#the lovely moons
The Lovely Moons Chapter 34 Sneak Peek
“It was a set-up.”
“I know.”
His breathy chuckle is mirthless, and he taps the top of his head against the door. His gloved hand wraps around your own on the bar, and he expels a harsh sigh. “We don’t have much time.”
You twist your staff, attaching it back to the sheath on your belt and ask, “What do I need to do?”
“I-”
The grating thumping of the patrolling droid grows louder, and you realize he must have been following your clumsy pace. You and Din turn toward the end of the hall where the steps come from, and Din looks back at you, tossing his head to the side. “Go to the end of the hall.”
“Wh-” You pause, glancing between him and the dead end, feeling a horrible sense of dread filling your chest, but you take a deep breath, letting go of the bar and stepping backward. Remember the stables, the feeling of his helmet between your hands before he dropped the flash grenade.
You do as he says, your jacket flapping at the back of your heels as you hurry towards the corridor’s end. The droid rounds the corner at the other end of the hallway, and you turn to face it with your hands up in a show of surrender. It doesn’t stop once in it’s lumbering gait. In fact, it increases its pace, slowly raising its blaster to the same height as your hairline.
In the same instant, before it can arrest its aim, a sharp screech lashes out, and the droid suddenly twists, trips, and begins scuttering backward, scrabbling like a bug caught in a trap against the prison cell door. You watch in wide eyed amazement as it flails, so human like without an ounce of organic matter, and suddenly there is a horrible crack, fizzing and popping accompanying the sound of a blaster shot. You flinch, your hands jumping to cover your ears and ducking at the same time.
And then it’s over as quickly as it’d began. You peek around the edge of your hand, the cell door smeared with inky black oil, sparks popping and hissing from the destroyed droid’s carcass. Din isn’t near the bars, but you notice a mechanical appendage that was caught between the slots of the bars knocked aside, falling amidst the heap of scrap.
After a brief moment of quiet, you hear the whirl and twirl of mechanical gears and the door slides up and open, leaving your husband standing on the other side. He steps quickly over the droid’s ruins, and you hurry to his side, meeting him in the middle in a firm, quick embrace. His glove cups the back of your head, drawing you back so your milky white eyes are at the same level as the glass of his visor.
“You’re unharmed?”
You nod, not trusting your voice not to shake, and he nods, too, grasping your hand firmly in his and running with you back down the corridor. You don’t need your staff now.
Pairing: The Mandalorian x Blind!(Fem)Reader
Summary: Din and the mercenaries board the prison ship, but you discover there is more going on than first expected.
Words: 4.2k
Rating/Warnings: Mild violence
Notes: First and foremost, I sincerely apologize for my prolonged hiatus. Thank you so much to all the readers who haven’t given up on me or my story. I am committed to finishing it, and I am happy to know people are still invested. :) Thank you again!!
A note about Dadita: I have definitely taken liberties with this, and I will continue to do so! Traditional morse code is not something that can be tapped out really, and certainly not so much in full sentences. Most messages are in shortened combinations of letters that mean various things. “I have nothing for you” is a traditional morse code message that I’ve used for this particular chapter, but I hold that Dadita can be used to speak more than just simple messages because that suits my purposes! ;)
One finaly note: I had a lot of broken tags in my tag list that I cleared out. If you weren’t tagged, or you’d like to be, please message me and I’d be happy to add you!
Rarely do you think Din doesn’t have good ideas. But this one is making you question things.
Not that you can question too much of it - you endorsed this idea, after all.
You know he didn’t lie to purposefully silence you. In fact, you are well aware that he was hoping that if the mercenaries thought you were mute, they’d be less inclined to speak to you. Less inclined to mess with you, distress you. Challenge you. Unfortunately for both you and Din, this did not have the intended effect and only added to you being unable to voice your displeasure with the miscreants currently invading your space aboard the Razor Crest.
Ran’s holoprints revealing a prison ship rather than an enemy syndicate’s craft certainly seemed subversive, but it was the tone of Din’s voice, slashed with a darker anger that you hadn’t heard before that made your stomach cramp with worry. First, gaining the Razor Crest as their flightcraft, and now this oily exchange of muted threats over rescuing an associate who was actually a captured criminal of the New Republic? It wore away your trust in Din’s idealization of this being the best way to earn money quickly.
And you can’t even speak to him about it.
