#point a to point b | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

amywritesthings · 2 years

Text

CHAPTER 14: WRECKED

The POINT A TO POINT B series.

gif credit: @ themandaloriandaily

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader ( Din x You )

Summary: Knocked unconscious by an ill-timed bomb, you awake to the aftermath of the freighter mission. It’s time to move forward, to find Point B, and continue your escape with Din.

Warnings: 18+ NO MINORS / Mentions of injury, Flashbacks, Aggressively Protective!Din, Bacta mentions, Bo-Katan being Bo-Katan, Helmetless!Din, Blindfolds, Themes of Sensuality

Word Count: 4K

A/N: ...it’s been a while, huh? The three-month hiatus is over! Thank you for your support in my absence, friends. As always, reblogs & comments are adored and appreciated.

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Series Masterlist.

PREVIEW:

“Then explain why one of your clan found her in the ship, unconscious?” He spits the word ‘clan’ with immense vitriol and distrust.

“Because, at some point, she went into the freighter on her own volition,” Bo-Katan reasons with a growl. “I cannot anticipate what your partner will or will not do when she is alone. In this case, she felt the need to leave her post.”

Mando stands an impossible step closer. Bo-Katan doesn’t move away.

“Speak ill of her again. See what happens.”

“Is that a threat, Mando?”

His nickname is sung with mockery.

POINT A TO POINT B

CHAPTER 14: WRECKED

Yavin 4 is beautiful after a storm.

The scent of grass after a passage of rain soothes the anxiety clinging tight to your chest. Birds sing in the distance while the insects buzz, creating a white noise blanket. Despite everything that surrounds this woodland planet, there is peace — maybe not for long, but it lives.

(A peace you have tried time and time again not to hold onto with an ironclad fist. Squeeze too tight and the earth will shake. These people don't need your avalanche.)

While most of Rebel volunteers work tirelessly under protective slabs of concrete, sheltering them from any impending attacks from above, you go against better wishes to remain in the forest. Here, where you can push the dirt around with your boot and see it roll effortlessly like the clouds in the sky.

Alive. The world is alive and well and beautiful.

“It’s my fault.”

You know she's there watching, waiting, for you to speak first. The Commander has yet to leave your side and with good reason — rumors circle about allegiances in the night, in the dark. Whether or not the other rebels believe your story is up to her trust and her trust in you alone.

Craning your attention from the pebbles of dirt, you angle towards the patient Commander. Her hands are clasped together, body adorned with a brilliant forest green jumpsuit.

“Your Highness,” the woman murmurs, her smile small yet inviting. “You’ve only just arrived. You’re allowed a moment’s rest.”

“As lovely an idea as rest is, Commander, I cannot,” you murmur absently, shifting your gaze to observe a verbal argument just beyond her shoulder. At the mouth of a safe zone building, two pilots hover heatedly around one of the circular holo-grids to debate the images below their chests. “Not when I suspect he’s only a few days behind us.”

You don’t need to hear the conversation to know why both pilots are so passionate: the destruction of the second Death Star is smaller than a one in a million shot.

Everyone’s fearful the plan won’t work, and they have every right to be: the first only went up in flames because of sheer luck, a bout of lightning that rarely strikes twice.

The Empire is falling, that much is true. Yet it’s the lengths in which the enemy will go to keep themselves on life support that cause such distress and worry throughout the galaxy.

(Distress and worry you wear on your own sleeve, here, as you clutch the possibility of ruining their final Hail Mary — and the possibility of failure, should Moff Gideon find you first.)

“I probably should have kept running,” you continue. “Kept people out of this mess.”

“You knew you could trust us,” the Commander beside you sighs, raising her arms to cross over her chest. She leans back against a metal barrier, waiting expectantly for the argument in return.

You scowl at her confidence, ignoring how the cut on your cheek burns with it. “That doesn’t mean everyone at this base happily signed over a death wish.”

“No, but safety is not what we signed up for, Princess.”

You shoot her a look, and the woman laughs.

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it? You could have stayed in the ivory towers of Coruscant, yet you chose to be here with us. If anything, it’s you that signed a death wish, clear as day and on a dotted line.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Is it not? Your injuries alone have shown the others what kind of sacrifice they have to be willing to make to be here.”

You hate being spoken of like you’re a martyr.

(It was the right thing to do.)

Your entire body still aches, but you know his aches more. The knowledge that you caused Moff Gideon equal amounts of suffering and pain is good enough for you. This plan was never one of the winning plays the Rebel alliance had on hand, but it was the only viable solution left. While Imperial numbers dwindle, so do yours; volunteerism has become the only way anything gets done under the talons of the Empire, and there is one good card left to play on the sabacc table.

Winning by the skin of their teeth — it’s something you and the Rebels have in common.

Once you heal enough to fly on your own, you’ll depart from this base to the next.

Constantly moving until the final Imperial flag falls.

“He’ll come after us,” you frown, eyes lingering on hers before you turn your attention back to the pilots — they now hold one another in a tight embrace. The softness — the desperation — makes your stomach churn. “All of us.”

“And we’re prepared for it, should the fight come.”

You don’t have the energy to tell her: there is no should.

Moff Gideon would come, whether you want him to or not.

The longer you bounce from place to place, the more scorched earth will linger in your absence.

If you can find your way to Point B without detection, if you can hold on for a little while longer, then this will have been worth it.

(Without this power, the Empire will weaken and die off altogether. You’re sure of it.)

Crouching with control to the ground, you reach lower to place a bare palm against the loosened dirt at your boot. The tickle of the particles offers you in a heavy reminder: you still breathe with full lungs, so you will continue on.

After floating through space on an Imperial ship week, months, it's so easy to forget the little things: how much you miss the smell of grass on the fresh dew of morning, or the warmth of an awakening sun as it rises.

Your fingernails dig down, down, until earth lives in the universe of your fist.

Remember this.

You are eager to photograph every inch of this place by sheer memory. The laughing foot soldiers pouring their mourning stew into their bowls. The families that play here, sing here, making the most of what remains of their once peaceful lives with the hope of starting anew.

