Archive of Our Own

“Where to next?” you ask quietly.

“Manaan,” he responds. “You want anything?”

You shake your head. “But I know you’ll get me something anyway.” You smile at the thought, hidden to his eyes.

He chuckles. It’s a beautiful sound you still can never quite get used to. “You know I will.”

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There’s a wooden, hand-carved Utupauan varactyl on your bookshelf. A small, intricately woven Bazaarian tapestry on your wall. A ceramic, Naboolian-made red flower in an empty jar on your dining table.

Little pieces of the galaxy gifted to this obscure apartment, in an obscure city, in an obscure system—gifted to someone who’d never even left the planet.

Where’s it from? The flower was the first thing Din had ever brought you.

Naboo.

You remember the fascination you’d handled the thing with. The thought that it’d hurtled through millions of miles of space, across all that was known to sentience—only to find home with you—is almost reverential.

It is not so much unlike the one who’d gifted it.

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Past

You see the spaceport as a place removed from the inevitable familiarity of things that comes with time.

It’s a place of new beginning, long-awaited endings—churning out new beings for you to see every evening at work, where you pour their drinks, serve their food. The position’s not ideal, but it’s enough. There’s certainly worse options with worse views than endless ships flying off into the horizon, reflections sparkling over the sea.

And of course, the spaceport is what had brought the Mandalorian to you.

It’s rude to stare. It was what he’d said the first time he approached you.

You’d been behind the counter, appraising the metal man just like many others in the room. You must say that to a lot of people, then, if you’re always walking around in that get up.

That had been the extent of your interaction the first time. But he comes again. And again. And so forth. Quips back and forth turn into brief exchanges, then conversations that had slowly revealed more and more—everyone calls him Mando, he’s a bounty hunter, he’s always flying across the galaxy, he loves the water here.

You must admit the last one was a compelling revelation, a curiosity, for after that, the next time you’d seen him was by the sea. You’d been taking a walk, the wind in your hair, waves crashing against the cliffs, jacket pulled tightly around you to guard against the cold. He was in the middle of the sand, legs crossed, staring out. It was almost laughable—the sight of him sitting there in full armor—but at the same time, something about it makes you feel so achingly sad. Him, a lone figure on a gloomy day, eyes out across the increasingly violent waters.

What’re you doing here?

What does it look like I’m doing?

You’d laughed. Come.

He’d faltered in confusion for a moment, but as you’d kept walking, the slightest smile graced your lips as he got up—heavy footstep catching up to you in the sand.

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Present

He comes back from Manaan. Just as he always promises he will.

He’d brought you a sea glass necklace. Green. I wasn’t sure what color, he’d told you. I…I noticed you have a lot of green around your apartment?

I love it.

It now hangs from your neck as your fingers tighten on the sheets, the soft mattress under your knees. The pendant drags along his chest, where he lays beneath you, mouth pressed to yours. You’re practically resting on him, hands digging into his hair.

If you’d quickly learned anything after he’d allowed you near him in this way, it was that he loved to be kissed. You suppose it’s the forbidden quality of it, or the vulnerability. He’d known the pleasures of the body plenty of times in his life, but not the gentleness of a simple kiss.

He shivers slightly as you graze a newfound spot on his neck that’s apparently quite sensitive.

“There?” you whisper. He only lets out a nod and a strangled groan as you seal your lips around the spot.

He chokes out your name, followed by a quiet ‘cyare’—a plead in its purest form.

Your only response is a teasing shush, your lips beginning their path downwards.

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Past

It’s beautiful here, he had told you when he’d finally risen from the sand to walk by your side.

You’d smiled, eyes hesitantly cast to the ground. There are certainly worse places to be.

Are you from here?

Yes. I’ve been here since I was a child. Never even left. There’d been perhaps a distinct hollowness in your voice at the last sentence, something you couldn’t quite hold back.

You’d thought maybe he’d faltered slightly at that, silence teetering back and forth, unsure of who was supposed to break it.

And where are you from, Mando? Where’s your home? The air had shifted from you to him, your intention complete, yet it was arguably not a shift to something better.

Somewhere the complete opposite of this, he’d answered gruffly. But I don’t really go back anymore.

So you spend your whole life on that ship of yours? Just…in space?

He’d nodded.

You’d finally looked over at him, gaze intense on that impenetrable visor, an examination. Doesn’t seem like much of a home to me.

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Present

You stand on the balcony, under moonlight, fingering at the pendant of the necklace still around your neck. The stone is smooth, sharp edges slowly softened by the water that had crashed over and around it for years.

Quiet sounds come from your bedroom, Din getting back on his helmet and some of his clothes.

The night is humid, and you savor the breeze as it blows through your hair, sipping cool water.

You hear him approach, and when he comes up beside you, you lean in closer, arm brushing his, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. It’s skin—not cloth, not armor—but skin.

The both of you say nothing. The silence is a comfortable place.

The street is dark, all the windows shuttered but one. There’s two people inside, distinctly personal belongings around them. The warmth of the lights in their apartment scatters across the street.

“Don’t you think there’s a reason people settle down?” you say quietly, breaking the silence. You stare only at your hands, fingers thoughtfully twisted together. “A reason they find home wherever they are, always—even if they think they don’t want it.”

He shifts beside you at the randomness of the statement, a subtle question of where you’re going with this.

“And of course there are outliers,” you continue. “There always are.”

He says your name, not a warning, but perhaps an objection, and you continue anyway.

“And why are there such outliers, Din?” He sucks in a quiet, sharp breath, barely audible from under his helmet. “Why are you one of them?”