You draw your legs up beneath you, crossing your ankles and sheathing your staff so it hangs from the belt at your hip. You had kept it close to you ever since the party boarded the Crest, but now in the cramped space, you worry it will be more of a hindrance than an aid. The hulking Devronian, Burg, paces in bold circles in the tiny space of the ladder leading up to the cockpit, restless and bored. The stomping of his boots vibrates at the bottom of your feet, and you swallow hard, attempting to keep him in your meager periphery. It is difficult when the gleam of Xi’an’s blade, flipping and pirouetting like a dancer between her fingers, continues to pierce your foggy sight. Strobes and flickers of light remind you of canon flashes that make you flinch. Small things that take you completely off your guard.
You had assured Din that you would be fine sitting in the hull with the mercenaries while he oversaw the droid’s piloting into hyperspace, but now that constitution crumbles at the edges of your mind. They make you too nervous - or is it having people, strangers, in your home, that makes you nervous? The engines hum silently beneath where you sit, yet this grasping sense of unease leaves you unable to relax. It almost helps to keep you focused on the small door to the medical bay where your little child resides in secret. No one had approached it, leaving it ignored for the time being, and you hope for it to stay that way.
“Will you sit down! ” Xi’an suddenly snaps, her voice like a whip that startles you enough to hurt your ears.
Burg answers with a smoke burnished growl, slamming the back of his fist against the wall, only for Xi’an to hiss in response. Mayfield is the only one in the hull who seems at ease, his face turning between the two as if watching a game of sabacc, something boring and repetitive for him, a man of action. His face angles toward you, catching you off guard.
“This all you do every day? Just sit here and twiddle your thumbs?” he asks, and you frown in response, wondering what on earth he would expect you to say.
The surprising truth behind a disability was that it is not a source of mockery. People don’t pay enough attention to mock someone’s physical disadvantages because people don’t pay attention . The world was not built for the abnormal, the disabled, the so-called other. You had come to expect it, people being surprised or confused - or sometimes abashed - when they have overlooked their natural born advantages in light of someone who is different.
But maybe…
You withdraw the staff from your belt, balancing it between both your hands and finding the heavy weight comforting as you rest it on your leg. Using the tips of your carefully groomed nails, you begin tapping on the staff, and you wait. You can’t make out Mayfield’s expression, but you can see he is looking your way. You repeat the gesture, tapping again.
“Wait - do that again.” He half laughs it.
“What?” Xi’an mutters, using her knife to pick at the leather of her boot.
“Do it again,” Mayfield repeats, standing up. His boots are careful as he steps over to you, squatting down in front of you. You peer up at him through your pale eyes, hesitating before tapping again. When you spell out the meager three letter code in Dadita , Mayfield laughs full and loud, pointing down at your hands. “It’s an old code - a way to communicate with soldiers. I used to know it, some T'doshok taught it to us years ago on a mission. Couldn’t say anything, so we’d tap with rocks.”
“What’s she saying, then?” Burg breathes, his deep voice rumbling through the metal flooring beneath you.
“‘I have nothing for you.’”
Din’s voice clearly surprises the mercenaries, because you see Mayfield and Xi’an jump, but since he stands behind Burg, the Devronian reacts physically, swinging his arm backward as he spins around. Din ducks, and Mayfield bounds up to catch Burg from careening into the airlock door. With his weight and girth, he’d run the risk of putting a hole through it.
“Easy, big fella,” Mayfield chuckles, helping Burg find his balance again but keeping his gaze trained on the deft Mandalorian who straightens and side steps them with a practiced ease. He approaches you, coming to stand in front of where you’re seated against the wall, and you take his offered hand as he helps you to your feet with gentle, careful hands. You don’t weigh like a leaf, but he hardly shifts his weight to put you on your feet, regardless.
Shoulders sinking in relief, your eyes flick toward the corner, the medical bay still firmly sealed shut and remaining indifferent to the tumult beyond, but Burg cuts into your line of view again. This time, though, he comes to a firm stop in front of the weapon’s locker, and though you can’t make out him opening it, you know it to be the case by the yolk yellow light that spills out, illuminating the oiled weapons inside. The beskar helm turns toward it, throwing a gleam of light over the hull walls.
There is a prickly indignance that burns a fever in your breast over a stranger putting his hands all over your home. Just as Din turns away from you, you move behind him, using your staff with dexterity to punch the vault doors’ release on the wall, sealing the weapon’s locker securely shut.