(Rebellions were — and always have been — built on hope.)

You squeeze hard and suck in a sharp breath, closing your eyes.

. . . . . . . . .

“What did you do to her?”

It isn’t your voice.

The sound is filtered, as if grating against the edges of a helmet.

When you open your eyes, you’re no longer in the middle of a serene field base on Yavin 4, but somewhere much worse: the tumultuous docks of Trask, where a squared-shouldered Mando is nose-to-nose with an equally tense (and helmetless) Bo-Katan Kryze.

His visor points down to her bare face, gloved hand at the ready on his hip. Both Koska Reeves and Axe Woves hold their weapons steady, pointed at the Mandalorian in an elongated triangle and placing him dead center.

“What did you do to her?” The modulated voice demands again, deeper in its bark.

“Do to her?”

Bo-Katan. Her voice is no longer laced with nonchalance, but with surprise. Anger.

“Koska saved her.”

Koska?

Who did Koska save?

While everything beyond the dock continues to slosh back and forth like a trawler on the choppy sea, you explore the tingling sensation of your limbs reanimating from sore, dulled pain.

“You said she was going to be out of harm’s way.”

“And she was.”

“Then explain why one of your clan found her in the ship, unconscious?”

He spits the word ‘clan’ with immense vitriol and distrust.

Mando stands an impossible step closer. Bo-Katan doesn’t move away.

“Speak ill of her again. See what happens.”

“Is that a threat, Mando?”

His nickname is sung with mockery.

“It never stopped being one since the moment you slandered my clan,” Mando snarls, armor clinking as his finger raises to point in her face. “Without us, you wouldn’t have survived the first wave. You should be grateful she did you a favor. With honor, she—”

“Mando?”

Finally, you discover your voice. It’s hoarse and dry, but working. Managing.

Like lead, the hand once pushing into Bo-Katan’s face drops to his side as his helmet whips at attention, visor directly pointed at you.

Without another word he pushes past the helmetless leader, stalking with urgency to the other side of the dock.

“—dank farrik.”

His armor clangs as he drops to his knees, glove gingerly cupping the side of your face. You melt into the heavy feel of his palm — strong, familiar, a chance for peace — and rest your cheek with ease.

“Hey, it’s me. I’m here.”

“Hey,” you mumble in return, shifting against the pole propping your seated torso from slouching. You try to offer a smile, but your face aches.

Everything hurts.

“Don’t move,” he orders, but something sounds off about his voice. It’s small against the modulator, whispered, while his visor searches the perimeter of your head in a frenzied, clockwise circle. “You’re hurt. I’m going to get you out of here.”

The realization sinks deep.

He’s terrified.

“It was…” You wince at the sandpaper-like texture of your throat and swallow heavily to coat it with saliva. “...my fault.”

“What?” You feel Mando’s gloves tenderly pressing down your arms to halt any any sudden movements. You fight to keep your eyes on him. “Nothing was your fault.”

“What Bo-Katan said is true,” you admit. “I went... into the ship.”

“She was under a pile of rubble beside an Imp and a Trooper,” Koska supplies, taking a protective stance in front of Bo-Katan in the absence of the bounty hunter. “The Imp was impaled. Trooper under the rubble. I wasn’t able to do a thorough check, but it looked like she crawled.”

“Because the ceiling... caved in,” you add, keeping your attention on his visor.

Surely he must know you heard all of it — the argument with Bo-Katan about the plan, the sudden influx of Stormtroopers, the way he said he would handle the flurry of fresh Troopers.

Then an explosion appeared.

Mando’s fingers smooth over your bicep, though whether it’s because he’s calming you down or stalling in admitting he was the cause of the damage above, you cannot tell.

“Bounty hunter: do you carry bacta spray on your ship?”

Axe gently weaves into the conversation, peering around his leader to speak directly to Mando.

“If I were you, I would transport her back there as soon as you’re able, before her wounds cause any lasting damage. I have a spare canister on me, should you need it.”

He walks forward, pace deliberate and strong before extending a long arm towards Mando. The bounty hunter hesitates, frozen in place before he regards Axe above him. Their gloves connect, and he slips the canister from the palm of the other Mandalorian and secures the item to his belt.

Mando does not thank him for his generosity.

“As agreed, I will help you seek your Jedi, as you have more than earned it,” Bo-Katan says in her feigned diplomatic tone, abandoning the heat Mando released. You slump to look at her over the bounty hunter's shoulder. His hand cinches tighter around your arm, protective.

(Feral.)

Her dark crimson brows raise in a pause.

“Take your ship to the forest planet of Corvus. There you will find a Jedi of the name Ahsoka Tano within the city of Corvus. Tell her Bo-Katan Kryze sent you.”

In an effort of belated good faith, Bo-Katan steps back once, twice, three times to give you both room. Her chin bows deep.

“Now go care for your partner. Depart from Trask safely.”

In the haze, you see her gaze connect with yours.

“And thank you, for everything you did for us.”

Wordlessly, Mando rises to his knees and takes to a crouch, preparing to sweep his arms under your knees and back. He cautiously places your limp arm around his shoulders for support, but there is no need for it — he’s strong enough without your help to do the heavy lifting for you both.

“Please tell me… we’re walking,” you weakly joke into his breastplate. A noise of discomfort rushes past your lungs as he rises to his feet, anchoring you in towards his chest.

“Flying will be the fastest way,” he murmurs over the crown of your head. “Hold onto me, okay?”

“I might — pass out.”

“Don’t fall asleep, do you hear me? Stay with me.”

You can’t pin-point if his voice cracks or if it’s his modulator glitching.

The jetpack ignites.

. . . . . . . . .

You aren’t sure when you fell unconscious — somewhere between the feeling of being airborne and the exhaustion of today taking over — but when you come to, the universe is black.

With a brilliant gasp of air, your body lurches in the darkness to fight. Yet the heaviness of restraints aren’t there. Your forehead is ablaze with sweat. The pain is dulled, a lulling throb in the back of your skull. Beneath you is soft and warm, not hard and cold.

