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He smells like petrichor

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Yesterday

You can do it. 

You can walk off this ship, and into town, and buy the medical supplies you need. 

You take a deep breath. Rest a hand on your blaster strapped on your thigh. There are credits in your pocket. 

One step off the ramp, and you can see people milling aimlessly around the city trellis gate, and you promptly walk back inside. 

You run your hands over your face, pat your cheeks, and breathe in. “It’s right there,” you try to reason with yourself. “It will take ten minutes tops.” 

You try a different tact. “The Mandalorian is counting on you. The child is counting on you. You are responsible, and can do this.” You turn back to look down the hatch. It smells like smoke and ash and nothing out there, which is better than cold, wet, and tang. 

You tip your head back and groan. Maker, why is this so hard? Mando gave you one job today: go buy bacta and medical supplies. You’re about to spend weeks following a lead for the child’s kind and you don’t know where it will be safe to stop next. He’d only parked here to visit Karga and the marshal to strategize a best route. Karga knows people, and Dune had spent an inordinate amount of time planet-hopping. 

All you had to do is walk one hundred yards into the city, find the general store, and exchange money for goods. 

You try again. You make it three steps off the ship before backing up and deciding to check your blaster, just one more time.


“Hey marshal,” Karga calls from the window. “Pay up. She just went back up the ramp.”

“Damn it,” she grumbles but slaps a Mon Calamari piece on the desk. “New bet.”

“You’re on,” Karga says, whipping around to point at her. The baby gurgles up at him for all the jostling. “She leaves in thirty minutes or less. One hundred credits. Mythrol, you want in?”

“Pass,” the blue-gilled creature calls. He’d been sullen since the hunter walked in. He kept flicking his eyes curiously between the magistrate, marshal, and Mandalorian.

“I’m in.” Dune expands the holo-map. “This asteroid field is tidal locked between this gas giant’s outermost ring and the nearest moon.”

“So it’ll be bumpy,” Mando replies. He glances out the window, following where Karga and the baby watch from. This is getting ridiculous. 

“Oh, I see a toe-no, back inside,” Karga looks down at the curious kid. “At this rate, I’ll be rich .”

“Seems pretty jumpy, Mando. You sure you don’t want some extra help?” Dune asks. The story of the mugging didn’t sit right with Cara. She suspected it wasn’t random. A young unknown woman, virtually impossible to track without recon-there were easier targets in those tunnels. But that was Cara’s job, and Mando appreciated her insight. 

“I’m certain,” he responds. Cara doesn’t know if he ever looks at anyone ever, but she thinks he’s meeting her eyes this time. “She was spooked.”

“Not the safest person to bring on a high stakes flight. But if you’re sure.” Care set the map to track a safe path through the next sector. 

“I’m afraid I have to agree with Marshal Dune, Mando,” Karga calls. He props an arm against the window and turns in toward the musty office. “You don’t want someone who can’t handle themselves in the outer rim. Leave her and child here while you hunt. We could keep her busy. People here are eager to farm, and a botanist could be beneficial.” 

“No,” Mando says and plugs the data stick into the terminal, gathering the map and flight plan. “I need her to watch the kid while I hunt. I can’t carry him in a satchel everywhere.” He minimizes the map and examines the navigation lines. 

“It’s your call,” Cara starts, drawing his gaze. “But if you need assistance, send a transmission.” 

“I appreciate that.” And he does. Cara is one of the few people he’d walk into a battle with willingly. Or ask for help from. “I’m all done here.” But he doesn’t leave.

“Can I walk you to your ship?” Karga calls. 

“Not yet,” Mando goes to stand by the window with the kid and his unpredicted friend. “Any movement?” 

“I think she just kicked the hull,” Karga muses. “She understands it’s safe out here, right?”

Mando lifts his shoulders and lets out a noise Cara would call exasperated. Behind him, Cara raises her eyebrows at Mythrol, who keeps staring at Mando. Curious , Cara thinks.


Four days ago

“Argh!” you yell out angrily, dropping the welding spanner into the mud. “Son of a-” you mumble the last part because the kid is staring up at you, ears drooping, the gecko he’s caught squirms in his hands, and takes its chance to wriggle free and race into the bushes. Betrayal is written all over his little face. 