Burg doesn’t realize the sudden closing of the mechanism doors is on purpose, and he slams his palm against the door as if brute strength will bend it. It’s too dim for your poor eyesight to make Din out beyond his dark shape, but he seems to follow your gaze when it flickers back to Burg, who now trains his attention for the medical bay release switch.
The familiar orange leather fingers of the Mandalorian’s glove seem too soft and pliable to be able to grab Burg’s meaty hand. You can almost see his muscles tensing beneath his armor, unspoken strength forbidding the Devronian from getting too close to something too precious. Your breath seizes, Burg’s own yellowed teeth flashing upon the unflinching beskar helm, but it is once again Mayfield who breaks the uneasy strain.
“ Hey, hey, hey. Okay. Okay. Okay, I get it. I’m a little particular about my personal space, too,” he says, folding his knee upon the bench beside him. You press your back flat against the wall near the hatch, breathing deeply and keeping your gaze trained on the Devronian leering down upon the unflinching Mandalorian. “So let’s just do this job. We get in, we get out, and you don’t have to see our faces anymore.”
The Mandalorian releases the larger alien, who rips his arm away. “Someone tell me why we even need a Mandalorian,” Burg growls, the inflection upon the warrior’s title nothing short of disrespectful. That prickliness returns, this time manifesting within the back of your mouth.
“Well apparently they’re the best warriors in the galaxy,” Mayfield says lightly, drawing a gun across his lap and using the tail of his shirt to polish the barrel.
“Then why are they all dead.”
It happens quickly when you curl your lip in anger and try to move your staff, just a small swing that would knock the hulking brute off his balance, but Din’s boot slides imperceptibly, stopping it just an inch in its path when he shifts his weight to stand beside you. This fury is a choking, red and black singe. It tastes like burned toast, like an unfair fight, a sentence that will never be finished, and you don’t realize you’re glaring at the Mandalorian’s audacity until the mercenaries stop laughing. He is not looking at you, you don’t think, but at the corner, the empty space between the weapon’s locker and the medical bay.
“Well, I don’t know. Xi’an, you flew with him. He as good as they say?” Mayfield asks lightly, drawing your attention toward the Twi’lek.
Her mouth is dark, like old blood that draws you in with morbid fascination. Her teeth are white against the lavender of her skin when she smiles, the flare of her shined knife making you see white spots in your line of vision. “Ask him about the job on Alzoc III,” she answers, rolling the words like marbles in her mouth.
The Mandalorian swells, bowing up beside you beneath his armor, and that quiet anger still lives beneath his helmet. It sounds the way woodsmoke smells, something you can’t explain with words, too potent and heavy on your tongue. Yet there is something sad beneath the words, a resignation you can’t pinpoint when he half whispers, “I did what I had to do.”
You realize, standing between your husband and his one-time lover, that you are being made to see something you have not been invited to, and you feel like you are floating between the pages of a book submerged in water. The letters are a blur, but you know somehow what it says, in the end.
“Ah,” Xi’an’s voice is less a hiss now, more a croon of satisfaction as she points her knife toward the warrior at your side. “But you liked it.”
“Most times, I know I would miss it. The hunt, the chase,” he murmured through the vocoder, and you felt his other hand cup the crown of your head like something precious. “The reward.”
“See,” Xi’an goes on, vibrating with self-satisfaction that drips from her voice like wine tossed from a glass. “I know who you really are.”
It isn’t the insinuation she presents, heavy with a poisonous implication, but rather the horrid silence that fills Din Djarin up beside you, a voice stolen leaving only his armor upon a hanged shadow. If you close your eyes, you think you may hear the ignite of an explosion between metal walls. This is somehow worse than the traffickers in Canto Bight, somehow more demeaning and belittling as much to him as it is to you because, you realize as you feel Din tip the lip of his helmet downward towards his chest, he feels something these killers will never understand.
He feels shame.
This is why he was against you coming to begin with.
Their laughter is lost in the quiet epiphany, and you reach out a tentative hand and touch his arm, the soft fabric between his pauldron and vambrace, so he can feel the heat of your skin through the cloth. He doesn’t say a word, nor does he look at you, but you’re aware of how he shifts his weight imperceptibly in your direction, like a whispered thank you and I’m sorry .
“So you never take off the helmet?” Mayfield holsters the weapon he was previously polishing.
The hair on the back of your neck stands up, and there is a distinct, sharp pain beneath your breast remembering when he was commanded to remove it. How he almost did remove it-for you.