“Princess?”

The question tickles your left ear. You turn to nothingness to find the gruff voice, taking into a frenzied scramble to get away from it in a fight or flight response.

“Stay away from me—”

“Wait.”

The deep baritone cautions the air surrounding you like velvet. Soft warmth engulfs your flailing arm, pressing your bicep into your torso with profound care. A squeak of surprise catches in your throat.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Mando.

It is Mando's voice.

Searching for him in the nothingness with the tip of your nose as your guide, you tremble at the absence of a modulator.

There is no vocoder buzz. No filtered disconnect.

“Don’t move so much," he adds, filling the space with his naked voice. "The bacta spray’s still working.”

“Your—”

“—safe.”

“—helmet,” you finish in a croak, squeezing your eyes shut. “Why — where is your helmet?”

Your free hand roams in a fuss to cover your face, but it connects with a sliver of fabric — a thick barrier between the bridge of your nose and the skin of your fingers.

The emergency blindfold.

“I… took precaution in case you stirred earlier than expected,” he adds with unease. “You sustained a fair amount of injuries. I needed to be careful.”

He takes a beat, and you feel rough fingertips curl around yours by your nose. He tugs once, pulling your hand with his from the surface of the blindfold to lower to the sheet of the cot. His thumb slides along your skin in an attempt to soothe away any disorienting fear.

“You should be healed enough, now.”

You nod once, shoulders dropping a fraction. "...how long was I out?”

“Long enough to scare me,” he admits softly. “Four days, give or take some hours.”

Four entire days since the freighter.

Kriff.

“The kid?” you question abruptly, belated worry rushing to the forefront of your tired mind.

“Kid’s fine.”

“And Bo-Katan?”

“Gone to do as she pleases with her endless supply of weaponry,” Mando answers with a sour note on his tongue. “Along with her alleged clan.”

“And we’re on the Crest away from Trask?”

“Far away from Trask,” he confirms. “It’s only us.”

Your shoulders slouch with relief. “Thank the Maker.”

A huff of an ironic laugh leaves your lips as you open your eyes. Nothing. You see absolutely nothing, but you hear everything: the beauty of his naked voice, the freedom of his breath as he inhales and exhales. You didn’t realize how much you missed the simplicity of it.

He continues to hold your hand, but the air of the room shifts.

“What happened back on Trask can't happen again.” The softness in his voice becomes molten, solidifying to steel. “From now on, you stay on the ship until we arrive on Coruscant.”

Your chin tilts to find his voice, voice stronger in your blurt.

“What?”

“The only way this works is if you stick with the kid. I’ve had plenty of time to think about this.”

“No, there is no way I’m staying—”

When you start to vigorously shake your head, you’re slammed with stars behind your eyes. Mando’s grip tightens against your fingers in fright, while his free hand rests at your knee.

“Careful, cyar’ika, don’t move too fast.”

“I am fine,” you demand louder. “I will be fine.”

“You went inside the freighter.”

“But—”

“You promised me you would run the other way.”

A wave of nausea passes through your body from head to toe.

“The rest of the troopers were moving indoors,” you reason slowly, ignoring the waver in your voice. “I would have blown my cover if I stayed outside alone.”

“Your only responsibility was to run if things went wrong.”

“And I’m telling you, I would have been caught,” you argue, sitting up straighter. His palm is quick to steady the middle of your back. “Then Bo-Katan changed the deal—”

“You promised me,” Mando interrupts, sharper.

“And what about you?” you counter swiftly with your own bite.

“What about me?”

“Was I supposed to… ignore the comms completely when you broke our deal?”

You can hear him shift against the edge of the cot. “Our deal?”

“You and your promise to keep me safe. You say you don’t trust Bo-Katan and her clan, fine, but you were still willing to put yourself at risk. You’ll handle their problems for them, right? Even if they change the deal on a dime?”

He doesn’t speak, causing a huff of irony to pass your lips.

“Yeah, I heard the little savior play on the comms. That’s why I went running. To come after you.”

A heavy sigh exits his mouth as he shifts in front of you. “I was fine.”

“And if you weren’t?” you challenge, unable to halt the crack in your question. “This is twice now. Twice where you could have died and I would have heard or seen it. First the ship at sea, and now this job with Bo-Katan. Am I supposed to be okay with almost losing you? Was I meant to fly the Razor Crest to Coruscant on my own?”

His voice nears in a sorrowful whisper. “Princess, you don’t understand. You could have died. ”

“You could have, too,” you counter without missing a beat. “But Koska got me out of there.”

“And if she hadn’t?”

“Then I knew you would have, because I trust you.”

You reply with such conviction that the ship grows silent. All that surrounds you is the small sounds of the distant cockpit and the hum of the engine.

Mando pauses under your grip, marinating on the sentiment before replying with his own three words that break your heart:

“But I didn’t.”

Before you can hang on too tight, the mattress shifts and his hand disappears from yours.

You chase the touch despite yourself. All you connect with is air.

“I failed you, cyar’ika, and I am sorry,” he begins, voice further away. “I allowed my anger to get the best of me. In the moment, I could only see what it took to protect my clan and their honor. To show what it meant to be of the Watch, but I was supposed to protect the kid. I was supposed to protect you.”

Guilty seeps into the few beats of silence he holds onto after speaking.

“Yeah?” you tell him, recognizing the tremble in your own voice. “Well, not if I protect you first.”

Mando says nothing. You drop your palm to the mattress, searching for him in a semi-circle around you. He shifts further away once more, but you manage to clip your fingertips against the edge of his belt to stop him.

"Stop."

By some miracle, he does. Mando stays put, waiting for your command.

"I’m not letting you out of my sight — figuratively, obviously, since I can’t see you.”

Finally, finally the tense air breaks with his own chuckle of disbelief. He mumbles something foreign under his breath, and the mattress creaks at your side.

He’s back.

