sound of boots against the ground. Mando’s hand doesn’t stray away from the gun at his hip.

it’s not lost on you that the rest seem to subtly fall back as their friend does. almost as if they’re unsettled by his retreat. if he doesn’t want to take his chances with this Mandalorian, then they probably shouldn’t either.

the mr-silent-strong-type quip echoes back to you in that moment. and it rings true. the silent strength he projects, washing over you, blanketing you in its embrace. warding off unwanted advances. protecting you.

when it’s finally time to leave, you’re jolted by Mando's hand slipping through yours. the fear, the noise, all of it slowed down and halted. everything stopped. even your breaths.

leather against bare skin. the heat of his palm melting into yours. for that finite moment, his grasp on your hand like lock and key. opening something in your that you haven’t yet discovered, that you hadn’t known existed.

you’re too stunned to mention it for the rest of the way.

he pulls you to another street. without a word, you follow him, your feet falling in step with his as if they were meant to.

you’re more than grateful that Mando doesn’t bring it up. ever.

neither do you. what would you even say? how do you even start to acknowledge that he held your hand in front of all those hunters? in front of everyone?

you don’t.

he didn’t need to. you very easily could have followed him without a problem all on your own. whatever the Mandalorian’s motives were for doing that, you would prefer not to know. even if you laid awake the entire night in your rented bed in an unnamed inn, questioning if you’d ever get to feel the warmth of his hand seeping into yours again.

the next day, you pretend it didn’t happen. you follow him around as diligently as you could while he speaks to one associate then the next. you keep your hands away from his. making sure that your knuckles don’t ever brush against his gloves so there’s no mistake or indication that you want for yesterday’s incident to happen again.

some part of you wonders if he wants it to happen again. another part wonders if he’ll reach over those precious few feet to you and take your hand. you don’t dare to entertain either one of those thoughts.

even if he’s not touching you, you still feel as though he is. being in his vicinity, you suppose does that. the Mandalorian’s protection is strong enough that it’s almost tangible.

then you reach this part of town that just makes you forget about him entirely. there’s a whole street of street vendors selling all kinds of things. unfortunately, you haven’t had a good meal and the smell of grilled meat made you want to remedy that immediately.

how could you resist good food when it’s right in front of you?

there’s one stall that draws your undivided attention. “i’ve got to try that.”

“no, don’t you dare–” he yells your name just as you scamper off to the lady selling variations of grilled meat.

you completely ignoring him. he sighs deeply once you’ve slipped well out of his grasp and went to the vendor. you order a kebab and immediately take a bite. he stands where he is, just observing you from afar.

“these are so good.” you chirp happily. “can i have five more to go please?”

the woman nods and starts to pick off the ones you requested and puts them in two paper bags. two more for you and the other three for Mando. it doesn’t take you long to get your order packaged in a brown paper bags and given to you. after that, you head back to where he’s standing.

you prepare yourself to get yelled at but surprisingly, Mando makes no attempt to reprimand you for running off like that.

“here.” you hold out one of the paper bags. “couldn’t not get these for you.”

after defending you from that one guy, you figured this could be the least you could do. you just feel slightly compelled to return his kindness somehow. even if it was an obligation.

he slowly reaches for the bag but doesn’t look at what’s in it. instead, he steadily holds your gaze and your breath. you are immediately reminded of how much you hate doing nice things. the moments where you feel like you could bury yourself under the ground, hoping that he accepts your peace. hoping that he… likes it.

you could picture him later. sitting alone in his ship, taking off his helm to take a bite of the grilled meat. would it be to his taste? or would he spit it out and throw it in the trash?

some sick, needy little part of you hopes he doesn’t.

he doesn’t say a thing as you two keep moving. not a thing about the Trandoshian who threatened you earlier. no complaints about how you ran off on him earlier, which you were surprised about (you were really hoping to talk back to him if he was going to lecture you about safety or something about you trying to escape him). nothing else about his family, his upbringing.

worst of all, not a damn thing about your peace offering.

not even a thank you.

it doesn’t– it shouldn’t bother you. it shouldn’t.

frankly, you were expecting him to throw it back on your face and call you an idiot for one reason or the next. the silence on his end stung more than anything. like your offering wasn’t even worth the acknowledgement. 

like you weren’t worth the acknowledgement.

you sat in your chair as he flew his ship, trying to tamper down the lump in your throat. the paper bag is nowhere to be seen. you never saw him open it or look inside. it was gone.

probably thrown out.

“so where’s our next pit stop?” you ask.

his helm barely turns your way. “somewhere warm.”

you quell the urge to kick his seat as the ship takes off into hyperspace.

Jakku.

“when you said warm, i didn’t think you meant blistering hot.” you grumbled as you walked out of the ship while shielding your eyes against the suns with your hand.

you already miss the air conditioning. usually, you avoid desert tundra terrains. death by environmental causes is one of the worst way to go. dehydration is slow and painful. and so is hypothermia. at least the barrel of a gun is guaranteed to grant you a quick death.

“keep your head down and don’t cause any trouble.” the Mandalorian says.

“hard to do that when trouble seems to follow me.”

he grabs you by the arm, though it’s not rough. just enough to pull your attention. just enough to make your blood blister in your cheeks even more than it already does.

“stay close.” when you try to rip your arm away, he tightens his grip, pulling you closer and reaching his other hand to grab your chin. “i mean it.”

you hold his glare. your breaths heavy and heady with what feels like anger for the way he just orders you around because he can. yet something sparks there. between you and him at that moment. heat blisters and blurs the line between hunter and prey and you can’t seem to fathom how or why it gives rise to other urges.

the urge to fill his palm with your cheek. to let it stay there and pretend for a second that you’re not a quarry and he’s not a bounty hunter cashing in on your head. a need to stop thinking. about everything. your life. his Creed. the rules of engagement of this entire transaction.

you don’t really know why. it’s just instinctual at this point to veer away from such thoughts with as much violence as you can. your jaw moved on its own and chomped down on the muscle between his thumb and index.

Mando rears back with a hiss, yanking his hand away before you can really do some damage. 

“did you just bite me?” 

you flash your infamous shit-eating grin. “point that finger at me again and that’s what’ll happen.”

he looks at you for a good long minute, seemingly contemplating if he should do it again to see if you’ll follow through with your threat. you will if he dares to try again. mostly for the fun of it. mostly to make him think twice before 

it’s unfair the way he gears his strength toward manhandling you just because he can. balancing the scales is what you do. getting under his skin the way you do.

he pulls away and like that, the heat drains as quickly as it bloomed. the cold space suddenly doesn’t feel so familiar. with him having invaded your space, permanently altering it, making you accommodate him, permanently leaving his mark when he leaves.

you hate that you feel the weight of his absence when he leaves you be. you’d been separated from him for quite a bit of time after that little spat. he left you to explore by yourself but didn’t go far. he was always in your peripheral. always near, just not breathing down your neck anymore.

you felt him watching.

not just making sure that you weren’t trying to run. just watching. observing. you don’t know what his play was but it felt nice not feeling him hovering over you every second of the day. odd but nice.

and you were just starting to have fun too. when you had ordered a bowl of soup at a cantina, you thought you had more time to enjoy your limited solitude. Mando stormed minutes later holding a duffle bag, just as you were blowing steam off of your soup and didn’t hesitate to beeline towards you.

“let’s go.” he pulls you up by your arm, forcing you to drop your spoon.

you made a distressed sound but you don’t think he cares as he pulls you along to the door. you looked longingly at your abandoned bowl, then to him. “but i haven’t eaten yet.”

“let’s. go.” he keeps tugging, keeps rushing you out the door.

you don’t know what’s gotten into him. you think it might have been the Trandoshian again or some other criminal who got under his skin. you think Mando might have seen or heard something that set him off.

it has to be.

but this attitude is nothing short of hard, considering everything. you thought you two had a momentary understanding. you thought that him giving you room to breathe was a result of something of the earlier encounter, with him grabbing your face. maybe even something of Sorgan, with you and him both sharing, both opening up about each other.

you thought–

maybe. the peace offering. it was the peace offering, wasn’t it? he’s mad that you offered him some kebabs for some reason and he’s going out of his way to be an absolute prick about it.

you dig your feet into the ground and it does little to stop him from marching forward. you huff, annoyed as he keeps moving you through a crowd. “can’t i enjoy my food in peace for five kriffing minutes?”