Xi’an chuckles with her teeth on display, squirming in her seat and unable to sit still. She gestures with her knife, the gleam of it flickering across your face. “This is the way,” she mocks, causing Burg to laugh.
Mayfield is like some kind of carnivorous animal who’s caught the scent of blood, and he turns to Xi’an with his own feral energy brimming, tensing his shoulders with excitement. “You ever seen his face?”
“A lady never tells,” Xi’an whispers greedily.
“Aw, come on, Mando. We all gotta trust each other here. You gotta show us something,” Mayfield practically croons, his voice oily with mockery and taunting. You don’t miss the subtle nod of his head, or the way that Burg shifts toward Din. “Come on, just lift the helmet up. Come on. Let’s all see your eyes.”
Burg starts to say something in his deep, guttural tone, but Din’s hand shoots out, and it’s as if he’d been frozen in time until that moment. He yanks Burg’s arm around, dragging his meaty fist behind his back, and the ensuing struggle has them thrashing in the small confines of the ship. You rush to back up, holding out your staff as a buffer but it happens so quickly you slip, falling backwards and grappling for balance. Your palm streaks over the release buttons of the safe room, and at the same time the door flies open, your head cracks on the metal floor.
The child gurgles, leaning over the side to look down at you, and his large, inky eyes shine in the dim light, his ears fluttering downward with concern. Din moves fast, shoving the Devronian aside like he’s an errant curtain in the wind, kneeling down to help you sit up. His gloved hand cups the back of your head, and the other holds your arm to steady you. Your vision fades in and out of shadowy colors, and for a jarring moment, suspended in the sharp pain and confusion of being knocked down, you feel like you might be sick.
“Whoa!” Mayfield gasps, and you can feel his boots reverberate on the metal flooring as he moves closer, though you can’t hear his steps. “What is that? You two get lonely up here, or something?”
Din helps you turn onto your side so you can sit up, and you’re a little too disoriented to realize Mayfield is stepping around you. Using the grip on Din’s vambraces, you heave yourself up, stumbling once in your hurry to turn toward your little child who coos and wags his ears up and down when Mayfield sticks his tongue out at him. Without thinking, you thrust your arms out, staff forgotten on the floor and demand, “Give him to me.”
The silence inside the hull of the Razor Crest is deafening until suddenly all of the mercenaries burst out laughing in such raucous noises that the little green baby startles in Mayfield’s arms, his bottom lip wobbling at Burg’s horrible barking laugh. Mayfield’s grin is particularly sparkling white when he smiles with teeth, pointing a finger toward you from the hand that supports the child he holds. “I knew you two were faking. Terrible liars, both of you.”
“Bet she’s not even blind,” Burg growls, but you don’t take your eyes from the man holding your son.
“Give him to me, now.”
Every nerve in your body sizzles, like the flinching pain of skin boiling and burning near fire, and you clench and loosen your fists at your sides. For a moment, you think Mayfield won’t hand the baby over, but soon he holds his hand out, palm up, and takes a step closer to you, offering you the little boy. As he does, he suddenly lurches like he will drop him, and you dive before you can stop yourself, but the sharpshooter keeps an easy hold on the little one.
“For a blind girl, you see well,” he remarks, allowing you to lift the baby quickly from his hands and bring him against you firmly. You can feel the lift and flutter of the child’s ears against your chest as you hug him close, glaring in Mayfield’s direction.
“I’ve seen enough of you lot.”
The sound of a metallic fling makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up on end, and you instinctively flinch. A shadow moves, faster than you, and as you peek your eyes open from flinching away, Din is half standing in front of you, his arm brandished upward in defense, and the pointed steel star that made a line towards you spins on the ground at his boots. Looking down at the reflection of light on the small, deadly weapon on the floor, it’s hard to think it could have ended your life just a moment before, and you feel displaced from the present. The only thing you are aware of is Din’s voice, dark and angry, reverberating from beneath his helmet.
“Try that again, and I will kill you. All of you.”
The Razor Crest suddenly gives a shuddering lurch just as the metallic voice of Zero crackles over the intercom, informing all that you’re dropping out of hyperspace. Everyone slams to the side, and you’re helpless against the barreling force that knocks you over. You’re able to turn in time to land on your side, a stinging pain shooting through your shoulder and hip, which bears the brunt. Like a dark avalanche of shadow, Din falls on top of you, his gloved hands bracing hard against the metal flooring to keep from slamming into you. Beneath both of you, the child squeaks in surprise, whimpering into your chest.