“Princess…”

“Bo-Katan was cruel,” you start, cutting him off before he can do the same to you. “Mandalorians or not, what her clan did to you? They ought to be ashamed of themselves. We were willing to help, yet she changed the deal and threw your code in your face just to see what makes you tick. I understand why you did what you did on the freighter, why you were willing to sacrifice yourself, because you’re always willing to help."

He says nothing, but you can hear the mattress beneath you shift. He's sliding closer. You continue.

"You’re a good person, Mando. You're good to the kid, you're good to me. Hell, you're good to strangers who never deserved your goodness. And I know I’m not a Mandalorian, but—”

“—but you have the heart of one.”

Mando cuts you off, taking your hand into his, but that isn’t what makes your breath disappear.

Something warm glides against the inside of your wrist. Soft and featherlike, barely a touch, before there is pressure, some wetness, and the fire blossoms low in your belly when you realize:

Somewhere you cannot see, Mando is bent over and kissing your wrist.

Kissing.

With his own naked lips.

You dare not move.

You dare not speak.

The Mandalorian has your undivided attention.

“You are right," he murmurs against the delicate skin. "You were not born on Mandalore, like me. You may not possess our armor, you may not have sworn to a code, but that does not mean you do not have the heart of a Mandalorian.”

He breathes for you — a gentle puff against your forearm.

“In the time I have known you, I have learned you are strong,” he continues with conviction. “You own a resilience unlike anyone I have ever met. You make difficult choices and do so with honor.”

His lips climb higher, dragging along your arm in worship. Goosebumps form in his wake.

“When my faith — when my oath — was tested on that moon, you chose to negotiate with peace instead of violence for the good of the Child. You asked to work with Kryze and her clan and secured the location of the Jedi when I could not."

He lingers, kissing the slope of your bicep.

"Even when your life could be in danger, you risked it. Even when I didn’t deserve it, you fought.”

He presses another kiss at your bare shoulder.

“You have always chosen to fight.”

Within a pause he rises, breath shivering along your chin.

“For the kid. For me. And I would...”

His words trail off, voice crackling. It repairs, returning with conviction.

“I would scorch the galaxy for you.”

His bare palms slide along either side of your face, cradling your head as though nothing more precious has ever graced his calloused, tired hands.

Your lips part wordlessly, voice lost in his confession, but eventually sigh as the pad of his left thumb grazes your cheekbone with timid admiration.

“Mando—”

“Din.”

The word is so small you almost don’t hear it.

The smooth plane of his bare forehead, warm and alive, drops ever so gently against yours. Over the fabric of the blindfold, the tip of his nose nudges yours. You hyper focus on something brushing your lips — facial hair, you're sure of it — before the universe stands still.

Because he murmurs the next four words like an oath to a creed:

“My name is Din.”

#din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian #din djarin #pedro pascal #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x f!reader #mando x female reader #mando x f!reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x f!reader #point a to point b #fic: point a to point b

127 notes · View notes

amywritesthings · 2 years

Text

CHAPTER 13: THE FREIGHTER

The POINT A TO POINT B series.

gif credit: @ scarlet-sky

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader ( Din x You )

Summary: You agree to help Bo-Katan seize Mandalorian weapons from an Imperial freighter. What if things go spectacularly wrong?

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence and injury, peril, mentions of torture, Soft/Worried!Din, Flashbacks, Minor character death Word Count: 5.2K

A/N: Buckle up, buckaroos, shit just got real. We return after a month hiatus to finally tackle the freighter mission, and things continue to spiral from here.

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Series Masterlist.

PREVIEW:

You were so close to everything going according to plan.

Stirring against the floor, the rubble scrapes like jagged fingernails along your bare chin. Across the remnants of a fiery hallway, a Stormtrooper and an Imperial officer are engulfed by flashing lights, immobile.

Your wheezing breath causes dust to stir.

Exposed.

Your face is exposed.

“Mand—”

Your lungs seize in a dry cough at the influx of debris before you can finish.

Then it hits you, slowly, as you fight the urge to sleep:

The person who set off the bombs was Mando.

CHAPTER 13: THE FREIGHTER

You were so close.

You were so close to everything going according to plan.

The comms link in your ear is rendered useless by the shrill sirens lining the Imperial freighter walls. A once sterile environment of grays, silvers, and whites disappears from sight, bleeding vivid reds — the perilous aftermath from a bomb somewhere on the upper deck, causing a ripple effect of chaos below.

The pain in your left leg is agonizing, yet your attention locks onto the sight of a soot-ridden helmet in the distance, visor cracked clear up the middle.

Your wheezing breath causes dust to stir.

Exposed.

Your face is exposed.

“Mand—”

Your lungs seize in a dry cough at the influx of debris before you can finish.

The comms link is overrun with shouts and blasters, but you can’t distinguish who is shouting and who is shooting. Yet you are certain of one thing: his voice, the one voice you could never forget, isn’t there.

Then it hits you, slowly, as you fight the urge to sleep:

The person who set off the bombs was Mando.

. . . . . . . . ONE HOUR PRIOR

By now, you hope Mando has made it back to the Razor Crest to sit the Child somewhere safe and secure until you can return. All that remains is you versus them — the test of trust begins long before the mission, setting an expectation between your traveling party and Bo-Katan.

In true Mando fashion, however, he does not leave you empty-handed: the homing beacon on your belt blinks bright red in activation.

A reminder — a pointed warning — that he can track your movements without being here, should Bo-Katan betray the pact.

He leaves nothing to chance.

Keeping to themselves, Axe and Koska angle away in secrecy, elbows pressed into the metal table. Bo-Katan, on the other hand, takes the golden opportunity to maneuver herself to your end of the table, taking Mando’s place.

At first she says nothing, allowing the heavy air to swirl between you. Refusing to break the silence first, you bow your head, attentively focused on the blinking beacon at your hip.

(You don’t enjoy his absence.)

“I appreciate your willingness to see this exchange be met,” Bo-Katan begins after minutes pass, carefully cutting the tension with a sharpened blade. “I’m… sure it wasn’t easy, convincing him, but you did a great job.”

“We need the information,” you respond, adopting Mando’s monotone approach. “I won’t be the one you have to deal with if you break this pact.”