“you’re not on vacation, love.” the nickname jolts you as you keep stepping. you swear you feel his hand loosen around your wrist, though it’s not to let you go. but rather to slide his hand down and grasp yours. “come on, cyra'ika, let’s move.”

you just… you–

“Mando–” a breathless stutter falls out and goes unheard in the crowd.

you don’t know what to make of this. of him. of what the hell he’s doing. the worst of it was not knowing. of being left in the dark, wondering, wandering. only bumping into walls and walking a path that has no meaning or end.

he holds your hand. firmly, yet softly. hurrying through the rush and pulling you, stringing you along into an alley. even then, he doesn’t let go.

it means nothing. you make nothing of this. him holding your hand. him letting you in about how he grew up. him defending you from other people who sought to hurt you. it. means. nothing.

fact remains; he’s only pulling you towards his intended destination. once he collects on what he’s owed, he’s done with you. he’ll walk away and leave you to deal with whoever put a price on your head. he’ll leave and–

and…

he’ll leave.

so for him to just– do this. without any regard of how you might feel about it (not that he should but he’s given some indication that he’s not completely blind and deaf to your thoughts).

one minute he’s blistering hot as the sands of Jakku, then he’s as insanely cold as a snowstorm on Hoth. and then–

–then. he’s somewhere in-between. then he speaks softly. then he holds your hands. then he’s as cool as the nighttime breeze of Naboo. then he’s as lukewarm as the waters too.

then. you’re back to blistering hot Jakku. you’re back to insanely cold Hoth. and then and then and then–

it never ends. you can’t take it anymore.

you just… snap.

your hand rips away from his and the words spill out from the top of your voice– “what is your problem?!”

the alleyway is quiet and it makes your voice that much louder. he stares at you like you’d just shot him.

“if i’m not your prisoner, then don’t treat me like one, Mando!” you shoved his chest, though it did absolutely nothing to make him budge. 

it’s like trying to push against a brick wall. he’s annoyingly sturdy, which makes it hard to be remotely intimidating in his eyes, even as angry as you are. you hate him for it. you hate that he’s big, that he’s built like a fucking star destroyer and that he’s heavily armoured on top of all that.

what will it take to take him down a peg?

what will it take to get him on his knees?

a pair of cuffs are clapped around your wrists faster than could react. your eyes widen and he clasps his hand between your bound hands and pulls you by the cuffs.

“what are you doing? let me go!” you try and try and try to pull back but all it amounts to is having your boots scrape along the ground as he keeps marching forward like he’s hauling a fresh kill.

it’s utterly humiliating.

“guess what?” said Mando. he stops and looks at you and you swear he’s got a smug expression underneath that stupid helmet of his. “you’re my prisoner now.”

stupid helm. stupid Mandalorian. stupid, stupid, stupid–

he makes you feel so stupid and so small and so weak, it grates your pride like sandpaper on your skin. you wish you had fought harder to get away from him that first time around. you wish you’d set up a lethal trap to kill him, rather than just delaying him to make your quick escape.

“fine. you wanna act like a brat, love–” he finally lets you go, clearly perturbed by your incessant struggling. “then i’ll treat you like a fucking brat.”

he turns away from you and takes a few steps forward. it takes a few seconds for you to realize that he expects you to follow. “let me out of these kriffing chains, Mando!”

“you’ll find me at the ship.” he answers back without looking at you. like you were just an afterthought.

he’s walking away, knowing damn well that you’ll trail behind him because he knows it’s dangerous to be out here with your hands restrained. he’s got you cornered and the only way out is with him, regardless of whether you like it or not.

and you hate it. and him. you just hate every fibre of his being like you’ve never hated anything else in the entire universe.

“what? you afraid i’ll do more than just hurl insults at you?” you spit at his back, marching forward and yelled at the top of your voice. “you afraid i’ll lay you on your ass like the first time we met?! is that it?!”

that earned him a chuckle. “bold of you to assume that i’m even remotely afraid of a rat like you.”

“then take these off of me!”

“no.”

the denial was final. you're condemned to being confined in cuffs for the rest of the way to the ship.

you seethe violently under your skin as you try to think of the worst thing you can possibly say to make him as angry as he’s made you.

you take a deep breath, inhaling as much air as possible and scream the one word that comes to mind. it’s a shot that rings in the air and pings right against metal.

“hut’uun!”

but it rings true. because the divine moment when Mandalorian stops dead in his tracks fills your veins with a thrill unparalleled by anything you’ve ever felt in your entire life.

those few precious seconds of holding your breath are all you cling to. he slowly turns, the threat of his gaze is a knife to your throat. one which you foolishly brought upon yourself.

“what did you just call me?”

sweat lines your trembling hands as you clench them. your eyes slowly narrowed, a gun still warm with smoke oozing from the barrel. you keep your chin high and your jaw tight.

“you heard me.” your clipped tone does you no favours. it doesn't stop you from digging your own grave. “loud and clear.”

Mando drops the bag and storms his way towards you. feet kicking through the thick sands and burning a path straight to you that it makes your conviction falter. your steps stammer backwards when his arm reaches out and grabs you with a force that punches a whimper out of your throat.

he grips your face in one hand, fingers digging into your cheeks, the edge of his palm resting on your chin as he leans close. you can smell him. all steel and musk and gunpowder. none of the softness you would expect from someone with jagged edges and twice the vile rotten core of a soul not dissimilar to yours.

it startles you. the pang of a realization that he is the mirror to something you’ve been searching for your whole life. he is everything you could’ve been. should’ve been.

unflinching from the face of death. the face of honour, the very essence of it coursing through his veins, giving him life, giving him the very thing that you’ve scoffed at but secretly yearned for ever since you learned how to speak; purpose. wrinkling his face at the thought of cowardice. at the very thing you accused him of.

it makes you angry. makes you hate him. that he gets to live the fate that was stolen from you. it makes you want to rile him up. to bring him down to your level– chakaaryc. make his ethics questionable, dubious at best. downright wretched at worst. drag him down to being a petty criminal.

you refuse to let him be on the high ground so he can look down at you.

“say that again.” it’s a low snarl. a dare. a threat. something pools deep in your belly at the thought of taking him up on that offer. “louder this time.”

you don’t think you could’ve been any louder than you were the first time. daring to question his honour wasn’t the problem. frankly, you don’t think he cares if anyone calls him a coward, he’d probably just walk away and not bat an eye.

oh but you. you. it’s the fact that you’d done so in the very language he holds close to his chest. not a native tongue to him, not what he was born to (his accent gives him away on that end). but a language tied to a faith that means everything to him.

you don’t repeat the word. it’s vulgar. even to you, someone who’s barely dipped her toes in the culture but you know the word. you know what it means. you know it’s an insult of the highest degree to someone who dorns the Beskar’gam.

instead, you twist your face away just enough to snag your teeth on his gloves finger and bite down. your teeth don’t cut through the leather. but the bite is hard enough to earn you a grunt, frustration pouring out of him at being caught off guard. your blood tingles with a thrill especially because you’re in sheer disbelief that you took things this far, because you want to see what he’ll do next.

because you want to see if he’ll hold up to his promise of not hurting you. you want to see if those words were just for show, if they were just to placate you. to tamper you long enough until he sees his job through.

“you fucking–” the sharp retort quickly bleeds into silence and is swallowed back down his throat. you’re curious to know what it is.

he’s quick to rip his hand away but snaps back again. a venus flytrap. for a second, the thought of being slapped makes you flinch. only, fingers grip your jaw. he’s smart enough not to let his hand near your teeth again, only opting to rest it underneath your chin, nearly clasping your throat. the beat of your heart thunders in your ears like drums on Life Day.

the suns of Jakku bear down on the earth and though you may stand under the shade as you feel their humid weight slowly boiling you from the inside out, goosebumps prickle your skin as if you’d been standing in the cold for too long.

you think he wants to grip your throat instead– no. you know he wants to.

hell. you’re ashamed to admit that you want him to.

“bite me again and see what happens next.” he grits out through clenched teeth, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to hurt. the heat of his threat makes your skin pickle. you know it’ll bruise later.