“I’m sorry, buddy,” you say to him. Your foot really does hurt though. Taking a ginger step, you kneel down where he’s standing, staring longingly after his prize. You pat him on the back, apologizing. 

It was the fourth time this solar cycle you’d dropped something on a body part. First it was the crates with the durasteel-reinforced corners falling out of the overhead storage onto your thighs and shins. Then your blaster. Then an egg. 

The egg you wouldn’t have minded so much. Except Mando had watched you do it, and the buckethead had turned his helm away conspicuously. You know the baby can’t see through the beskar, but his attunement to the Mandalorian’s moods was...startling. 

Now the spanner on your foot. You don’t know what’s going on with you but repairs have been difficult the past month. Not because you can’t do it. It’s just...you’re turned off to it. You suspect it’s the smell of the fuel lines. You’re working hard to move past it and accept that everywhere you go, the smell will be with you-it’s part of living aboard aircraft. But this is your project, and you promised you would finish, and you’ll be damned if one bad memory keeps you from making sure this rickety sack of wires flies properly. You’ve got your blaster strapped to your leg. Between that, a heavy welding gun, and a kid who can use the force, you’re safe. 

“Let’s go find another one,” you say to the kid. He looks up at you, joy on his face, and reaches his arms up. You lift him to your chest and let his ears guide your way through the soft brush. He turns this way and that, and you finally set him down at a little bubbling headwater no more than a meter wide, which he puts his hands in, hoping for worms. 

You sit in the dirt and take your boot off to examine your foot. There are broken blood vessels under the skin, and you'll have a nasty bruise to match the one on your thigh and shin from the crates. Three for three , you muse. You take the other boot off and join the kid, dipping your toes in the water. You'd discovered a few days earlier while walking around barefoot how delighted he is with the existence of toes, and he beeps happily, one hand on your pinky toe and one digging for crawlers. 

This place is beautiful. A mid-rim planet referenced as mid-rim-Naboo. Your pre-Empire maps says it was a tourist destination for those that couldn't afford Naboo. Now it's an agricultural trade hub. You'd seen the enormous circular crop fields in different stages of growth on the journey to the uninhabited side. It must be fantastic to work with that soil all day. You'd love a sample and a chem-kit to analyze what they were using to get the plants to grow in various stages while maintaining fertility. 

You need a houseplant. 

"I need a houseplant," you say to the kid. He turns to look at you curiously. "Something that doesn't need sunlight." He babbles and goes back to his worm hunt. 

You walk with him along the widening creek for a couple hours, playing and searching for small friends. It's the quietest day you have had in a long time, but you've left the Razor Crest with part of an engine open. There will be a little more to do. This is a good break for you. The ship is in sight, and you don’t need to glance over your shoulder every few moments. It’s the first time you’d gone further than one hundred yards from the ship, but you’d do anything to keep the kid’s smile on his face.

When he's tuckered out and refuses to walk anymore, you cradle him at your shoulder and listen to his puffy breaths while walking back to the headwater for your boots. 

They're gone. 

Your breath hitches, and you run through the list of possibilities that aren’t life-threatening. Maybe someone just walked by and stole them, maybe an animal thought they were food, maybe-

"Looking for these?" A drawl calls out from behind you. You whip around.

"Where are you?" 

"Over here." You turn back around and on the other side of the three-foot pond is the Mandalorian, with your boots. He's in his full cuirass, no rifle. His hunt here is finished. 

"Can I have them back?" You reach an arm out across the water, but he draws the shoes back. Hm. "Come on," you try again. He doesn't move. 

"I came back to the ship and found an engine torn open, and the kid was gone. Your holster and blaster were gone too." He takes the long way around the pond even though he could easily step over. You stand your ground, stare up into his visor. 

“Were you worried?” you ask. He’s been worried. He doesn’t say it, but he takes extra time to land in wide clearings. Places you could see every threat from. 

He doesn’t stop moving until he’s directly in front of you, looking down into your face. He’s a whole head above you, and you have to tip your chin up to keep staring. 

