Chapter Text
It was not quite a week into your new job at the cantina when you first noticed the stoic Mandalorian. Really, he was impossible not to notice as he sauntered through the door in full beskar armour, his presence sending a hush through the once cacophonous chamber. You’d glanced up from jotting down the order of a particularly ornery Rodian when the sudden silence filled the room.
Growing up in the spaceport town of Mos Eisley, you had glimpsed a Mandalorian on the rare occasion, but never one suited entirely in shining, unpainted beskar from head to toe. You couldn’t help but ogle.
Unfazed, the man made his way through the quieted room and approached a table near the back, shrouded from a clear view. He stood at the table’s edge for only a moment before heading back toward the door, tucking a puck somewhere beneath his shiny shell.
You cocked your head curiously. A bounty, you presumed.
As soon as his figure drifted out the door, there resumed a comfortable ambient chatter and you returned to your work, still fascinated by the mysterious visitor.
A few days had gone by when he made a reappearance, waltzing determinedly through the cantina and back out again. And then he was back again not two days later…and again, the day after that, with a limp this time.
Strange. You thought.
As he exited, you slid down the bar toward a coworker. “Does he come in here a lot?”
“Who? Mando?” the bartender laughed. “Yeah. Seems to be keeping himself busy.”
You nodded in understanding. “Seems a bit excessive, no?”
The bartender shrugged in indifference and turned his attention away.
That night when you retuned to your dwelling and you tossed and turned in your sleeper, your thoughts drifted back to him.
Having only just wandered off-world for the first time, you had yet to find your footing outside of Tatooine. You’d spent your entire life in Mos Eisley, struggling and scraping by, often helping your family with their debts. Finally, after years of saving enough credits, you did what your father begged of you and left to find a better life. So far a better life had meant a quiet, humble existence working at a cantina on an outer rim space station--of which you were grateful.
Nonetheless, you couldn’t help the lonely and solitary feeling you felt upon returning home each late night, and something about the Mandalorian’s presence triggered a restlessness and voracious curiosity that seemed to plague you.
Now here he was once again, not quite two full days later—this time seeming much worse for wear, shuffling his way through the cantina, a distinct limp lingering on his right side; his formerly brilliant armour now dulled and dotted with carbon scoring. A strange feeling lingers in the pit of your stomach, like you're witnessing something you were never meant to see.
Yet, just like a speeder crash, you can't seem to drag your eyes away, and from bar side you continue to watch as inconspicuously as possible as he seems to argue with what you suppose is a guild agent.
That’s new. Usually he was in and out with barely a word between them.
Pretending to wipe down tables, you continue surveillance through a curtain of hair as he rips a puck from the table and begins his hobbling trek back toward the door.
Another bounty? In that state?
Before you know what you’re doing, you feel yourself approaching him, your heart hammering wildly in your chest with each step.
“Can I get you anything? A flagon of spotchka?” You hear yourself offer, stepping partially into his path, forcing him to a sudden halt.
His hand instinctively flies to the blaster in its holster, which does not go unnoticed by yourself and everyone in the room. Quickly assessing the threat level, he drops his hand and stares at you from behind the veneer of his helmet. You gape back into the t-shaped visor, eyes nosily straining for a hint of the man beneath and seeing nothing but your reflection.
“No. Thank you”. He states bluntly, pushing past you, his left pauldron knocking lightly against your shoulder. You step back, your cheeks burning in the embarrassment of rejection, and watch him saunter from where he came. Turning on your heels, you retreat back to the bar with your tail between your legs and the eyes of patrons burning into your back.
The bartender scoffs as you rush by.
“What did you expect?”
You shake your head and the heat in your cheeks reaches a crescendo. You reach toward the sink full soiled dishes.
“I don’t know.”
That night you decide to take the long way home, hoping to walk off some of your shame before what you are sure will be a long night of tossing and turning. The cool air of the station’s artificial atmosphere tousles your hair and calms you as you stroll through its streets and gaze up at the wide, twinkling sky.