(you hope it does.)

your eyes slowly drift down to his wrist. you clench your jaw, knowing that he feels the movement. to silently let him know that you’re not above behaving like an animal just to prove a point. or just for the hell of it. if he stoops as low as you or even lower, you still win because you’ll be laughing at the end of the scuffle.

he waits for you to act first, muscles taut and ready to retaliate against whatever else you throw at him. this time, you do nothing. just stare down his visor until he eventually unclasps his fingers from your skin while you breathe through your nose. you figure you’ve riled him up enough as it is.

it's a long walk back to the ship. Mando perp walks you in front of him the entire way there and only when he's satisfied with humiliating you, he then finally takes the cuffs off you and leaves you to wallow in the cargo hold.

you sit there alone, wondering if the universe really has it out for you. it seems to. apparently, making your existence as miserable as possible seems to entertain it or whatever deity is watching.

because in the hours you’d been left to sulk on your own, you’d gone from simmering with rage to wondering why you had even said such a thing to him in the first place. 

hut’uun.

you cringe at yourself, curling into a ball in the corner. stars, what the fuck could’ve compelled you to call him that of all things. a coward. in your father’s native tongue. using the very Creed Mando holds so close to his chest. it’s moments like this when you’re reminded that something just might be fundamentally wrong with you.

nothing about the Mandalorian is cowardly. it would be one thing to say it in Basic, he would have completely ignored that and let it roll off his back. but in Mando’a? not only calling into question strength but also his steadfast integrity.

it is an insult to the very core.

it makes you stand on your feet and seek him out. you slowly make your way down to the cockpit, where he most likely will be, while taking deep breaths and mulling over the words in your head. it’s difficult to think of anything to say to make up for the foolish mistake you made earlier. yet, you have to at least try to come up with something.

as you thought, he’s in the pilot’s seat, steering the ship to your (his) next destination. you hesitate upon entering, opting only to stand at the doorway. your shadow pours into the darkened cockpit.

you know that he’s aware of your presence. you doubt he didn’t hear your footsteps or doesn’t notice the absence of light streaming in from the hallway. he knows you’re there. he just doesn’t want to acknowledge you.

again. you sigh. blistering hot and now the ice is freezing you over. Jakku, Hoth. all wrapped in muscle and armour.

“Mando.” your tone starts off tight and sure. though you feel anything but. “can we talk?”

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t move. just stares ahead at the vast space in front as if your voice never reaches him in the vacuum he wants to escape to.

you shouldn’t feel guilty. at all. he was the one pushing you around for no reason. you don’t want him treating you like his own personal rag doll, yet here you are, feeling the bile rise to your throat because you feel so fucking bad for calling him that.

“i…” you take a deep breath, eyes cast down in shame. “shouldn’t be so difficult when you’ve been far more gracious to me than most bounty hunters would have.”

pride stings your throat as you swallow it down. it tastes bitter. like the caf your mother would drink. like her heart. like yours. it stings. it burns. It hurts.

much of what you’ve put him through was because of your own complicated emotions with your parents. but that is not Mando’s fault. it was wrong of you to take that out on him.

the Mandalorian does not speak. instead, he swerves his chair and stands up. you back away from the door frame when it looked like he might bulldoze his way through you.

“Mando–” you try to call out, but he marches down the hallway.

you hate this. going from being the center of his attention, the very bane of his existence, to then… nothing. you’re nothing. to him. to them.

to everyone. you’re just nothing to everyone around you. not worth their time, their affection. not even their hate. they couldn’t be bothered to care.

you take a deep breath. and the words come out of your mouth–

“n’eparavu takisit.”

he halts in his tracks. just like he did earlier when he called you the other thing. he turns, the first sign that he’s noticed that you’re even there. and only glares at you from a distance, shoulders tense and hands clenched at his sides. his deep ire permeates the very air you breathe and you’d much rather suffocate instead.

each inhale releases with a shudder. your wide eyed stare can’t veer away from his visor, even if you wanted it to. even when heat stings the corners of your eyes.

“i’m sorry for calling you... that. i am. and– and it’ll never happen again.” your confession, you hope, is heartfelt. you don’t think you can bear another second of this stifling silence. yet, you can’t help but sharply add, “but you gotta stop shoving me around.”

still, shame blooms in your chest like weeds sprouting from wet earth. you hate that you even had to apologize for something that you never should’ve done in the first place. you hate that you had to endure the brunt of the Mandalorian’s harsh stare, his silence and worst of all, his apathy.

you realize, in the absence of whatever mutual understanding you had with him, how many boundaries he’s crossed. from bounty hunter to quarry, all of the things he’d done were, quite frankly, forbidden.

he could’ve very well let you starve since you set foot on Sorgan. but he bought food for you out of his own dime. and then sheltered you, protected you from the hunters on Jakku. stood his ground in a way that… that still makes something in you flutter violently when you think back on it.

holding your hand. pulling you away from danger.

spoke softly to you when he asked about your father. even softer when he revealed little about himself. as if you were a friend. someone he can trust. when you were anything but.

“a–anyway…” you stuttered, shaking your head. “that’s all i had to say.”

a few steps backward, then a swift turn and you find your way into the cockpit. where you sit down, fold your arms together and sulk. it’ll take a while, you think, for the shame to subside. in the meantime, you just have to endure it for the rest of the journey and hope the Mandalorian doesn’t make your life hell until you reach his destination.

you hope you don’t have to look at him for the next few hours, at least. if he wants time to cool off, he should have no problem staying as far away from you as his ship would allow. except, it doesn’t take him long for him to return.

“here.” he’s brought the bag from earlier and he drops it at your feet. 

your brows furrow at him for a moment before you reach down and unzip it. inside, are things you didn’t expect to see. things you never expected from him. ever.

clothes. a few shirts, long and short. pants too, alongside a new pair of boots. there’s a towel and products as well. soap, shampoo, face wash, moisturizer. the whole nine yards.

this is what he was lugging around the entire day. things that he bought for you.

a laugh bursts out of you as you pull the bag up onto your lap and rummage through the contents. “gee, Mando. do i smell that bad? is that why you were ignoring me the whole day?”

he grunts and takes the pilot’s seat once more, still facing you. watching you examine each bottle. the shampoo he bought smells nice. so does the conditioner. you’re going to enjoy soaking in a nice hot shower and change into clothes that don’t smell like sun and sweat and you’re going to sleep like a baby.

you’re truly touched that he went to such lengths, even when you were so horrible to him, to get you all this. regardless of the impending doom of the destination ahead, you feel less like his quarry and more like a guest on his ship.

you smiled softly. “thank you, Mando.”

and here you were thinking he didn’t care in the slightest. what a pampered little quarry you are. being spoiled with luxuries you shouldn’t be allowed on the way to being handed off to your next bidder.

morbid thoughts, yes, but they do keep you entertained and alert at the same time.

“it’s Ghost.” he says, starting you. “if you’re going to keep working on my last nerve for the entirety of this journey, then you can call me Ghost. but only when we’re alone.”

you blink owlishly at him. that… you weren’t expecting that. you weren’t expecting a name.

he gave you a name. his name. well, a nickname, really, but–

Ghost.

your heart flutters because he gave you a name. a small piece of himself. something not many are given. what could you have possibly done to be bestowed such an honour? it’s a strange feeling. being handed something so precious with the expectation that you’re to take care of it.

yet, you can see why that name was tied to him. he certainly acts like a ghost most days. quiet. moving like a shadow, almost as if he’s moving through the walls with his bulk.

but other days–

bite me again and see what happens next.

the gravel of his voice haunts you. sends a shudder down your spine, sends a tingle down to places you’d rather not acknowledge at the moment.

other days, the force of his strength is nothing like what a ghost is. other days, the sheer violence of his presence alone. the haunting rage that scorches the very earth he walks without him having to say a word.

it trickles at the back of your mind like a slow drip until it cracks open and floods your brain with the image of his hand shooting out through the air to grab something. a gun. a throat. the Trandoshian’s. yours.

“Poltergeist suits you better.” you pause. “or mr-silent-strong-type.”

that draws a tired chuckle out of him. you don’t know why the sound warms your cheeks. it is so jarring to hear him sound amused. like light pouring into a cold, dark chasm, warming you from the inside out.

you hope to get another laugh out of him before the end of his journey.

you took that much needed shower.

washing off the sands of Jakku felt so good. you lathered your skin using the loofah that was tucked in the corner of the duffle bag and made bubbles using the floral scented shower gel, letting it seep into your pores. you sighed in relief as the hot water sprayed over your body. then you got to washing your hair.

throughout the entire process, you swear you’ve never been allowed this much peace while taking a shower. all of these little luxuries given to you by the Mandalorian. why?

why do this when he was just going to sell you off to his employers? why do all this when he was just going to let you go? when he was just going to leave.

it doesn’t make any sense.

come on, cyra'ika, let’s move.

how could he call you that when he was going to leave you? doesn’t he know the implication of that endearment? doesn’t he understand that you don’t just go around calling people that? much less people who are supposed to be quarry. his meal ticket. a soul sacrifice for the wellbeing and survival of his covert.

cyra'ika.

you’re not even deserving of that word after what you called him in return. you cringe thinking back on it again. he called you something sweet. twice in the same breath. and you threw it back on his face.

now you’ll never hear him call you that again.

you turn the faucet and shut the water. the fluffy gown he got for you was almost too soft to wear. it enveloped your body like a warm embrace. you think you’ll be keeping this one for a long time.

you’re surprised to see him waiting for you just outside the ‘fresher. leaning against the metal wall with arms crossed. the sight of him makes you pause for a good, long moment. your cheeks grow warm when you quietly ask yourself how long he was waiting there. 