“And you will receive the information you seek as soon as what we want is in our hands,” the Nightowl leader promises with a smile in her voice, allowing a pause to pass. “...how long have you been partners?”

“We don’t work as partners,” you correct, fidgeting with the strap of the belt. “More like employee-employer.”

“Ah.” Unconvinced. Bo-Katan leans deeper into her shoulder, keeping her tone low. “I only ask because he appears to have a fondness for you.”

Fondness.

The implication sends your nerve endings ablaze. You look at her before you can stop yourself, eyes meeting eyes, and the smile creeps onto her lips. The reaction is precisely what she wants, so she pushes further.

“Have you ever seen his face?”

You blink twice as your brow knit. “Seen his—”

Face.

Is she really asking?

Although unwise to provoke her, you mirror her movements and lean in, speaking plainly.

“This entire mess started because you insisted on seeing his face. You were so quick to call his clan a cult, you claim to know his clan’s beliefs, but you’re asking me if I’ve seen his face?”

Bo-Katan doesn’t react.

(Unbelievable.)

You roll the tip of your tongue across the front of your teeth and shake your head, temper at a simmer.

“Do you know anything about the people you insulted? He told you, they cannot remove—”

“—their helmets unless they’ve sworn a different kind of oath,” she interjects, slowed and punctual. “I know of their teachings, my friend. I am not ignorant to the Watch in more ways than one, so my question still stands.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the context hits you belatedly in the face: she knows what it takes to see him.

(A different kind of oath.)

With a sputter, you abruptly shake your head. “No — no, we’re not. That isn’t — he hasn’t sworn anything like that. I told you, it’s a working partnership. It isn’t romantic.”

(Your fist clenches against the thigh of your trousers at the memory of what it looks like to be underneath him.)

Brows furrowed with an unspoken doubt, Bo-Katan studies the response before nodding. “My apologies, then. I could have sworn I’d maybe missed something.”

A light ding breaks the interrogation as the sight of shining beskar slips through the front entrance of the inn.

Mando.

It’s impossible to hide the sheer relief alleviating all-too tense shoulders. Bo-Katan swivels her attention to him as well, mouth thin-lipped and prepared. Yet before you rise from the table, you allow a hand to drop lightly on her shoulder guard.

“Bo-Katan?” She responds wordlessly by following your hand to your face with her stare. “I think you would have better luck earning his respect — and mine — if you stopped looking for things that aren’t there.”

Before the Mandalorian clan leader can retaliate with her own advice, you step away from the chair to greet the returning bounty hunter in the middle of the room. Disinterested in the other three, he stalks towards you, helmet tilted with a non-verbal question.

(Are you alright?)

You mirror him, tilting your chin with raised brows as your answer.

(Let’s get this over with.)

Mando nods once, accepting the answer. He reaches between you to deactivate the beacon at your hip. The red light dulls back to black.

“We’re ready to mobilize.”

“Good.”

Bo-Katan is the first to stand from her perch at the table. As if in sync, Axe and Koska follow a breath behind. Mando wastes not a second longer to turn on his heel, exiting without another word. Axe and Koska follow his lead, passing you to file out of the inn and into the midnight air. Bo-Katan gestures you leave next, with her lastly in tow.

By the time you meet the chill of a sunless sky, Mando has himself positioned against the wall across from the inn’s entrance. From his body language alone — standing arms crossed, guarded from others, with his hip pressed into a nearby abandoned crate — he’s not thrilled. His armor gleams in the moonlight. Bo-Katan, Axe, and Koska stand together in a triangle formation.

To avoid questioning, you stand in the middle — not too close to Mando, but no further than arm’s length.

(Do not go far from me — you promised.)

“I surveyed the area,” he tells Bo-Katan. “We should be clear to infiltrate the ship.”

“Were you able to see how many troopers were on the ground?”

“No more than two outside. Maybe a dozen inside.”

Bo-Katan brings her helmet into her hands. Just as they had in the inn, Koska and Axe follow her motions a beat later. Together, they push their helmets over their heads. Bo-Katan turns her owlish face towards you. “Stay on my six and don’t fall behind.”

As if you had any other choice, being the only one without armor.

The three lead the charge out of the alleyway and onto the docks, mindful of their bearings as they near the freighter at the very end of the pier. You can feel the heat from Mando’s body radiating off your back from how close he walks behind you, guarding with his own broad-shouldered beskar advantage.

The other three are too busy executing the plan at full-steam ahead to notice.

“Is the Child safe?” you murmur, keeping the conversation between close quarters.

Mando’s breastplate presses softly into your back. “He is. You should have followed.”

“We need that information. I’ll be fine.”

“You shouldn’t have had to volunteer on my behalf,” he mumbles, but the anger isn’t directed towards you. “This isn’t your mission.”

There it is again.

You pause in your tracks, turning to press chest-to-chest with his armor. He automatically pauses, body tense as he stares over the crown of your head.

“It is.”

“It is what?” he asks, softer this time.

“My mission.” His helmet cants to the right, chin dropping to look squarely at you. “You keep saying this isn’t something I have to do. I know that. I’m choosing to do this.”

“But you’re—”

“This is bigger than a bounty on my head, Mando. I know I’m just… precious cargo and a means to an end for you, but the kid?” Your next words are curt. Final. “I’m not letting Moff Gideon get near him. We help Bo-Katan, we get the location of the Jedi, you take me to Coruscant, and that’ll be it.”

(He appears to have a fondness for you.)

If you take her outside perspective — that hope — then you’ll run too fast with it.

Mando says nothing, but you pretend to ignore the slight jut of his chin back into his neck. A noise fractures along the modulator, but it’s the sharpness of Koska’s whistle that saves either of you from pursuing the conversation further.

From a distance, you see boots of a Stormtrooper slide along the damp docks, disappearing behind a large crate. Mando takes the lead, hovering a glove along your forearm to maintain proximity as you stick to the shadows and reunite with Bo-Katan.