“That stupid droid didn’t even give us a proper count down!” Xi’an growls, throwing the back of her fist against the metal wall.
You feel warm leather beneath your elbows once again, and you are pulled up to your feet like a doll, clutching your small child to your chest as he whimpers and grips your tunic with two tiny fists. Din keeps one hand at the small of your back and half ushers, half runs you to the corner of the brig, opening the medical bay hatch and helping you inside. You don’t know if you’re relieved or upset to be tucked into the small space, your legs already cramping as you fold them beneath you, but as the mercenaries stumble and orient themselves, Din braces his own weight in the door, the broadness of his armored chest blocking out the sight of the criminals at his back.
“You’ll be safe in here,” he says, his voice no more than a rasp through the vocoder. You swallow against the tight bone dryness in your throat, forcing air through your nose quietly instead of the building hyperventilation in your chest. The baby holds out tiny green fingers, making another strained whimper, and Din looks down through his helmet, offering one leather clad finger for the child to grasp. He tugs at the glove, and Din lets out a deep breath that sounds like static. “I can’t,” he says softly to the small boy. “But I’ll be back. I promise.”
“Be careful,” you whisper, knowing the words are superfluous, knowing it is folly to worry for a warrior as skilled and deadly as your husband, your confidant, and your closest friend. But the words manifest themselves anyway, as natural as it is for the baby to grip the glove in desperation. “Please.”
Din says nothing, and you don’t expect him to. You also don’t expect his other hand to cup the back of your head, to draw you half-hazardously forward so he can touch the helm of beskar to your own brow, cold and secure. And then he pulls back, punches the button against the wall, and the steel door slides shut with firm finality.
You listen, silent and unmoving, and you can hear Xi’an and Mayfield speaking for a few moments without making out what it is they actually say. The hum of the engines continue to vibrate with familiarity, but you are unused to the closeness of the small medical bunk and how pronounced the noises are. Like being in some kind of tin can. It does help the wave of nausea that flooded your senses when you hit your head, and you breathe through it and press your cheek against the cold steel wall.
There is a loud sound of decompression, a whoosh of air on the other side of the door, and you shift carefully to press your ear to the metal hatch of the brig. The baby grunts as he fusses and fights to get out of your reach, toddling over your legs to move about in the confined space.
You hear the shifting of what must be tools and Xi'an’s giggles, and you feel more than hear Burg moving until suddenly, he is gone.
And then it’s silent.
You wait for several heartbeats, swallowing against a lump in your throat and keeping your ear pressed to the cold steel door. There is nothing but the hum of engines, and you allow yourself to relax enough to slump back against the wall. The small space makes you feel uneasy, and when you try to straighten your legs, the resistance of the wall makes sweat prickle behind your ears and your heart pick up in pace.
The baby returns to cuddle against your side, cooing sweetly in earnest and holding his favorite metal ball up to you. You caress his face with affection before pressing your back against the solid cold wall behind you more insistently, closing your eyes and focusing on breathing deeply. The baby moves to climb into your lap, huffing quietly as you breathe steadily, deeply, pushing down the anxiety and nerves that knot in your stomach and threaten bile to rise in the back of your throat.
Two small hands rest on your stomach, but you fear the sickness will return, so you keep your eyes closed, swallowing back the sudden watering in your mouth.
You’d read, once, a fairytale in the Moff’s library that magic was not something cosmic or grandiose, but it was the result of believing that something just is .
Din would be fine.
Everything would work out.
If you believed it, then it was. Or so the fairytale went.
You repeated the words to yourself several times over, almost like a mantra, and…surprisingly, the knots in your stomach began to loosen. Soon the muscles in your clenched jaw relaxed, the whiteness of your knuckles faded, and the pinched nerve beneath your breast began to relax. Your mind quieted against the feelings that had surged and raged, and you drew back to memories of flowers in a child’s hand, drawing pictures in the dirt by firelight, desert nights and cool forests, the feel of beskar in your hands.
The woosh of the hatch opening pulled you from your meditation, and your eyes snapped open. The little child had abandoned your lap, babbling quietly to himself as he dropped down from the hatch and began to waddle across the hull.