“water’s still hot.” is all you stiffly offer, your arms wrapping tightly around yourself, praying that the gown clings to your skin and doesn’t suddenly disappear.

something in your belly rolls at the idea of him seeing you like this. vulnerable. practically naked, even if you are wearing a gown that completely engulfs nearly every inch of your wet skin. you imagine him waiting out here, just waiting while you were in there, taking a shower. while you were in there, naked.

the perv.

what’s with him anyway? why couldn’t he have waited in the cockpit? was he hoping to barge in there while you were still taking a shower?

your skin prickles hotly at the thought of him doing just that. that must’ve been on his mind, considering how long you took to get cleaned up. he must’ve been impatient to use the ‘fresher and very much annoyed to have to share his space with you.

you’re just awful to him, aren’t you? always snapping your jaws at him, pushing his buttons, eating away at his resolve with every passing moment.

(you hope he dreams of you when you’re gone.)

“get dressed.” he orders. “we’re here.”

you blink belatedly as he pushes himself off the wall and trudges down the hallway.

so this is it, huh? the end of the journey. you’re no longer going to be travelling with Ghost. your shoulders slumped at the thought.

Ghost said his employer isn’t going to kill you or hurt you. so you wonder, again, what will happen to you? what is the purpose of going through the trouble of bringing you all the way out here?

you don’t have enough time to dwell on any of that as you find something to put on while the ship finally lands. the new clothes do make you smile a little as you get dressed. and you love the smell of your new boots. it wouldn’t hurt to have a knife on you for wherever it is you’re headed but that’s another matter entirely.

yet as soon as you step out into the new terrain, dorning your new jacket, you halt in your tracks upon seeing what’s in front of you.

there, walking on the sands of this unknown planet, are more Mandalorians before you. far more than you’ve ever seen at once in your entire life.

the mere sight punches the breath right out of your lungs and you stand there wide-eyed and mind frazzled. hoping that your eyes were deceiving you. hoping that we were asleep and that your mind was just wading through his quietly unsettling nightmare.

that’s... that’s a lot of armoured people moving around in one place. are you sure he brought you to the right place? you don't think he’s supposed to bring a bounty into... you know, his own home. the very place where his kin resides.

“you…” the words die in your throat as another Mandalorian rushes past you.

there’s foundlings everywhere with their freshly painted armour gleaming in under the gaze of the bright sun. veterans with chipped paint on their worn steel. young warriors who are on the verge of earning their signets. there’s entire families. entire clans. groups of people who belong together and live cohesively.

more than quite a few stop to look at you.

you feel the burn of their apprehension faster than you can try to catch your breath. you can feel their judgement. sharp thorns lined and aiming at you. the outsider.

“you brought me to your covert?” you turn to Ghost, who’d been following closely behind your steps. “why?”

his silence gives you no consolation, no hints, no answers. he stands as still as a statue. your throat tightens considerably. tears burn your eyes.

crying is not an option right now. you fight to choke the tears back down because crying in front of these your people is not something you want to entertain at the moment.

so many of your people in one place. you’re standing in their home. a sick sense of imposter syndrome hits you in the gut, except. it rings true. you are an imposter. outsider. you don’t belong here. aruetti.

you should leave. now.

but as you start to back away with your heart stuck in your throat, you bump into a solid wall behind you. Ghost firmly grasps your arms and keeps you there. your eyes stay fixed on the Mandalorians bustling around in front of you and you can’t get away from it.

you realize, in quiet horror, that there was no way you could’ve ever avoided this. that one way or another, your endless journey of no direction would’ve eventually led you to this exact moment. to be brought back to the people you’ve longed for your entire life.

yet when you’re confronted with it, you find yourself fearing the outcome.

he lets go for you to turn around and face him.

“Ghost.” he doesn’t move. not an inch. not even if you sound like you’re pleading. “who hired you?”

Ghost utters your name, his hand reaching for yours. some part of you can’t allow him to touch you. some part of you flinches and moves away before you can’t fully stop yourself.

some part of you, some long deep wound that’s been barely starting to heal tears wide open and starts to hemorrhage. and you think you’re going to choke on your own blood anytime now because your throat is closing up and it’s starting to fucking hurt seeing all these Mandalorians in one place.

seeing all of them as a unit, as one big happy family and he brought you here–

why did he bring you here?

Ghost doesn’t tell you why. instead, he looks at you like he’s going to break your heart and you don’t understand how he could possibly do that when he barely even knows you.

“i want you to know.” the confession spikes a chill in your blood. “i’m not getting paid for bringing you here.”

“what?” you squawk. “why?”

it makes no sense. for him to go through all this trouble for no pay at all. because what could possibly motivate him enough to come after you if not for a big briefcase full of credits.

the very nature of his kind, bounty hunters, is to put their very lives on the line for a good coin. unless…

he holds your gaze the way a mother cradles her child. he tells you nothing more, nothing you won’t find out in a minute or two. and it clicks.

this had nothing to do with him being a bounty hunter.

“whatever happens, just…” the silence on your end drowns everything out but his voice. you cling to his words through the roaring in your ears. “just hear him out.”

this had everything to do with him being a Mandalorian. this was for his tribe, his Creed.

before you can ask to hear who out, Ghost’s helm shifts up as he looks behind you. the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end before you even hear the voice uttering your name.

maybe if your heart wasn’t rattling like a bird in its cage, you wouldn’t have been so shocked to recognize the voice that had once lulled you to sleep when you were so young. it stops beating entirely. your breath held in your throat.

you turn to look behind you, hoping that you were just imagining this. hoping that this was all just one sick nightmare that’s got its hold on you and you just didn’t realize it yet.

but it wasn’t a nightmare. you were awake and living through something worse. you were living through hearing things you only thought were just midnight hauntings. voices of people you’d loved and lost.

the voice of a dead man.

the voice of your–

“buir.”

the saying goes seeing is believing. red armour bleeds into your vision. he stands tall, visor fixed on you and you alone.

you want to believe that you have been cursed since the day you took your first breath. as that would explain why everything had gone so wrong so fast before you were even old enough to understand what was going on. you want to believe that this curse has twisted something in you from the very core and taken away what you were supposed to be and left you with this thing that you are now.

what you don’t want to believe is what you are seeing in front of you. because the sight shatters everything you’ve known up until this very moment in time.

your father.

(Part 2/2)

translations:

buir – father, mother (parent, basically)

beskar’gam – armour

chakaaryc – rotten, low-life (generic adjective to describe an undesirable person of dubious ethics).

cyare – beloved.

cyra'ika – sweetheart, darling.

hut’uun – coward (worst possible insult)

n’eparavu takisit – i eat my insult / i apolgize for being rude

ori’buyce, kih’kovid – all helmet, no head.

(according to the Mando’a Dictionary)

this took way too fucking long and i've still got the second part to get to🤦🏻‍♀️

shout out to @lishdfish for spawning this fic💙

dividers by @cafekitsune

banner by @vase-of-lilies

offer a note in the picklejar

but how could he explain any of this? how could he give you the answers that he doesn’t have the words for? nothing he could’ve told you would’ve ever been enough. no amount of words could ever begin to explain that your grief was all in vain.

“Ghost.” your voice breaks as you try again when he didn’t answer.

Simon is not a man to waste his breath but even now, his words fail him. what can he even say to you at this moment? how can he explain that your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you? how can he begin to tell you that you’re not seeing ghosts?

his job was to keep you safe and bring you home. and he completed it.

and thinks he hates this part the most.

when he’s reached his destination and the quarry finally meets the end. usually, he doesn’t mind it. the bounties he goes after are typically the scum of the universe. smugglers, spice runners, warlords if he’s lucky.

and then there are some who don’t deserve to have their faces on bounty pucks. prisoners of war, children who need to escape their golden cages, people who just want to escape and find a bit of peace, people just running from trouble, people who’ve made enemies of the wrong kind.

people like you.

the unlucky, the damned, the foundling who needed her family.

and you had one. halfway across the galaxy, you had one waiting for you all these years. but it was kept away from you and he doesn’t know how to tell you that or why it even happened.