“At first,” he answers simply. He reaches forward and pets down the kids head. He’s sound asleep, and doesn’t stir. “I found the tracks and the pond. I knew you wouldn’t go far.” 

“You sound sure of yourself,” you say. But he tilts his head to the side, considering you. He steps forward, crowding into you so you feel his body heat seeping into the air, not quite touching you. Your cheeks heat up. Something runs warm through your veins and into your lungs.

“I’m sure I promised you something when I got back,” he reaches forward and slides the back of one gloved finger inside your wrist and you nearly jump out of your skin. Goosebumps creep up your arms. He’s good. You’ll give him that. You let your wrist fall forward trying to catch his hand but he's already pulling away-

-and taking the kid from you to cradle himself, and walking back to the Crest. 

Your eyes widen. You let the air you’re holding in your lungs out slowly, look at the triplet moons beginning their march, and consider promising them your soul if he’ll come back and take your clothes off underneath them.


Together, you finish the repair you’d been doing. He’s handier with the outer mechanisms, it’s his ship after all - you’re still not sure you believe his story that he put it back together after it was scrapped by Jawas - so it’s only a few hours later you’re sealing up the engine barrel. 

“Gah-damn it!” you hiss. The heavy duty pliers you’d been using to hold the metal in place while bolting it back in fall out of your grip and directly onto your already bruised foot. “Ow,” you whisper into your hand. That does it. A lump forms in the back of your throat, the tears come before you can stop them. 

“You okay?” Mando asks. He’s somewhere behind you, but you just shake your head and let yourself cry a little. His hand is gentle on your back, comforting, and you know you shouldn’t be embarrassed crying over this. It’s just you were doing so well keeping it together, and now…

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Your voice doesn’t sound like you. You jam one palm into your eye and try to scrape away the tears but you’re making your eyes redder. 

“They’re just pliers,” he says back. You shake your head because he doesn’t get it. 

“No, I mean, I’m sorry you’re...having to clean up messes I start. I should have finished this forever ago. And then you had to come find me,” you take a shaky breath in. “How did you find me in the tunnels?” 

The bounty hunter doesn’t say anything. The wind sends the edge of his cape whispering across your leg. His hand is steady on your back. 

“Let’s talk about it later,” he finally says. You turn around in protest, but he beats you there. “You’re upset. And you need to ice your foot.” 

He’s right. You nod, and turn around to finish the last couple bolts while he gathers up tools. When you’re done, you yawn into the back of your wrist. He’s already in the cockpit doing the systems check and flight prep. He has bodies that need to be delivered. You’re ready for another night in space. 

Later, he wakes you, and he’s still in his armor which means he probably won’t sleep next to you tonight. Instead he turns you on your side, battered leg up, and holds ice packs against your hurts. You’re half asleep, but manage to mumble a thank you to him. He doesn’t reply, but before he leaves you for the cockpit, you feel the cold touch of beskar against your temple.


You dream of grit lodging under your fingernails. You dream there’s another stone behind every one you dig loose. You dream of a squatting creature chewing to your left.  

You jerk awake, elbowing your bedmate and in a moment of panic forget he's there by your choice. You shove yourself away, until your leg touches the hull wall. 

"It's me," he calls, and there's a faint touch on your leg. You can smell stale canvas clothes, and something clean. It’s the second day of hyperspace, and although you’ve spent longer than forty-eight hours traveling through it, this time it’s suffocating. You touch your fingers to his, making sure they are fingers and not claws. "Just me." You close your eyes and hear Anijae. She's a fool. She's not coming back. Haven't you heard the stories?

"Bad dream," you whisper. 

"Come here," he tells you, and guides you back to the blankets defending you against the frozen floor. His skin is warm and when you press your cheek into his naked shoulder, you find the clean smell is him. Solid, whole, a tinge of steel. He runs a hand from your shoulder blade to your hip, down to your knee. Over and over, until your breath comes naturally.


Yesterday

You do what you used to do at home when you were angry. You roll up your bedroll and scream as hard as you can into it. 

Your throat is hoarse when you’re done, but it’s worked. Whatever excess energy you were boiling in is now in the pillow. 