As you dip through several narrow alleyways, you notice a cloaked figure in the periphery, keeping a calculated distance. In an instant, your peace disappears and is replaced by a weighty sense of unease. You find yourself quickening your pace and slithering through another side alley before glancing over your shoulder to see that one shadow has quickly become two. Coming from Mos Eisley, you are not altogether unfamiliar with the perils of walking home alone, and without a second thought, you break into a full sprint, your heavy cloak fluttering around you and tangling between your legs, tripping you up like a nightmare you’ve had a thousand times before.
Your worst fears are realized when you steal another glance over your shoulder to see the pursuers gaining on you, their footsteps crashing behind you like thunder. Panic overwhelms you and your foot catches clumsily on the tangled cloak, pulling you to the ground. You scream out as your hands slap against the metallic floor beneath you and you scramble to your knees. Swiftly, you reach into your boot and tear out the blade you keep concealed, turning sharply to face them.
Your breath catches in your throat as you watch the two cloaked figures skulk toward you, now only feet away. You can’t see their faces, shrouded by heavy hoods, but you can feel the menace of their presence.
“What do you want?!” You scream at them while crawling backward desperately.
A bright light suddenly fills your vision and you shield your eyes, squinting through your fingers as a figure descends from above and drops into the space between you and your admirers.
You stare up in shock as the Mandalorian, your Mandalorian, towers above you, the light emitting from his jetpack quickly fading. You’re left speechless and shaken, but an undeniable sense of relief washes over you.
From your spot on the ground, you observe in complete shock as he steps toward the assailants and unsheathes a glowing black sword. You’ve never seen anything like it and you marvel at its pulsing, hypnotic light.
The figures don’t seem to like their chances and, in unison, turn and sprint into the dark of an adjacent alleyway. The Mandalorian watches them go a moment before retracting the laser sword and turning toward you.
“I’ll deal with them later,” he rasps through a crackling vocoder, tucking the hilt of the sword into his utility belt and extending a gloved hand toward you. “Are you okay?”
You could only stare up at him in disbelief, your brain buzzing, unfocused.
He sighs and reaches down, grasping onto your upper arm and pulling you to your feet in one swift motion, a small grunt escaping his lips as he does.
You stand before him, legs trembling like a newborn eopie.
“Thank you,” you manage to mumble and he nods in response.
“Where do you live? I’ll take you home.”
“Not far,” your voice shakes and you clear your throat before bending to tuck the small blade back into your boot. The Mandalorian watches in silence.
The walk home was quiet with the exception of a few low groans from your escort, still nursing his right leg. You wonder to yourself why he hasn’t found a bacta tank by now.
“This is it.” You announce as you lead him to the base of your metal steps. You turn to face him.
He glances up the long winding stairs and then back toward you.
“I have a kit up there. It has some bacta spray and bandages if you—“
“I’m fine.” He rasps and you nod, not willing to push him any further. “Are you okay on your own?”
You nod. “Yes. I can manage fine from here. Thank you.”
You glance over the Mandalorian’s shoulder at the long empty corridor from where you came and you clear your throat. “Do you know them? The ones who-“
“Just Outer Rim scum. I’ll take care of it.” You nod silently and an awkward silence builds between you.
“I can give you a few credits, in thanks.” You start to shuffle through your sack but he stops you.
“Keep your credits.”
“Okay.” Your voice is nearly a whisper, and as the Mandalorian turns to leave, you find yourself interrupting him once again.
“I don’t know if you recognize me, but I-“
“The cantina.” He says quietly from over his shoulder, cutting you off.
You sigh heavily.
“Yes.”
And then as fast as he had arrived, he vanishes and you're left alone. With shaky legs, you turn and bound up the steps in threes, constantly glancing over your shoulder, your heart thrashing against the cage of your ribs as you go.