The knocked-out Trooper lays helmetless on the dock floor, stripped down to their flight suit. The three Mandalorians work to assemble the pieces of the disguise as Axe holds out the ivory chest and back plates for Mando to take.

“It’ll be a little big, but it should fit her.”

Again, Mando says nothing. With both large hands, he maneuvers you in front of him and raises the strapped pieces above your head. The weight of white armor settles heavily on your shoulders in more ways than one.

The bounty hunter removes the gadgets, bombs, and Hail Mary weaponry on your belt and places them back to his own for safe keeping. The other three depart from the unconscious soldier to help with the assembly, securing various limbs of armor together for a faster build.

You don’t move against the pressure of their push and pull — all you can do is watch your elongated reflection in the breastplate of beskar, wondering if you really can pull this off. He must notice, because you’re awakened back to the present by a gentle touch of fabric along the outer shell of your ear.

“Take this,” Mando says, urging you to slot the communicator into your ear.

“A comms link?” you ask, pushing it into your ear canal.

“One I kept on the Crest, just in case. Was given to me by an old friend who didn’t know when to stop talking, so I never used it.”

“Did you bring extras?”

“You’re my only concern.” The statement makes your stomach flutter. Mando’s head turns as Bo-Katan cautiously nears. Between her gloves is the final piece of the puzzle: an ivory helmet fit with a familiar, menacing black visor. “Allow me to.”

“Go for it,” Bo-Katan hums, and your once-flighty stomach turns sour from the sing-song nature of her tone. Like she’s solved the mystery of knowing what the two of you are all about.

She doesn’t know anything.

“Hey.”

The gentle whisper of Mando’s voice against the modulator brings your eyes to the chrome visor. The Stormtrooper helmet remains between orange-tipped fingers.

“There will be interference from the comms link inside this helmet, but I will be with you every step of the way.”

“I know.”

Mando raises his arms, hovering the helmet just over your head. “And if it gets too dangerous, you turn on the homing beacon on your belt and run. I will find you.”

“I know.”

“And if this link somehow breaks—”

“You sound nervous.” Your brows cinch, searching his visor for eyes you know you cannot see. He stalls, causing you to ask. “Are you?”

The bounty hunter shifts where he stands. “What you’re doing, Princess, it’s…”

“Reckless?”

“Brave.”

There is gravity to his correction. Your expression softens.

“Thank you.”

With that, your world goes red.

Engulfed by the claustrophobic smush of the Trooper’s helmet as it clings to your cheeks, you’re met with floating metrics and comms frequencies from the previous soldier that occupied this suit. At first the sight is overwhelming — so much is happening at once yet you cannot follow nor understand what any of it means.

“I turned off her comms link,” Koska says, but it’s filtered. Everything sounds underwater.

(Is this how Mando hears you?)

Axe speaks up. “Hopefully they won’t notice a decommissioned Trooper so long as we’re quick about it.”

“Perfect,” you hear Bo-Katan say. “Bounty hunter: get her into position and meet us up there.”

“On it.” Mando’s voice cuts straight through the oceanic vastness and directly into your ear.

Igniting their jet packs, the three of them disappear into the clouded night sky. Mando stands with you, offering the fallen Trooper’s Imperial-grade pistol.

“I’ll be okay,” you reassure him, wincing at the way your voice sounds trapped in the helmet. You reach with your glove to take the pistol into both hands.

“Abandon the freighter if something feels off,” he reminds you, and you nod.

“Go. I’ll find my way to the post and wait for your signal,” you promise, clunking two steps backwards in the Trooper boots. Mando waits a beat, giving you a once-over, before igniting his own jet pack.

And just like that, you’re alone.

Brave.

You could be brave.

With squared shoulders, you take a slow pace to the open landing of the Imperial freighter. No one’s outside — the privacy allows you precious time to get into position the way you assume the original Trooper had been. Every second on this mission counts.

The ship is large, intimidating in its own right. In your uncovered ear, you hear faint voices assessing systems checks on the Imperial comms. Someone mentions how miserable Trask is. Another scowls and promises the ship is scheduled to depart in a few hours.

In a sea of eavesdropped conversation, all you want to hear is Mando’s voice.

“Hey, you, did you hear something?”

That isn't him. The higher-pitched voice behind you causes you to whip around. Another Trooper walks from the belly of the ship with an assault rifle, visor canted down at you.

“I thought I heard voices out here.”

In a brief panic, you shake your head and raise a single shoulder into a shrug.

The other Trooper groans, waving you off with disinterest.

“Keep me in the loop if you hear about anything. This moon’s a dump.”

You fumble with the pistol to free one hand, offering a thumbs up. The other Trooper snorts, disappearing back into the ship and out of view.

And for a while, it’s just like that. Announcements to call signs and signals you don’t understand. Names you do not know. Inside jokes between officers battling about the glory days of the Empire. How they're excited to eventually go back home.

All it takes is a blast from the comms link inside your ear for all of that to go to shit.

From a distance, you can hear several blasters firing off in one ear while the shouts of fallen Troopers simultaneously fill the other.

On your helmet’s visor, a high alert warning is triggered on the upper left corner, flashing in pixelated yellow.

Someone frantically speaks over the Empire’s comm feed:

( Pirates! We’ve got pirates on board! Guard that hall. Seal the hatch and check the exterior door. )

Over and over, the calls for aid on the upper decks of the freighter fill your head. The Trooper that questioned you takes off into a sprint up and into the ship, and a sea of white and black armor rush to stationed turbolifts. Uncertain of where to go — Do you leave? Do you listen to what Mando said to do? — you move into the ship to continue the charade, helmet down.

( What’s going on? How many of them are there? )

The frantic questions only seem to grow louder with every blast.

( Sir, there are only four life forms — wait. They’re Mandalorian! They’re headed to the cargo bay. Close the doors! )

“Mando, they know where you are,” you murmur into the helmet, hoping that Koska effectively muted your Stormtrooper helmet link as you keep close to a nearby wall, hiding in plain sight.

“Bo-Katan, they’re coming,” Mando says, relaying your information.