Simon looks away when the shame blooms like weeds in his chest and it feels like he betrayed you a thousand times over. trust that he wanted to tell you. to at least warn you about what’s to come.

but how could he break that perception you’d already built of your father without breaking your heart? how could he look you in the eye and tell you that your mother, the person who was supposed to love you the most in this universe, couldn’t have been bothered to tell you the truth?

“no.” you heave out a breath through your nose. “this has to be some kind of sick joke, right? you’re supposed to be dead. you’re…”

alive.

living. breathing. flesh and bone standing tall to haunt you while you’re still awake.

your father’s red and black armour isn’t as well maintained as it used to be. as you scan him over, you conclude that it has weathered through time, through battle after battle and war after war. its the same as it was, yet so much of it has changed. so much of him has changed.

it’s not any easy thing to believe, let alone accept. to have the very perception of your entire life shattered and reformed into something possibly much, much worse. a death that has loomed over your head now taking form in flesh and blood, that of your very own and that has shaped the very fibre of who you are now.

Simon should’ve told you from the moment you set foot on his ship. it certainly wasn’t fair on you to keep such a truth hidden for this long. it shouldn’t have been something he tried to put at the back of his mind. because now–

“is this where you’ve been all these years?!” your voice raises past the point of two octaves in less than a second. “gallivanting around the entire fucking galaxy, except the one place you were supposed to be!” you shove at your father’s chest with a force that forces him to take a step back. “you left me–”

“not on purpose.” your father countered. he doesn’t dare to stop you from pushing him again and again, only backing away from the force of your shoves. 

“no! you left me, you fucking deadbeat!” you push him again, all storm and rage pouring out of you like an overflowing dam. “you stupid fucking bitch of a deadbeat! you–”

Simon is hardly surprised as you burst into a range of insult after insult after insult, each more hurtful than the last. from bringing up the fact that you were abandoned by the one person you felt safe with, to being left with the person who should’ve protected you but instead went out of her way to be your first enemy.

the worst part was when he doesn’t try to fight back and defend himself from your accusations. he just silently takes your abuse in stride.

Simon can’t stand to see it happen. he steps in and pulls you by your arm, sharply calling your name. you whirl on him. eyes wild and tearful, spilling over with rage and grief that had spent years festering over a deep wound. shoulders raised, ready to hurl another fist at the first person in sight.

“take me back.” your demand doesn’t come as a surprise.

“to where?”

“Jakku. Tatooine. fucking Hoth. where you first found me. anywhere– anywhere but here.”

but this is where you’re meant to be. this is where you must be. there’s no going back to your old life after what you’ve just found out. as angry as you are, deep down, you must know this.

Simon shakes his head. “i can’t do that.”

“yes, you can.” you countered. “you’ve completed your task, didn’t you? you can get paid now, so take me back.”

“i can’t.” he insists and all it does is hurt you more.

the tears in your eyes are a mirror of his own failure. you look at him like he’s the bane of your existence. and he may very well be.

you back away into his ship and disappear into the depths of it. no one goes after you. no one dares to. Simon contemplates the idea of you going into the cockpit and taking off but he knows that with his own aircraft, it’ll be that much easier to track you and that much harder for you to escape his grasp like you did the first few times.

he settles on giving you room to breathe. once you’ve calmed down, things will get better…

or at least, he hopes so.

“you didn’t tell her.”

the words come from a father with a broken heart. Simon looks to him, agony tearing him up inside. this couldn’t have been the reunion he wanted, yet it’s the one he expected.

there were plenty of chances to. but Simon, coming to know who you are and how much you’ve suffered, he didn’t think it would’ve mattered when he told you. the result still would’ve been the same.

“didn’t know how to.”

that, and he didn’t want to risk enraging you and trying to run away from him because you thought he was lying to you.

you’d already got it in your head that your father was dead, that your family was practically non-existent. how could you have believed a complete stranger that the possibility of that was, for certain, not true? Simon wouldn’t have blamed you.

“i wouldn’t know how to either.”

your father takes a step forward, intending to follow you, but Simon stops him. “let me speak to her.”

it wouldn’t be a good idea to overwhelm you more than you already are. but Simon fears that leaving you alone will drive you further away than they fear.

and he finds that he does not want to grapple with the idea of losing you so soon after bringing you home.

Simon finds you in his ship. in a dark corner with your arms hugging your knees, your despondent eyes stare straight at the metal wall ahead. not a word is heard from you, even when he knows you can’t see him approaching. you make no sound, other than your breathing and no movement to even acknowledge his presence.

he fights the urge to go over and wrap his arms around you because he knows you must still be cold from the chill in the air of his ship. instead, he sits next to you and absorbs the silence that shrouds you.

it doesn’t bother him at all. he doesn’t expect you to talk to him at all right now. there’s not much he’d expect you to even say anyway. but it’s better than what he saw earlier.

his shoulder touches yours. thigh brushes your arm. his movement doesn’t break the veil yet. it doesn’t even seem to phase you. it should have. you should’ve cussed him out and screamed in his face. you should be trying to commandeer his ship and–

“my whole life is a lie.” you whispered more to yourself. it’s the first thing you’ve said since he heard you screaming a while ago. “my. entire. life.”

he listens patiently as you unfold in the dark. since he’s met you, he’s never heard your voice so quiet. it’s a crippling effect that renders him silent.

“she told me he wasn’t coming back for me.”

his heart breaks all over again. no child deserves to have that said to them.

despite that, Simon envies you. he wishes he had a father like yours. a man who would’ve moved heaven and earth to protect him and make sure he had clothes on his back and a belly. someone who would’ve left no stone unturned until his child was returned to him safe and sound.

and for you to be all alone, not knowing that you were loved. that you had a place in the universe. that couldn’t have been easy for you.

“your father’s been looking for you all these years.” Simon remarks. your head turns away. “she kept you away from him.” 

“why?” your gaze flashes hotly at him, your rising voice stained with agony. “why would she do that? what purpose does that serve?!”

he mulls over the answer. it’s already obvious why. your mother isn’t the kind of person who should’ve had children. there’s no reason or rhyme to why she does what she does. either there’s never anything that makes sense with a choice like this.

denying a child her father, denying a son a home to feel safe.

Simon knows all too well what it’s like to live with a parent like that.

and maybe if he’d done better, maybe if he had been more honest from the start, he would have spared you from going a day longer thinking that your father was the exact same way.

it breaks something in his chest to have been partly responsible for the way you are now.

“did she ever stop to think that she was hurting me? did she even…” your voice breaks off into a debilitating sob, cracking open an ocean, a lifetime of grief pouring out of you in waves.

he doesn’t know. there’s no answer he could’ve given you that would’ve soothed the decades long ache in your chest.

Ghost is all too familiar with the heat of your temper. he’d much rather not be on the receiving end of it, but seeing it break and give way for sorrow is a sight that will never settle right on his stomach.

he wishes he could give you all the answers you need but he can’t. with a mother like yours or a father like his, each a monster in their own right, who needs enemies?

“are you going to talk to him?” Simon watches your expression crumple up like paper.

the momentary pause, your breathing stops, melting with the silence. you shrivel up back into the corner, every bit of your fire gone. snuffed out like a candle in the dark.

it’s a gamble. he doesn’t expect a yes. but he’s counting on the fact that you wouldn’t want to shut the door on the very thing that you’ve wanted for your entire life now. still. he knows it’s more than likely that he’s playing a losing game.

“can i sleep in your ship tonight?” you quietly deflect. he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. you think he’s trying to find a way to say no to you but you don’t want to give him the chance to. “just for tonight. i promise i won’t run. i just– i can’t face… him. not now. not today. or tomorrow.”

not now. probably not tomorrow either. Simon wonders if you’ll find a way to try to let you wade in your own despair for the whole day. he owes you that at least for springing this on you. you’re overwhelmed enough as it is.

“alright.” Simon quietly conceded, his hand reaching for yours. your eyes drop to where he’s curling his gloved fingers around your palm. “i’m still going to lock the cockpit so you can’t access it.”

a tearful laugh burst out of your throat. although he is serious, his mouth slowly curls upward upon seeing your smile. it’s the first breakthrough. one of many that Simon hopes to achieve in the near future. all hope is not lost.

a long quiet moment passes and once again, Simon finds himself hoping he could stay like this with you forever. it’s too much to ask, maybe, but wishful thinking has never been harmless.