“You will walk out of this ship, into town, and buy supplies,” you tell yourself. You’re...mad. At yourself. You can do this. You love going to the store. You count backwards from five. 

Before you can think better, you’re on your feet and down the ramp. You aren’t sure what it is, but you can feel exhaustion leaving your legs as you stride with purpose. Ten minutes , you tell yourself, and jam a thumb in your pocket to find the credits Mando had left you. It’s ten minutes .


Karga grumbles but leaves his post at the window to surrender his fifty credits to Cara, who has won by two minutes flat. 

“Thank you, boss,” Cara says and pockets it. She’s taken to lounging back in her chair, laughing at Mythrol who was coerced by the kid’s cuteness to bounce him up and down on his knee. She turns to Mando who is still watching out the window. 

“All right, she made it past the town gate. Time to go, kid,” he says and collects his charge. 

“Don’t be a stranger, Mando,” Karga says, grasping the hunter’s outstretched hand. “Bring your elusive babysitter in sometime, I’d love to tell her how she cost me one hundred credits.” 

“Maybe next time,” he offers while nodding to Cara. He turns to Mythrol. “Mythrol.”

“Mando.”

He leaves, heading out toward the landing zone.


The vendor hands you change and a crate full of medical supplies, as well as a bottle of spotchka. You missed the taste of citrus-laced booze and wouldn’t mind some if Mando is going to haul you out to uncharted regions. He has a toothy grin you return while leaving. Adults mill about under the distant sun, wrapped in oranges and greens. The smell of fried goods and cured meat fills up the street. You’re tempted to stop and buy some, but this was already a big step for you, so you pass by and take the memory of black pepper and pungent smoking fat with you out of the town gates.  

You move cautiously through the streets. It’s hard not to draw attention when you have a crate as wide as your body filled with medical goo, but no one stops you. A woman sitting outside the city purser's office nods pleasantly at you. She wears trooper stripes and gauntlets. You return her smile but keep walking, and out of the corner of your eye she saunters back inside. 

Once you’re outside the city gates, you can see Mando standing at the foot of the Razor Crest. The kid reaches his arms out to you, and Mando looks down at him before shaking his head. They’re a pair. A Mandalorian hunter and his green, force-sensitive child. His hand hangs loose by his blaster. You wonder if he’s watching behind you. There are things that live in the deep recesses of space you should be afraid of, and although you think he’s one of them, there’s no denying the fearlessness he instills in you when he’s totally still. Anyone behind you can see he’s focused on your stride. You did a brave thing today. 

Maker, that armor looks fantastic, you muse. He can’t have any idea. He doesn’t own a mirror. Something in your stomach jerks. 

“Medical supplies,” you tell him once you reach the ramp. “As requested.” He reaches in and finds your bottle of glowing spotchka. “It’s medicinal ,” you say, over-enunciating. 

He tips his helm down at you as you smile up into his visor. You haven’t totally forgiven him for giving you this errand, but maybe if he leaves everything on and puts the child to bed you can coax a sweet reward for yourself out of him. 

“Scat,” he says and jerks his helmet up the ramp. You tuck your chin down to hide the grin on your face and climb aboard.


Mythrol waits until Dune is seated and filling out a port manifest. 

“You know they’re sleeping together.”

Karga coughs so loud on his steaming spotchka, Dune feels obligated to get up and slap him on the back. He’s an old man, he can’t take a shock like that. 

“How would you know?” he manages to get out. Cara peaks out the window. Mando is there with his in-house nanny, jerking his head to get up into the ship while he tells the mechanics to finish fueling. 

“There’s no way,” Dune says. She’s a cynic. She has to be. Maybe. Perhaps. 

“They are,” Mythrol repeats. The two at the window give him a long side-eye glance. “I have a very sensitive nose. Amphibian? Remember? The Mandalorian smells like dirt. Or…” he flails his hands, searching. “Leather and metal. This time he had a sweet smell on him. That sticky stuff you put in your tea, boss.”

Karga scrunches his eyebrows. “Honey?” 

Mythrol’s face wrinkles. “Yuck. Yes. It’s spicier though. Floral.”

Cara raises her eyebrows. “Our Mando wearing floral?” 