Over and over, an officer yells to his immediate surroundings — Close the doors! Close all of them! — as rhythmic as the sirens sounding above you.

( Come in. Do you copy? Do you— )

“I copy.”

A voice unlike any of the Imperial guard appears. It’s a voice no longer contained by a helmet.

(It’s a voice dripping with a smug confidence you’ve grown to know all too well.)

“Thanks for packing up all this gear so nicely. Imagine what a division of us can do when we get our hands on what’s inside these shiny little boxes.”

Relief fills your lungs.

Bo-Katan found the weapons.

The mission’s almost over.

( If you think you’re going to escape with those weapons, you are sadly mistaken. Even if you’ve managed to jettison a few of those crates, we will comb the entire area until you are hunted down and killed. )

“Oh, we’re not jettisoning anything. We’re taking the entire ship,” Bo-Katan corrects. “Put some tea on. We’ll be up in a minute.”

“What?” you whisper under your breath, turning your chin to the empty hallway. Against your ear, you hear the breathy anger of the Mandalorian bounty hunter.

“This is more than I signed up for,” he growls.

You can faintly make out what Bo-Katan says through Mando’s helmet. “There is something I need, if I am to rule Mandalore. Something that was once mine. They know where it is and soon, so will I. Regardless, we are taking the ship for the battles ahead.”

“I got you your weapons,” Mando protests. “I have to return to my ship with the foundling.”

Bo-Katan sighs. “If you want my help finding the Jedi, you will help me take this ship.”

“You’re changing the terms of the deal.”

You’ll never forget the way Bo-Katan answers.

It is malicious. Cruel.

“This is the Way.”

Pushing yourself away from the wall of safety, you trudge down the hallway towards the entrance with your hands tightly clutching your weapon. “Mando, disengage.”

He doesn’t answer. Has the comms link frayed?

“She’s going to keep changing the kriffing deal,” you add louder, pressing a palm into the side of your helmet. “Let her get her own damn weapons.”

“Attention! Why are you not with the rest of your squad, Trooper?”

A voice, booming and furious, freezes every muscle in your body.

Shouts and orders continue to rupture against the sounds of frantic blasts in your one ear.

(He told you to run. You’re too terrified to breathe.)

“Are you ignoring your superior officer?” the voice demands in a slithering snap.

“No, sir,” you answer, disgusted to hear the words leave your mouth.

As you turn in the Trooper armor, your blood runs cold. An officer in Imperial grays stands before you with an accompanying Stormtrooper aiming at your head. Immediately you focus on the officer’s eyes, unable to look away.

It isn’t the cold way he glares at you, however, that has you spooked.

His dark brown eyes almost bleed black. A scar sits under his left pupil, dragging just under his waterline and into his skin.

“What is your TK number, Trooper?” he asks, taking another step forward.

You can’t run, not when he’s holding you hostage with an armed guard behind him.

When you open your mouth to answer, you hear the sudden frantic voice of Bo-Katan as the sound of a door begins to creak under solid weight — Shit, they’re trying to send another wave. Shut it down, Reeves! Keep them out! — from Mando’s comm.

“I can hold them off.” That’s Mando’s voice. “Cover me.”

You abruptly look at the ceiling, fear gripping your heart as you forget yourself and speak to the air. “Mando, what are you doing?”

“Answer me, Trooper!” the officer barks, but the order sounds distant when zeroed in on the way Bo-Katan fights Mando’s insistence to fight the incoming wave of Troopers.

“Are you insane?" she shouts, voice echoing. "You could get yourself killed!”

“We have no other choice, ” he speaks plainly as his boots clip across the floor. The trio of Mandalorian voices soften from the growing distance. “Just do what you need to do.”

Suddenly a hand is on your arm, jerking you forward. You collide with the Imperial office shouting in your face. “Trooper! I asked you for—”

White noise pierces every part of your senses.

Your ears go numb from the ringing. Your eyes see a brilliance of red light. Shrapnel explodes from the ceiling, caving the hallway to the ground.

You feel the dirt. You taste blood. You are airborne and flying until you are not.

And for a while, there is silence.

. . . . . . . . .

After what feels like hours, you come back to the present. The high-pitched ringing is replaced by the ear-splitting sirens calling for aid and attack on the Imperial freighter. The world around you remains red, drenched in a panicked crimson. Pieces of the ceiling continue to drop in sickening thuds.

Stirring against the floor, the rubble scrapes the underside of your chin. The pain in your left leg is agonizing yet dulled, thrumming with your quickening pulse.

When the red lights flicker, you realize the ivory remnants of a Stormtrooper helmet is in the distance, cracked straight up the middle. The drab lifelessness of the Empire on this ship is a stark contrast from the red emergency lights. And when you wheeze for air, dust flutters around your bare face.

Exposed.

Your face is exposed.

“Mand—”

The debris invades your lungs, causing your croak to dissolve into a whooping cough.

The sound jerks the Imperial officer to life from the rubble, his complexion a mixture of pale white and scarlet. The Trooper once holding you hostage lingers lifeless on the floor — his once-drawn weapon now lying in the middle of the hallway, open for anyone to take.

The officer bleeds profusely from the crown of his head down the side of his face. His hat is nowhere to be found.

And he’s staring right at you.

At first he blinks slowly, as if to gain his bearings, but when his sight locks on you the transition is quick — confusion that melts into something far worse than anger or fear:

Recognition.

“You.”

A murmur of awe slips through his lips.

“You’re alive?”

The vivid scent of smoke invades your nostrils as your nerve endings sink with dread. Your fingers drag along dirt-like rubble, looking for something tangible to grab onto as you slip in and out of consciousness.

When you last saw this Imperial officer, you were looking up at him — not across.

A group of people run frantically to the last line of X-Wings as a squadron of pilots fire up their engines. The hope of escaping is diminished with as Stormtroopers encroach onto the base, attacking the legion of blasters on the front lines. One by one, the last line of defense is broken, allowing the Empire to breach buildings for what few survivors are left.

Someone in the distance shouts to you, vocals frayed from screaming. Her silhouette pleads at the cockpit of a ship, hand outstretched.