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Past

The subsequent meetings had come spontaneously at first. You had continued to take your walk every day along the ocean. Sometimes he was there, sometimes he wasn’t. Simple as that.

But soon enough, you’d begun to hope that he would be there each day, that you’d see that lone figure in the distance, slowly coming into focus as you grew closer. You’d dismissed the nagging feeling at first, but time inevitably wore that down. You’d completely let into that bright hopefulness eventually.

After all, those meetings had become something special to you—a meaningful, more personal portal to the outside world.

He’d traveled all up and down this galaxy, seen every walk of life imaginable, and of course, in your curiosity, in your longing to leave this ground, you had wanted to know every detail about it.

He’d gladly obliged.

You’d figured he never did much talking, never really saw much of anyone, and therefore, you’d discovered that when you really got the ball rolling, Mando could actually talk quite a lot.

He’d told you all his stories, all his experiences, all the dangers and oddities and beauties he’d seen in the presence of the foreign.

Now, looking back, you’re unsure of how many times you’d seen him, how long you’d spent with him. It was a pleasantly messy blur of so many thoughts and ideas and imaginations filling your head. The pleasant feelings were at first about the stories he told you. Later on, they were about him.

He’d told you of all the good he’d done, somewhat played down. But unable to be fabricated nor hidden was the compassion, the sincerity, the thoughtfulness he spoke with, of all the wonderful, kind people he’d met amongst the mess of everything else.

His kindness had swept you in, holding onto you tight, and you’d gone willingly, gravitating towards him with a dangerous certainty.

It’s beautiful here. You’d sat close to him the particular meeting he said that, in the sand, the lick of the waves just meters away.

You hummed in agreement. You’ve only mentioned that once or twice, you teased, digging your fingers into the ground, feeling the rough grains against them.

He chuckled in response. It’s true. I can’t think of another planet in the galaxy as beautiful as this one.

There’s water everywhere in the galaxy, Mando.

Not like this, he’d quickly replied, voice nearly…softer. Gentler. Not so vast. Not so powerful.

You’d moved closer to him at that, just barely brushing his beskar. His breath had quickened ever so slightly, and when you’d felt his fingers brush your arm, you immediately pulled back, afraid you’d read something wrong.

But instead, you’d watched as he’d quickly removed his vambrace, his pauldron—giving you a space less harsh to rest upon. Upon completion, he’d looked at you, as if waiting, a silent ‘come back.’

And you’d done just that.

I’m leaving tomorrow.

You’d swallowed, pushing down the sadness at the revelation, the fear for him. When’re you coming back?

Not sure.

You’d said nothing at that, just resting your head on his shoulder. It’d been eerily silent, just as it was every night when the city went to sleep. The sound of the ocean dominated, churning, crashing, beating against the cliffs with a violent foam lashing out in response.

Mando?

Yeah?

This might be a odd question…but does it ever scare you? How…risky…what you do is?

He’d paused, seemingly giving it serious thought, helmet tilted up, maybe looking at the stars. I suppose it scares me sometimes. But you get used to it.

You’d let out a quiet breath at that, eyes unashamedly on him, hoping you could see inside him and unpack every mystery he held. It was sad…what he’d said. You’d been unable to think of a more eloquent way to put it, a less painful way to put it. Perhaps there were none, for that rawness and pain was the reality of it.

I always figured I wouldn’t die painlessly, he’d said softly, helmet tilted downwards, tracing mindless circles in the sand. Though I always hoped I’d spend my last moments somewhere beautiful. At least that.

You’d faltered, simply staring, something unreadable in your eyes. He’d been emitting that energy again—that conviction—tinged by a sadness you yearned to sweep away.

Your hand had come up to caress the side of his helmet. He was shivering.

Mando, you’d whispered.

Din.

You’d kissed him for the first time that night, eyes tightly closed beneath the dim light of the moon, ears mostly deafened by the roar of the ocean.

You’d come to know him by touch, by feel, by soft lips. He’d been so gentle, so different than what he first appeared to be.

And then, it was inevitable. The act had become more familiar over time with each passing meeting, an instinct. A softness in the midst of everything else, a simple comfort that seemed to grow and grow into something more. It’d been one that blossomed—till you murmured a few words to him one day, your apartment in mind.

Come with me.  

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Present

You let out a quiet breath, woken gently by a soft pressure. The room is pitch black—a product of the blackout curtains you’d gotten just for him, so he can sleep in peace, safe from the light of the world outside that may expose him.

You savor the feel of his fingertips tenderly tracing along your side—up and down, up and down, unceasing and rhythmic.

The clock tells you it’s just past five, the sounds of morning not yet woken.

“I need to leave,” he says quietly, words seemingly too loud in the silence. It feels as if he’s just returned from Manaan, feels as if you’ve barely gotten to be with him before he has to be off again. His voice is still rough with sleep, and the way he lies relaxed despite his intentions tells you he’s still tired.

You just want him to rest. It seems he so rarely does.

There’s a protest on your lips, but you know it’s no use; he’s got a job to do. You fumble for his hand, lacing his fingers with yours, asking the usual question instead. It’s tinged with a familiar hopefulness, one that’s never fulfilled: “When are you coming back?”

“Not sure.” The usual answer.

You pull yourself up with some effort, propping yourself up on your elbows. His rough stubble is like gentle pinpricks against your previously dormant nerves as you rest your hand on the side of his face. Even if he can’t see you, you know he’s looking at you.

“I’ll be back,” he adds. “You know I will.”

You hum in thought, ultimately dipping down to press a kiss to his lips. “Promise?” you ask softly. It elicits a quiet chuckle from him.

“I promise, sweet girl.”