“could you–” your fingers grasp his arm, startling him. you look at him with big, wet eyes. “stay with me?”

stay? with you?

Simon knows it’s a request he should refuse. he’s already become far more attached to you than he ever should have in the first place. he should tell you that he’s got things to do, that he’s busy.

say no. tell her no–

you tug on the sleeve of his arm. anchoring yourself to him before he has the chance to run. “till i fall asleep?”

he couldn’t deny you if he tried. there was no way in hell he could leave you alone with a broken heart bleeding all over the floor of his ship from wounds that no one can see.

how does he tell you that he’d say for as long as you needed him to? he doesn’t. Instead, he tells you, “at least sleep in my quarters. the floor is bloody cold.”

he helps you get on your feet and holds your hand as you follow him to his bunk. your sullen demeanour is crushing to witness but he bears through it. when you take off your shoes and climb into his bunk, he follows.

it’s a tight fit, with his size and his armour and the space you take up in addition to that. but neither you nor him mind it. you lie side by side, pressed against each other with you taking his pillow while Simon tucks an arm under his head. you're a bit surprised that he keeps the light on but don't question it. the silence is comforting now, enveloping you both in this small bubble that leaves all of your troubles outside.

until you speak again.

“when i talk to him tomorrow…” you begin softly, your chest nearly empty, numb from everything. “what’s gonna happen after?”

you’re drained from feeling too many things at once. it’s as though an ocean has washed over you and scrubbed you raw.

his hand is lowered onto your shoulder. “what do you mean?”

“i mean what happens to me now?” your voice bleeds into the small space and falls quiet for a moment, letting it seep under his skin. “do i just get to leave? or do i… do i stay here?”

he’s seen your path. it’s lonely. dangerous. even more so that you have no one looking out for you. leaving this place means leaving the last remaining family you have left. and where would you go? what place could offer you a sanctuary like this one? where you are safe. cared for.

Simon doesn’t like the idea of you leaving, of being on your own again. he realizes, with a startling horror, does not want you trailing too far from where he stands. for he’ll always be looking over his shoulder, trying to make sure that you’re still within a distance where he can reach over with his fingers and touch you. he’ll always want to look out for you, to care for you when no one else will.

his thumb rubs your shoulder, pressing into warm flesh and bone. you feel yourself relaxing under his touch.

“that’s entirely up to you.” he quietly says.

but if you want, he’ll find a reason to make you stay. 

call it fate or divine intervention but your fate has always been to return to the covert one way or another. you were always going to come back to your family, to the place you could finally feel safe.

you belong here. with the covert. with your father, with your people. with him–

“if i stay, am i going to have to be a Mandalorian?”

Simon thinks he loses a few breaths at the thought. “do you want to be?”

dorning the armour is an enormous responsibility. you’ve dreamt about it a lot when you were younger. you wanted nothing more than to be like your father because he seemed so admirable and honorable in your eyes. he was once nothing short of a hero. a god, if anything. much more than your mother ever was.

but it makes no difference to Simon that you don’t wear the armour. it won’t change the fact that you are a warrior, through and through.

“i did at one point when i was just a kid.”

you think it had more to do with being able to defend yourself and having no one shoving you around without fear of retaliation than anything. to be able to walk amongst people and have them clear a path for you than walk all over you. to silence a room without listing a finger. to be revered, admired and still feared immensely.

it’s more of a child’s attempt at wishing for the protection they didn’t receive from the people who loved them.

“how about now?” Simon asks.

now?

there’s a pause on your end. he holds you closer, tighter. almost as if he were frightened that you might want to disappear.

“i don’t think it suits me.” you confess solemnly. “i’m too…” there are several words to describe you. none of them good. words you’ve heard throughout your entire lifetime but one stands out most in this case. “scummy.”

“scummy.” he deadpans. he can't see your expression with your head tucked under his chin but he feels the shame in your voice.

“i lack honour.” you add.

you are not a warrior. you’ve never been a warrior a day in your life and you probably never will be. your mother made sure of that when she denied you the right to see your father and lied to your face about it.

all you’ve known was to lie, to steal and barter your way from one crime lord to another. it’s all you’ve ever been taught and all you’ll ever be good for. not honour. you’re nothing like your father, or Mando.

and you’re quite certain the latter would agree. he’s seen you at your worst. endured the brunt of your calculated mischief and ire. he knows first hand what you are and it is definitely not Mandalorian material.

chakaaryc. you’re nothing but a lowlife.

“i lack discipline and skill–” and so many other things. all of them have made you feel inadequate. “i don’t think i can commit to being as dedicated to being a Mandalorian like my father or you.”

you’ve spent your entire life proving that you’re the furthest thing from an honorable warrior. no one could possibly think that you would be worthy enough to swear your life to the Creed.

yet–

“you have plenty of honour.” Ghost softly counters. “maybe even more than me.”

a laugh breaks out of your lungs and you turn your face away from him. “you’re a fucking liar, Ghost.”

it’s sad that you don’t believe him. that you don’t see what he does. you’ve always followed the path of a thief. the resident scoundrel. but it never took away from your kindness, however frugal you are with it.

none of this panned out the way you thought it would. Djarin’s foundling was safe in your hands. you apologized for calling your Mando a coward. then you being brought to a covert, to your father. much of your life before all of that isn’t anything to be proud of and especially nothing to brag about.

Ghost shuffles in the cot, his hand grasps your chin. then takes your hand in his and presses your open palm to his beating heart.

“my name is Simon.” the whispered offer, a covenant. like he’s swearing you into the Creed by his own quiet will.

like he’s opening the door to his own clan. beckoning you to enter and make a home for yourself there. his breath catches when your shock lands on his visor. you might as well have pierced through the very soul he’s offered on a silver platter.

and he never imagined it would even come to that when he promised to bring you back home. sure, it wasn’t just a job to him. you were part of the covert, despite being away from it for so long.

the mission became far more than just a vow to bring you back to your family. the more he spent time around you, the more you began to look like the rest of his future.

you always have been part of the covert and he hopes that you always will be. and for that, he’ll always cling to that tether that keeps you within arm’s reach.

and he’ll tighten that tether. his lips move before he can stop to think of the consequences–

“Simon Riley.”

he feels you immediately freeze.

maybe it was a mistake. maybe it hadn’t been the right call to give you his name to keep. and knowing that there might be a chance that you don’t want to stay, that you wouldn’t want him either is like swallowing ash till it chokes him.

he shouldn’t be holding pieces of himself out to you like offerings, like sacrifices to a deity he’s never known of but would die for. but it pours out of him all the same.

“i wasn’t always a Mandalorian. i was almost an adult when i was sworn into the Creed.”

he likes how your gaze holds on his visor and holds him still through his confessions. he likes being the center of your attention. like he’s never belonged anywhere else but here, even as he remembers some of the worst moments of his life.

“my father would’ve never spent years searching the entire universe for me or… or my brother. he was too busy looking for solace at the bottom of every bottle he could get his hands on or letting off steam by putting his hands on his family. there was no in-between.”

no in-between to find footing, no in-between to take care of his family. some people should never have been given the opportunity to become parents. his father, your mother. all one and the same, all cut from the same cloth.

you take a moment to consider his words. a heavy sigh leaves you. he feels it under his fingers.

“i get why you feel like you’ve never had anyone looking out for you.” he starts, “if you wanna leave, no one would stop you.”

Simon isn’t sure if that might be true. no one would stop you, sure. but he’s certain that he would get on his knees and beg for you not to slip from his fingers.

“but just know that you’ll always have a home here.”

a quiet moment passes for the decree to settle. he’s not sure if you believe it as much as he does. he won’t have a problem reminding you of that fact as many times as he has to until you do.

you nestle closer to him, pressing your body into his.

then–

“Simon…”

his breath hitches and he shudders at the sudden curl of his name on your tongue. he couldn’t have anticipated the sweetness of it, given your fiery disposition. it’s not

and he thinks he might die as a slow grin stretches across your lips. “now that’s a name that suits you.”

“better than poltergeist, huh?” he jibes softly, earning a faint laugh out of you. it ripples in the enclosed space and cuts right through him.

not long after that, your hand cradles his helm and he catches your hesitation in the air before you even utter it.