“Wait!” you gasped, unfolding yourself from within the small confines of the bunk. Your sheathed staff slapped against the inside of your leg beneath your long cloak as you hurried after your little one, scooping him up against the mewls of unhappiness. You frowned gently, shifting him into your arms so he could comfortably grip the front of your tunic and press his face against the soft fabric. You could hear his little stomach growl against you then, and you wilted. “Oh, my love, I’m sorry,” you whispered, turning and setting him back in the medical bay. “I’ll find a ration pack, and then we need to stay here, alright?”
An answering coo was reassurance that he would stay put, and you felt along the wall until you came to the rungs of the ladder that led up to the navigation deck. There was a cabinet of ration packs in the hall above, and it didn’t take you long to find it, moving carefully and quietly so as not to draw attention to yourself. You had no interest in interacting with the droid Zero who was piloting the ship and running communications, but as you moved back toward the ladder, a familiar voice, distinctly human and digitized, echoed from inside the navigation deck.
“Mando-dank farrik, I hope you get this,” Cara was out of breath in the hologram message. You could hear it from where you were hidden in the shadow of the hallway, straining your ears to make out the broken recording that the droid had found. “I ran into a contact who did some work at the Roost. You need to get out of there right now . Don’t come back to Coruscant. Just take the kid and your girl and fly as far away as you can-!”
The message broke off abruptly, and you didn’t realize you’d stopped breathing until you swayed to the side, putting an arm out to steady yourself and breathe again.
Beyond the doors, you could hear Zero hum metallically, a singular word.
“Curious.”
-
Tag List: @letaliabane@kateb013@yodaswrinkles@catsnkooks@notawhitegirlblog@ihaveashield@sinnamon-bunn @tiffdawg@lackofhonor@btillys @kylolover96@little-ms-fandom@earthtokace@blondecity@forever-rogue@lizajane3@rzrcrst@themangolorian@netflixandsnuggle@mrsparknuts@lonelystarship @fioccodineveautunnale@lokilover-39@shesthelastjedi@yes-music-is-my-religion @theocatkov@mando-and-the-child@multifandom-fiasco@paryl@golden-mando@katialvi@toppaazzz@dragongirl642@themilkface@menedraws@ahopelessromanticwritersworld@reallyfuckingangrylatina @plipaya@kass-daily @honestlystop @bunnyart-blog@leo-moon @jerusomeeno @firehoopinmama@ezraslittlebirdie@oloreaa@cptnbvcks@ezrasarm @rinchaera@c-a-v-a-l-r-y@freeshavocadoooo@ew-erin
Next chapter dropping within the next hour or so!
The next chapter of TLM will be out this week! It’s finished and just needs some minor edits.
I want to apologize so sincerely for the hiatus I’ve been on. I really appreciate how kind and supportive all of you have been. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
“So what’s your story, bright eyes?”
It’s impossible to hide the panic from your face, your voice temporarily stolen with the Mandalorian’s lie, but Mayfield drops his head back against the metal siding with a firm thunk. “Oh, right. Forgot,” he makes a gesture with his hand to his throat. “That’s a downer.”
Shoulders sinking in relief, your eyes flicker toward the corner, the medical bay firmly sealed shut and remaining indifferent to the tumult beyond, but Burrg cuts into your line of view again, his pacing route widening in his impatience. This time, though, he comes to a firm stop in front of the weapon’s locker, and though you can’t make out him opening it, you know it to be the case by the yolk yellow light that spills out, illuminating the oiled weapons inside.
There is a prickly indignance that burns a fever in your breast over a stranger putting his hands all over your home, and though you’re not sure if it’s bravery or stupidity, you stand up and use the back of your walking aid to punch the vault doors’ release on the wall, sealing the weapon’s locker shut securely.
Burrg doesn’t realize the sudden closing of the mechanism doors is on purpose, and he slams his palm against the door as if brute strength will bend it. In the same moment, the Mandalorian drops down the ladder from the upper deck, landing solidly and nearly silent behind you. It’s too dim for your poor eyesight to make him out beyond his dark shape, but he seems to follow your gaze when it flickers back to Burrg, who now reaches for the medical bay release switch.
The familiar orange leather fingers of the Mandalorian’s glove seem too soft and pliable to be able to grab Burrg’s meaty hand. You can almost see his muscles tensing beneath his armor, unspoken strength forbidding the Devronian from getting too close to something too precious. Your breath seizes, Burrg’s own yellowed teeth flashing upon the unflinching beskar helm, but it is once again Mayfield who breaks the uneasy strain.