Karga stretches his palms out. “We don’t know what he’s like under that suit.” They look at one another. Then out at the Crest. 

“One hundred credits they’re sleeping together,” Cara calls. 

Karga smiles bright and wide. “Two hundred. And you’re on.”


Today

You woke up alone, which is normal. You dress, heat up too much caf, and climb carefully up to the cockpit to check on the kid, who is still fast asleep in his bassinet. You glance out the viewport, then the navigation readout, and frown. 

“Weren’t we just here?” you ask, coming to stand next to him in the pilot’s seat. He takes one hand off the controls and brings it to rest against the back of your thigh, fingers absently flexing. 

“We have some unfinished business here,” he answers. You hum in response and let him touch you until he has to take the ship through the atmosphere. It’s nighttime on this side of the planet, and you’re landed in the same spot as a few days ago. The moons are low on the horizon line. 

“Your unfinished business with me is a field trip?” 

“Something like that,” he says, and leads you into the woods. The moons are high, and his beskar armor glows under it. You wonder what a division of Mandalorian hunters in clean steel would look like hunting together, moving silently through the underbrush. It would probably be bad for your self-control though. One Mandalorian in his full suit is enough to make your heart speed up. He treks along the stream you and the kid had followed days ago, then turns sharply down a dry creek bed. The kid's crib follows him. 

You open your mouth to speak, but he probably knows where he’s going so you close it and follow after, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself. The sweet aroma of wet soil and deep drinking river plants evaporates and is replaced by...something warm. Tangy. 

It grows stronger the further downhill you go. The slope had been easy at first but it drops all of a sudden from a thick-ferned forest to a barren stone gully full of steaming pools. Mando’s already standing below the drop off, so you sit on the ledge and slide down into his arms. You look up into the visor, trying to mimic his bodily crowding from days ago. 

“Hot springs?” 

“For the bruising,” his hands along your ribs don’t squeeze, just hold. The crib floats behind him. 

“Okay. I forgive you for sending me for med supplies,” you say. “Is this a naked soaking trip?”

“You need a shower,” he states and drops his hands. He takes a few steps back from you. You flick your eyes over him, he’s reflecting the gurgling water under moonlight. “So a naked soaking trip.”

“That’s the vaguest way anyone’s told me I’m sweaty and gross.” You’re already kicking off your boots and unbuttoning your shirt. The helmet isn’t moving but you’re sure he’s watching with interest you pull at your clothes. But once you get to the third button, shyness overcomes you. “Could you...turn around?” 

The helm draws back. “What?” He sounds confused. 

“You haven’t seen me naked,” you explain. Or try to. It’s really odd for you. He’s felt your nakedness dozens of times now, but the seeing...this is different. In hyperspace you’re dark matter to him. Out here you’re real. 

“Tell you what,” he barters. “I’ll take off the armor. You take off your clothes.”

“Will you get in with me?” you ask. 

“Maybe.” He unclips his munitions belt, and toes his boots off, pushing them off to the side. Then waits. 

“Yes, or no deal.” 

He stands still, and you think he’s going to lean back into his heel. But instead, he reaches up and carefully unclasps the pauldrons, setting them to the side. Then the cuisses. Then he waits. 

“The helmet stays on.”

“No deal.” 

His voice develops an edge. “I can’t do that.”

“Blindfold me.”

That gets his attention. You finish the buttons on your shirt, and let it slide down your back behind you and pool on the ground. Your undershirt dampens with steam from the pools and catches on your skin. His chest-plate rises. 

“Deal.”  

When you finally slide into the pool it’s the first time in months you’ve felt really, truly clean. It’s hotter than the fresher’s shower at its highest setting. You submerge yourself for what you count to be a full twelve seconds before popping up. It’s too luxurious. You might never leave the rich mineral water. Mando is behind you, kneeling at the edge dipping his fingers in the water before taking off the rest of his clothes. His cuirass stands propped up with the rising phoenix and flak vest, and his drop holster is near the edge of the pool, just in case. The canvas flight suit lays on top of everything. The last layer before the metal. 

He’s letting you have this quiet moment to take everything in before he wraps a piece of black cloth around your head, and cuts you off from the moonlight. 