“can you…”

he waits as your voice trails off and you veer your face away from him entirely, choosing to focus on the ceiling of the cot instead.

“what?” he prompts, reaching for your hand as you pull away.

“forget it. it’s stupid.”

devotion comes so easily for him. he’s given his life to the Creed, to his brothers. Price, Gaz and Soap. even after suffering at the hands of his own flesh and blood.

Simon could see himself giving it to you too, if only you could stay. and you could (should, really). be part of your clan again. or be part of his.

he grips your chin and forces you to face him. “tell me.”

“the Creed won’t allow it.” you say, solemnly. eyes drifted to his chest.

Simon cups your cheek, insistent. “tell me.”

you don’t immediately speak your mind yet. the silence stretches on and it’s killing him as your hand trails along his armour, slow and gentle in its travel. until he feels the weight of your fingers where his cheek would be.

“i want to kiss you right here.”

his blood simmers hotly under his skin.

you press against the side of his helm. and slowly, carefully, move down to the front. to where his mouth should be. “and maybe even here too but i know you can’t show your face.”

all sense of control slips from his mind because he instantly blurts out, “i don’t have to.”

that catches you off guard because you’re giggling lightly and the sound fills his lungs and makes him feel like he might just float. why did he say that. why the fuck would he say that.

“Simon.” you cooed. “you never told me you liked breaking the rules.”

he huffs, “just shut up and close your eyes, you muppet.”

more laughter rings through his cot, through his bones. he can't find it in him to care about the Creed for that moment when he feels the vibrations. when your joy seeps through the Beskar and into his skin. when you close your eyes just moments before he turns off the light and he finally lifts his helm.

he can’t find it in him to care when his trembling hand pulls you by the back of your neck and your lips are pressed against his.

from there, it’s a balancing act.

trying not to mold you to his skin like you’re the piece of a puzzle that would’ve never been completed if he hadn’t found you. walking the line between pulling back and kissing you more. walking the line between pulling back and licking into your mouth.

only, he slips and fails dismally. only because you have the same idea and do it for him. your tongue slides between his lips then teeth where it meets his in a heady exchange. he groans into your mouth when you bite his lip, barely pulling back to utter a strained “fucking tease” and it earns him a giddy laugh that he eagerly swallows.

you don’t seem to mind when he slots a knee between your legs and slips a hand under your shirt, where it rests at your back. only settling there, never venturing forward, even as he might want him to.

(or as much as you would want him to).

if you’ve noticed the scar cutting up from the corner of his mouth to the side of his cheek, you don’t say a thing about it. and it doesn’t seem to deter you either.

you let him kiss you for as long as he wants and you return each kiss with your own. fingers tangle in his hair and pull him into your mouth when he attempts to pull away, to breathe. you follow his lips just as desperately, seeking him out in the darkness as if he’s as much your guiding light as you are to him.

“don’t go.” he pleads, trailing his lips down your neck. “i don’t want you to leave.”

there was no end to wanting you, to begging for everything you are. your moan cuts the air as he sucks a mark on your pulse. he wants to spend every waking moment with you from now on.

“Mandalorian or not. i don’t want you to leave.”

it’s not left up to question. he wants you here.

(he wants you.)

you don’t need much more convincing than that. if he wants you to stay for now then you’ll stay.

“okay.” you breathe, mewling into another kiss. “okay. i’ll stay–”

he seals your promise with a hundred more kisses.

you delay your departure for a little longer than you had originally intended. four more days cooped up in Simon’s ship and occasionally going outside to feel the sun on your skin. you avoided everyone else but him. though that was only because he was the only one who volunteered to bring you food and stay with you until you slept.

Simon was the only one you could tolerate at the moment. the only one you allowed to step through the barrier you put between yourself and the rest of the universe. the only one who sees through the facade you’ve put up and perfected for so long and reached in to touch the most tender wound you’ve desperately been trying to hide.

you almost want him to be there, to sit next to you while you have this difficult conversation. but you understand that there are some places he can’t follow, that there are some paths you must walk alone.

and that in of itself made you want to find the smallest space inside the ship, crawl into it and next come out. you can’t bear the thought of being alone again. it’s suddenly all too terrifying when you now have someone who’s willing to walk alongside you.

“cyra’ika…” he drawls softly, folding his arms over his chest. “you can’t lock yourself in my ship for the rest of your life, you know.”

“are you going to stop me?” your sharp counter does not impact him in the slightest. your long sigh follows. “fine.”

you purposefully used up all the hot water left in his shower and begrudgingly got dressed. truthfully, you just wanted to sleep for another day. you wanted to stay in his arms and kiss him for as long as he would allow it.

and frankly, it’s a lot more than you should be allowed. a lot more than you deserve.

buir.

he’s older than you remember.

still as big and tall, just… older. it doesn’t look like he’s bothered to add another layer of his standard red paint over his Beskar. it has chipped in some places and faded in others. knowing what you know now, you figure that it wasn’t worth it. renewing his armour, keeping up to standard, when he has other things to worry about.

when he has a child that he needs to look for.

there’s more grey hairs, more wrinkles around the eyes. acknowledging that alone breaks something in you. no child wants to watch their parents age. no child wants to see their father, as invincible and indestructible as they are, to wither and falter in their step, in their words, in even how they appear.

yet every parent– any good parent wants, more than anything, to watch their foundlings grow. how tragic that you still got the inevitable short end of the stick and he was still robbed of his right.

as difficult as it is, you keep your chin held high and take slow breaths as you look him in the eye. 

“Ghost tells me you gave him a lot of trouble when he first found you.” he begins slowly.

your jaw locks tightly. vivid memories of Simon’s touch flash hotly all over your skin.

don’t go. his voice whispers back to you. don’t go.

i don’t want you to leave.

the plea tethers you to him now. to this covert. the searing kisses delivered under the cover of darkness. the warmth of his lips as you felt the hooks sink into flesh and hold you down when you attempt to take flight.

you can’t turn back now. not with this feeling curling hotly in the pit of your stomach. not with Simon Riley's quiet plea nestled tightly in your chest. if you try to go, it’ll always pull you back, it’ll always anchor you to him and keep you tethered no matter how much you try to run.

“of course i did.” you said. “he didn’t specify whether he or his employer was a friend or a foe.” 

or family.

how convenient that he left that specific detail out.

a very important detail, in fact. but… looking back on it now, you wonder, if the roles were reversed, how you would’ve handled it. it wasn’t just that silence was easier for Simon but what could he have said to even begin explaining everything? where would he start? what words could he have strung together to make you believe him?

your father looks at you for a good long moment. a wry expression blooming across his weathered features. seeing him without a helm was never an odd sight. it’s what you were used to.

but after thinking that he was dead for so long, that you’ll never get to see his face again, you kind of want to ask him to put on his helmet.

“you’ve got your mother’s–”

“don’t.” you softly cut him off, closing your eyes. “don’t even mention her right now.”

you can’t stand to hear anything about her. you don’t even want to be compared to her in any regard. you don’t want to even acknowledge that you’re like her in any way, shape or form. not right now. it’s not… she’s not…

she’s not worth mentioning at the moment. she’s not allowed to taint this.

she does not deserve her moment in your sun. not when she did everything in her power to take it away from you.

thinking of her rots something in your chest. is it bad that you’ve been happier in her absence? does it make you a bad daughter for wanting her absence?

does your mother abhor you for it?

(you pray that she does).

or will you carry enough hatred for the both of you to last an entire lifetime?

(you know you will).

your father waits for you to speak. he doesn’t interject through the silence with his own words. only waiting patiently for you to speak. to yell at him like you did the day before.

bleed guilts into your veins when you recall that now. how foolish you’ve been. selfish. blinded by your mother’s hatred.

“i thought–” the words catch in your throat. “i thought the worst of you all these years.”

he doesn't miss a beat when he replies, “i know. and i don’t blame you for that.”

you almost want him to. it would, in an odd sense, soothe you to feel some sort of resentment from him. suppose it’s because you prefer to welcome things that are most familiar to you. and you’re most familiar with that sort of bitterness when your name is spoken.

you look down. smoke wisps from the cup of tea in front of you. frankly, you’re not keen on drinking it. 

“do you…” your heart lodges in your throat, your voice growing shaky, “do you want me to take the Creed?”

“only if you do.” is all he says.

without hesitation at that either. he has thought about this. he's had time. he's had hope that someday you'll be here to ask and he's had time to think of an answer.