“Hey, hey, hey. Okay. Okay. Okay, I get it. I’m a little particular about my personal space, too,” he says, folding his knee upon the bench beside him. You press your back flat against the wall near the hatch, breathing deeply. “So let’s just do this job. We get in, we get out, and you don’t have to see our faces anymore.”
The Mandalorian releases the larger alien, who rips his arm away. “Someone tell me why we even need a Mandalorian,” Burrg growls, the inflection upon the warrior’s title nothing short of disrespectful. That prickliness returns, this time manifesting within the back of your mouth.
“Well apparently they’re the best warriors in the galaxy,” Mayfield says lightly, drawing a gun across his lap and using the tail of his shirt to polish the barrel.
“Then why are they all dead.”
It happens quickly when you try to move your staff, just a small swing that would knock the hulking brute off his balance, but Din’s boot slides imperceptibly, stopping it just an inch in its path when he shifts his weight to stand beside you. This anger is a choking, red and black singe. It tastes like burned toast, like an unfair fight, a sentence that will never be finished, and you don’t realize you’re glaring at the Mandalorian’s audacity until the mercenaries stop laughing. He is not looking at you, but at the corner, the empty space between the weapon’s locker and the medical bay.
“Well, I don’t know. Xi’an, you flew with him. He is as good as they say?” Mayfield asks lightly, drawing your attention toward the Twi’lek.
Her mouth is dark, like old blood that draws you in with morbid fascination. Her teeth are white against the lavender of her skin when she smiles, the flare of her shined knife making you see spots. “Ask him about the job on Alzoc III,” she answers, rolling the words like marbles.
The Mandalorian swells, bowing up beside you beneath his armor, and that quiet anger still lives beneath his helmet. It sounds the way woodsmoke smells, something you can’t explain due to its potency. Yet there is something sad beneath the words, a resignation you can’t pinpoint when he half whispers, “I did what I had to do.”
You realize, standing between your husband and his one-time lover, that you are being made to see something you have not been invited to, and you feel like you are floating between the pages of a book submerged in water. The letters are a blur, but you know somehow what it says, in the end.
“Ah,” Xi’an’s voice is less a hiss now, more a croon of satisfaction as she points her knife toward the warrior at your side. “But you liked it.”
“Most times, I know I would miss it. The hunt, the chase,” he murmured through the vocoder, and you felt his other hand cup the crown of your head like something precious. “The reward.”
“See,” Xi’an goes on, vibrating with self-satisfaction that drips from her voice like wine tossed from a glass. “I know who you really are.”
-
Tag List: @lavenderl3mons@itzagoodthing@letaliabane@kateb013@yodaswrinkles@catsnkooks@notawhitegirlblog@ihaveashield@sinnamon-bunn@just-a-dreammm@tiffdawg@lackofhonor@btillys @kylolover96@little-ms-fandom@earthtokace@blondecity@gaybroadwayloser@forever-rogue@lizajane3@rzrcrst@themangolorian@netflixandsnuggle@mrsparknuts@lonelystarship@adikaofmandalore@avoreahspromise@emilykjhgsj@fioccodineveautunnale@lokilover-39@shesthelastjedi@yes-music-is-my-religion @rnlaing@peachdameron@theocatkov@mando-and-the-child@multifandom-fiasco@paryl@golden-mando@katialvi@toppaazzz@dragongirl642@themilkface@menedraws@ahopelessromanticwritersworld@reallyfuckingangrylatina @literallytrashhhhhh@plipaya@kass-daily @ntlmundy@sikenurse@honestlystop @lukesrighthand@layla1974@luosymekawa@bunnyart-blog @rika-cchi@chessurkitti@leo-moon @ladyjaye7 @benedrylcumbersnatch @ntlmundy@jerusomeeno @frietiemeloen @luminarahan@firehoopinmama@b0nchan@ezraslittlebirdie@oloreaa@cptnbvcks@prettyboydevito@oohsweetdarling@datmando@dartheldur @nosrslyareanyusernamesnottaken @mandoandyodito@ezrasarm@seeking-a-great–perhaps @fuckbuckyyy@paintballkid711@frietiemeloen@mandhoelorian@over300books@rinchaera@c-a-v-a-l-r-y@freeshavocadoooo@ew-erin@javiescuellx
Sitting at my fancy desk at my cushy new job, typing away, and it occurs to me: would anyone like a sneak peek at the next chapter of The Lovely Moons??