He stands and pulls his soft long sleeve shirt over his head, and you dip everything but your nose in the water to hide the pink grin you’re sporting. He’s broad in the shoulder, but you knew that, and has functional muscle tone from carrying pounds of steel across his body everyday. When he gets to his trousers, you float on your back and look up into the night sky so he has some privacy. You hear him groan behind you. 

“Hm?” 

“I…” you tip your head back a little to peak at him upside down, then roll over because good Maker - he’s palming himself through his trousers, and there’s a sheen of sweat across his skin. “I’ve seen naked women before.” You think he’s talking more to himself than you, to remind himself that nakedness exists, and that you haven’t re-invented the sphere.

This pool is shallow, so you drop your feet and bend your knees to face him while keeping warm. You almost want to stand up and let him see your body. You kill that thought, and opt for a tastier one instead. 

“Take your pants off,” you tell him. The helm tips down a degree, and his eyes must have been closed before because he leans back a little before hooking his thumbs in the waistband and pushing them down, leaving him in soft underclothes. He carefully slides those down his legs as well, leaving him bare, and you squeeze your thighs together. 

“Are you ready for this?” 

“Yes ple-” he means the blindfold “-okay.”

“You are unbelievable,” he grumbles. But kneels down next to the pool and ties the blindfold around your eyes. It smells like his skin, and it must live somewhere close to his body. The world goes pitch black, just like the hull. You hear the vacuum seal open on his helm, and he breathes easy. The first thing he does is lean down and press a kiss to your steaming shoulder. You stay perfectly quiet and just listen to him slip into the water, the way he dissolves into it. 

“How did you know this was here?” you ask softly. You lean back against the pool’s wall, let him stretch out if he wants. 

“I saw it on the planet scan. The surface is covered with them.” You hear him gulp in a breath and duck under the water. He’s down there a while - you count eighteen seconds - before he comes up for air. After a few seconds he answers again. “I don’t know how long this lead will take.” You nod, understanding, and let him pull your body across his so you’re straddling his thighs. Usually he wraps around you. This is better you think as he nuzzles his nose along your voice-box and inhales your skin. His hair is wet against your cheek, and you run your nails along his scalp, drawing a content noise from him. 

You sit together for a long time. The moons parade across the sky, and Mando holds you above the water, pressing salty, open-mouthed kisses to your lips and tongue. His hands glide up and down your body, across your back, under your thighs, they blend with the water, and for a while it feels like currents rather than hands. You think of the rivers back home you’d swim in, their rush, push and pull at your body. He runs his fingers on your hair, enjoying the changing texture, tugging at your lip. 

You’re suddenly desperate to have him inside you, and hope to death you’re slick enough. You wind your arms above his shoulders and try to bite his earlobe. 

“What do you want?” His voice deepens with arousal. One palm covers your breast, weightless.  The other wraps strong around your middle, pressing your bodies together so he can grind against your center. 

“Your-” you gasp because he’s already teasing the blunt tip against your slit, silky smooth. “Fingers.”

“Okay,” he says, and there’s a low whine leaving your throat as he slides one finger in perfectly, and presses it in and out until you’re crying out. 

“More?” he asks. He kisses your nose, your cheeks, he’s getting impatient. “Fuck, please, I thought about this all night,” he whispers to your neck and everything comes tumbling out of you. 

“Please, just please, I want you inside me,” you think you say, and then he’s holding your hips steady, as he eases his body into yours. Your back arches as your mouth falls open making a shameless noise. He lets it happen. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he gasps, because he can, and bites into your shoulder. You’re worried he’s going to finish before you’re had your fill of him, but he holds you tight against him, back muscles rigid under your palms. “I wanted you while I was tracking you. I thought-" you squeeze around him and he swears softly "-that I’d take you on the ground.” You shudder at this new promise, and he rasps “stop moving.” 

You do your best to settle against him. Your breathing evens out. He presses his forehead against yours, bumps his nose into your cheek. His eyes are directly in front of you. His skin is so warm under your fingers. 

It’s in these still places the universe was birthed, full of minerals and protogenoi and cell fusion.