“i’m asking because–”

“i know.” he gently cuts in with a nod. “but…”

but?

why does your chest suddenly tighten? does he (know) think that you’re not worthy too?

a long sigh leaves him as he rubs his neck. “maybe if you were still… smaller. maybe if you could still fit in my arms, i would’ve had a chance to make sure that you recited the words and put on your own armour. as is your birthright. i would’ve raised you how i wanted if your mother hadn’t interfered.”

the confession is as heavy as the grief you've both carried all these years. the confession is grief itself.

then he adds, “but you’re not a little girl anymore. therefore i have no right to dictate what path i think would best suit you.”

oh…

“if you don’t want to take the Creed, i won’t force you to and no one else will. i’m just glad… that you’re here.”

tears burn the corners of your eyes. the tension in your shoulders deflates as you exhale heavily. “would i still be welcome here regardless?”

“of course.” the lack of hesitation in his answer breaks the storm in your heart. “you will always have family here.”

it shouldn't surprise you to hear this sentiment again.

but just know that you’ll always have a home here.

SImon hadn’t been lying all along.

you’re just not used to this. being loved as unconditionally as your father loves you. being showered with affection by Simon, a man who should’ve left you for dead a long time ago.

but it seeps in and settles into your heart. nestling there as if it belongs. a missing piece of a puzzle you’ve been trying to solve for years.

the covert is your home now. a soft place to fall for you. finally.

you think you’ll stay a little while longer.

your father takes his time introducing you to your people after that. they’re far more accommodating than you’re accustomed to from anyone. a little rough around the edges, but welcoming. and that’s saying something about perhaps the most secretive group of people in the entire galaxy.

you slept better in the last couple of days than you did in the last ten years. mostly in the presence of Simon. he’s been a comforting anchor in the moments when you were hit with imposter syndrome again. grounding you when you thought you might take off again because all of this seemed too good to be true. talking back some sense to you when you were losing your damned mind.

your father made even more efforts to spend time with you and get to know you.

“what do you suggest?”

“hunting.” he states, holding out a blaster for you. “just the two of us.”

it looks new. recently forged and crafted to fit right in your hand. it makes you wonder if he’d planned this once he found you again. makes you wonder if this is what he’s been thinking about all these years. father-daughter hunting trips. placing bets whenever the other Mandalorians would spar. making up for lost time.

there’s an ease in how he speaks to you. a quiet excitement in seeing you again day after day. you’re trying to adjust to it, waiting for the sharp words to come, waiting for the disappointment, for the hatred, yet it never comes. it’s like you can do no wrong in his eyes.

“you know what? sure.” you give a half shrug, though the gun weighs heavy on your soul. “as long as i don’t get to be the one being hunted this time.”

gods know you’ve been on that end for far too long anyway.

you don’t mind being on the other end as you make up for lost time with your father.

Simon’s softer without his armour.

you like how his muscles melt under your touch, how easily he caves under you when your hands stray all over his chest. it’s always dark when you cuddle. you understand that you’re not at a point where you’re allowed to see his face and you don’t mind waiting for that day.

for now, you lay your head against the beat of his heart and close your eyes. it’s pure bliss until he asks;

“do you think you’ll speak to her again?”

your mother?

hard to say. if you see her again in the next lifetime, you think you might hurl something at her head. you think you’ll scream and cry and it would be in vain because she would tell you every inexcusable reason for what she did so…

you don’t think you’ll ever forgive the woman who has robbed you of everything you deserved.

“no.” you whisper. “i don’t think i will.”

Simon cradles your head under his chin and moves you closer until you feel his breaths on your cheek.

“good.” is all you hear before his lips meet yours.

you don’t know how you could’ve possibly achieved the best outcome that most would never be lucky enough to see in their lifetime. turning a foe into a lover of Simon, of your Mandalorian. to then being reunited with a family you’ve lost a long time ago.

in retrospect, you’ve gained all three.

a little more than a friend in Simon. a lot more than a foe in your mother. but the family?

it’s just right.

i can finally put this fic to rest😭

shout out to @lishdfish for spawning this fic💙 (and i am so sorry it took this long to write)

dividers by @cafekitsune

banner by @vase-of-lilies

offer a note in the picklejar

“Swear to the stars, they get more uncomfortable each time I sit.” He mutters, lips pressing thin when his gaze flits back to you and realizes what you’re doing. Admittedly, it’s a superfluous use of the force to float your mug up to your mouth, but you’ve got your hands full of exhausted youngling and tea only stays good when it’s hot. Maybe you should stop. You don’t.

“Have you had the ship for long?”

It’s a polite question - you know he’s had it for years, the pervading home-sense is indication enough of that, but you’re eager to divert his attention away from disapproval and discomfort. You’re here. You’re a Jedi. You’re going to use the force, whether he personally approves of it or not.

“Almost ten years,” He grumbles, chewing on his cigarra, setting warm eyes beyond you. “Been flying her longer than I’ve been in the current mand'alor's service.”

Your brows quirk, hum softly.

“Rare for a mandalorian to be running missions for the republic.” You say, a question but not. Give him space to decide whether he wants to answer or not. The force in the ship is strange - thick with tension, edged with copper and spice and life that feels so alien compared to the serene blanket of the temple. It feels too rich, too vibrant, almost spicy.

You drink your tea. Let the flavors soak your tongue sharp and acrid, pull you out before you sink back into the meditative state.

"Rare for the child of a senator to end up on the battlefield of a civil war," He counters, brow quirking in what feels like another accusation. "Millions of parsecs from coruscant. That not curious to you, jed’ika?"

Of course it’s curious to you. There are countless bad actors that could be attributed to the kidnapping of a force sensitive baby, countless bad actors that could be attributed to the child of a senator, but together? It’s implausible. Strange. Something out of a shab holonovel, not reality.

You don’t voice that.

“You don’t think it’s your…” You trail off, pinch your brows. Search for the word that he’s said before and fail to grasp it, the shapes of mando’a not quite familiar enough to hold.

“Kyr’tsad. Death Watch. No. S'not Kyr'tsad. Would've killed her."

Your eyes go wide at how casually he says it, at the ease of it, and instinctively, you grasp the child closer, brows pinching. You've seen your fair share of suffering - as a watchman, you go where the force feels you're needed, and you're often needed where people are suffering, but..

But the way he says it is too settled. Like he's seen worse. Like he doesn't have any faith in the enemy, like he's seen things firsthand. He probably has. You fight the urge to soothe the stress away in the force, instead wrapping yourself and the child up in a blanket of calm, weave it nice and warm and watertight against the sluice of dread that fills the air.

"Could be one've your dar'jetii," Quips a voice as the handsome one - Gaz, his name is Gaz - approaches, dropping heavily into the space beside Price, loosely clutching a cup of caf in his hand. Once again, his bucket is off, and his face is schooled into neutrality, "No reason to think it's one of ours."

"It's not."

"How d'you know?" Gaz leans forwards, eyebrow quirked, takes a sip of his caf and narrows his eyes.

"Because it's impossible."

"Nothing's impossible, love." Price this time, his gaze still glued to the baby. The anxiety that twists your stomach at his implication is displeasing, and you begin to thumb at the baby's swaddle, realizing there's embroidery across it.

"This is," You say, voice flat, unamused, thumb running over the letters, the aurebesh crisp and fresh, trying to figure it out from touch alone. Mikha, maybe - mern-isk-kreath-aurek - though that doesn't feel right. "We would know if it was the sith. We'd feel it. It's not possible."

Mikha doesn't feel accurate. Micha (mern-isk-cherek-aurek) or Mika (mern-isk-krill-aurek) or something like it. The third letter is strange, the cursive aurebesh almost too vague for you to gauge on touch alone. You ignore the anxiety that tightens your core at the idea of the sith.

You'd know. You'd know.

"You'd feel it?"

You try not to bristle at the incredulity, tell yourself it's not meant to offend, that mandalorians are intense and passionate and unschooled, that they're not held to the same culture of passivity and serenity that you are, but it's difficult when the captain looks at you with pity and condescension. Like you're some child, hopeful and pitiful and naive.

Like you're a fool.

You are definitively not a fool. There's nothing naive about the knowledge that you'd know if the sith were still around - they're all but extinct now, a child's tale to keep crechelings from misbehaving. Kark it, you're a jedi, for force's sake. Clever and encompassing and wise beyond your years.

And yet, the men before you look at you with that same doubt, and you're the first to break the staring contest, glancing down.

Mira. Mern-isk-resk-aurek. A sweet name for a sweet baby.