(Run! Get up and run!)

You try. You try with all your might, but you can’t feel your legs.

The dirt reeks. It burns.

Above you stands an Imperial officer, wicked with glee at his discovery. Behind him the Rebel alliance flag illuminates from the surrounding fire, tattered from wayside gunfire. Each leaf acts as a toppling dominos, igniting the trees and setting the forest brilliantly ablaze.

Your palms push at the ground to scramble backwards, but the officer crouches and places his gloved hand on the back of your neck as if you were a newborn loth cat; squeezing, brutally so, to get your attention.

(So this is where you’ve been hiding all this time.)

You note how the scar in his bleeding black eyes drags down his left cheek. How it warps when he grins, nodding to himself.

(The Moff will be most pleased to finally re-meet your acquaintance.)

When you blindly search for your blaster to strike back, he extends the toe of his boot to crush your fingers, earning a whimper of discomfort. The officer bends further, hissing the venom straight into your cheek.

(You’re special, little one.)

The same man stares back at you now, the streak of blood dipping under his chin.

“I know you.”

You barely recognize your own voice, wasted by debris.

“I’ve seen your face before,” you continue as you press your palms into the ground, ignoring the way chunks of metal dig into your skin.

At first he says nothing, eyes wide as he surveys with distinct interest. “I was always curious if the traitor of Yavin 4 ever survived.”

Traitor.

What does he mean traitor?

“You gave me over to Moff Gideon,” you murmur, nauseated by the way the room swirls as you reach the collapsing wall. He hasn’t noticed the blaster on the floor between you yet. You’re delirious with the hope of taking it before he can.

“They said you… didn’t make it off the bloody ship,” he says in a wheeze. When you blink to regard him, you notice his hand is pressed into his now blackened uniform jacket.

Shrapnel, impaled into his stomach.

He’s dying.

“Which ship?” you ask, swallowing what little spit is in your mouth to coat your dry throat. “Please, I need to know.”

“The only ship he’d keep you on,” he scoffs with a gurgled laugh. “Do you so easily forget?”

With a squeak you manage to stand at full height. Although the pain shoots clear through your leg and into your head, you begin to limp your way through the rubble towards the blaster.

“I have no memory.” The same words you once told the Moff in a dream, far away from here. “Nothing. Shapes and faces, moments in time that don’t connect, but your face — in the fire and dirt, I saw you. You told me I was hiding.”

His stare hardens at your confession. “You truly don’t remember, do you?”

“No, but I need to.”

It’s a plea you wish you could hold back, especially when the realization dawns on his face of what you’ve been stalking towards. You fumble as you lean down to grab the blaster, only to fumble back to the ground. He shifts against the wall to try and beat you to it, but winces as the shrapnel disappears deeper.

The more he moves, the faster his death will be.

The blaster is yours. You hug it to your chest.

“Why do you call me a traitor?” you press on, though your next question causes bile to rise in your throat. “Why am I special to him?”

He smiles, though there is no joy in it. “Because you… took things that didn’t belong to you. You… bested the Moff right under his nose. Never anticipated a… princess to best him.”

The wave his words cause crashes over you like an impending hurricane, flooding your system with unspeakable dread.

So it’s true.

It isn’t an off-handed nickname given to you by a bounty hunter.

(Safely transport a princess of value from this moon to the planet of Coruscant.)

“And now he wants nothing more than to… hurt you,” he adds, gasping for air.

Your chin falls to the curve of the Stormtrooper armor, searching.

(As if somehow his words would conjure the very tangible item you allegedly stole.)

The pieces are fitting, albeit jaggedly so. You stole something from the Empire, something dear to Moff Gideon, but it isn’t here.

(Is it back on the Crest?)

The officer’s pained voice cuts through your panic.

“Kept you on that ship for weeks, he did. Couldn’t get you to answer… where you’d hidden the bloody thing. Tortured for hours. I almost pitied you.”

“Hidden what?” you whisper in fear, but he continues his recount.

“He thought… that pathetic rescue mission ended with your Rebel scum ship being blown to smithereens. Dead. Never to be seen again. But then they caught… word it may not have been so. A cover-up.”

You lean forward despite the dizziness in the back of your head. “I need to know what I stole. I am begging you: tell me.”

His breath shortens, chest convulsing for air, but he finds it in his final sighs.

“Things we… wished to accomplish. The remnant plans of the Empire. A winning blow against scum.”

The gnarled, crimson teeth of the officer gleam as he cackles.

“A princess… volunteering to hide in plain sight. A death wish. Your days… have always been numbered, but he’ll find you soon enough. He always does.“

A chill shoots down the back of your spine.

Closing your eyes to catch your bearings, you breathe through a wave of nausea and dizziness once more. Sweat drips from your brow and onto the thigh of your armor. The sirens still sound. The lights still flicker.

You haven’t heard Mando’s voice once.

Shaken fingertips reach down to your belt, sifting through unfamiliar pockets until they find the homing beacon.

(Run. You need to run.)

When you finally open your eyes, the officer is gone: his eyes stare to the ripped-apart ceiling, lifeless, with his bloodied palm pressed to his decorated breast pocket.

“Mando?" You speak to the open air, hoping the comms link is somehow still functioning. "I need you."

Everything is spinning. Your thumb tabs at the button on the tracker, but it won't illuminate.

“Shit. Mando, answer me. I'm — below you. I don't think I can make it out of here, not on my own."

He does not answer.

Focus. Stay focused.

(Stay alive and focus.)

"We need to — get off of Trask."

The pain in your leg shoots straight through your body when you attempt to move. You cry out and hunch over the curve of the dented breastplate, before your voice falters to a whisper.

"Please, get us off Trask... I can't... It's my fault—”

Your elbow buckles, causing your palm to slip against the floor.

The last thing you remember is hearing the smack of your skull against the hard surface of the freighter floor.

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian #din djarin #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfic #star wars #star wars fanfiction #mando/you #mando/reader #fic: point a to point b #point a to point b

177 notes · View notes