autumnwoodsdreamer

[autumnwoodsdreamer]

I cannot recommend this fic enough. Seriously. It’s just… brilliant.

Toro Calican Lives AU

Chapter 4 — First Impressions

Media: The Mandalorian

Rating: Gen.

Word Count: 14,119

Warnings: Canon-typical violence

Art Credit: Christian Alzmann, The Art of Star Wars: The Mandalorian

Series Summary: What would have happened if Toro Calican hadn’t betrayed the Mandalorian? How would the story have changed if he had lived?

Chapter Summary: Things are bound to change when you throw somebody new into the mix.

This chapter, though similar to canon, better develops some of the characters and circumstances leading into “Sanctuary.”

—

Din gingerly stretched his arm up to assess the injuries he’d sustained. Over the past two weeks he’d been in multiple fights, electrocuted, dropped sixty feet onto his back, bodily hit four times by a mudhorn, shot by a modified MK, and had a speederbike shot out from under him going a hundred miles an hour.

The damage was taking its toll.

Purple, blue, and magenta bruises bloomed across his ribs and chest in a number of patterns and intensities. The ones from the Sandcrawler fall and the mudhorn were tinged green with healing around the edges, but newer ones criss-crossed his skin in Venn diagrams of pain. He’d been containing his movement as much as he could since Arvala-7: two ribs felt loose and his back ached with gravity’s pull every time he got out of bed. He hadn’t had proper enough rest after the fall and the tussle with the mudhorn to justifiably say he was back up to par, though for reasons unknown he didn’t feel as bad as he thought he should.

Shand’s second shot had hit the back of his pauldron, and while the blasterfire had been deflected, the force behind it had still traveled through the joint of his shoulder, which was to say nothing of the shot he’d taken square in the chest: the rifle bolt had felt like another hit from the mudhorn. In the privacy of the bunk he rolled his shoulder, taking note of at which angles it hurt most to move as he picked up the hand scanner and hovered it over his ribs to get a reading.

The screen blipped, the readout telling him there was no internal bleeding this time, so he set it aside and sifted through the analgesics in the hidden compartment by the head of the cot. Of the most recent injuries, Shand’s strike to the inside of his knee and the loose ribs concerned him the most. He hated wasting medical supplies, but the knee had been a bother even before the mercenary’s fight and he needed to be able to walk unhindered: with a steadying breath he lifted the lip of his helmet and knocked back the painkillers, then stooped to roll up his pant leg and swab a spot on the outside of his knee, injecting a half dose of bacta with the stimpak. The muscle strain and bruising in his chest and back would have to wait until they found somewhere to settle and he could rest properly— There were too many muscle groups working together for an injection to do much good while they were still on the move. Having his feet under him would have to do.

The kid stirred groggily in the hammock above the cot. Din could feel the critter’s big eyes watching him. It made him uncomfortable, but the kid either couldn’t tell or didn’t care. Instead he rolled over the edge of the hammock to dangle his feet above the cot and drop down onto the bedding. Din watched him from the side as he toddled across the blanket to him, perching by his thigh to peer under Din’s arm.

When the child reached his hand up to Din’s side, Din removed the autoinjector and shifted away from him on the cot, stowing the medical supplies in the compartment and letting his pant leg fall before picking the kid up. He put him back up in the hammock and shoved his boots on.

“Just for a minute,” he told the kid as he fastened his tunic and donned the armor he’d set aside. “We’ll get food when I’m done.”

Out in the hold it appeared the gunslinger had helped himself to a ration pack and was working his way through a biscuit while sat atop a footlocker. His bedroll nearby was still in a state of disarray, his bag half-packed. Toro nodded in greeting before going back to his work on the disassembled heavy blaster pistol in his lap, a torque wrench in one hand and the biscuit between his teeth. Mando passed him to get some food ready for the kid.

Toro rolled the toolkit back up and quickly reassembled the blaster. “So where’re we headed?” he asked.

“Sorgan,” Mando replied. The child took the ration bar Din gave him, happily chowing down.

“Never heard of it.”

“Backwoods planet near Savareen.”

“The old coaxium refinery?”

Din was surprised. “Yeah. It’s four quadrants up on the Core axis though; Sorgan is fairly isolated.”

“Do they have a Lodge?”

“Nope.”

“But you said—”

“I said, passage to the next system, and we’ll see where we go from there.” Mando picked up the pieces of the modified rifle left by the mercenary, looking over the build. He opened the gunlocker, setting them inside on the rack and rearranging other ordnance. “I also said the kid and I are laying low. You won’t always have a go-between for these jobs, and you may have to find different work between commissions. If you’re sticking around, we won’t be meeting with a broker until we’ve recovered and restocked supplies.”

“Yeah, that’s fair. My arm’s in pretty bad shape.” Toro tucked his chin, thumbing the tear in his shirtsleeve aside. Mando glanced out from behind the armory door: Toro had some blistering on his forearm and a shallow wound on his shoulder, probably from one of Fennec’s blades. Toro moved the arm without hindrance and he seemed alert. Mando stared.

“Is it still bleeding?”

“No, it stopped not long after we hit hyperspace.”

“… Can you move your shoulder.”

“Yeah, but it’s still an open wound; you have anything for it?”

Mando bit his tongue, stepping around his new crewmate to rifle through a cabinet attached to the bulkhead near the bow. “Bacta patch if you can’t walk it off.” He sifted through the medical cabinet, searching for the equipment on the charging dock. “Medical-grade expansion foam if it’s deep and you removed whatever you were stabbed with. You’ll have to get back to your base of operations or a med center if you think they hit an organ or artery. Cauterizing suture if it’s a slash as long as they missed any tendons.”

“I thought the point of patching wounds wasn’t to cause more damage,” Toro said with amusement.

Mando returned with the cauterizer, seeing Toro’s face sober instantly.

“Woah, hey, I’m not using that. What happened to good old fashioned stitches?”

Mando stopped in front of him, offering the cauterizer and a patch to cover it. “Each stitch is a potential infection site. Medical-grade cauterizer will kill bacteria and create a suture at the same time, and it’s faster to do in the field.”

“What if the blade was poisoned?”

Mando moved Toro’s torn shirt aside, examining his shoulder. “It wasn’t.”

“But what if—”

“It wasn’t,” Din repeated. “You’d know by now if it was, and you’re stalling. Here; cauterizer feels better if you do it yourself.”

Toro glanced back down to his shoulder before looking at Mando with suspicion. “What about a stab wound? Cauterizer’s not gonna get that deep.”

“We’re burning daylight, kid.”

“Humor me,” Toro argued. “So I know what you plan to zap me with in the future.”

Din sighed. “They’re… harder to repair than slash wounds,” he said. “Plastospray will work on anything except bone. If you’re trying to conserve your medical supplies it’s a waste to use it on a slash when you may need it for something more serious down the road. Blood seeps outward from a slash and you’ll be able to see what you suture back into place. Stabs displace deeper ligaments and tendons on the way in and if they hit an artery, the blood pools inward and you won’t have a gauge for how much you’ve really lost. You’ll die from the pressure buildup before anything else.”

Toro hesitated, looking back down to his shoulder. “You get stabbed often?”

“Enough for it to count.”

Far down on the planet below, a rippling shudder passed through the air and rattled the bones of those in the fishing village, turning eyes skyward for the source. Omera watched as a heavy gunship coasted down beyond the village, skimming the tops of tsuga trees in the direction of Lau. It had been a long time since something of that weight class had entered the area; without a sufficient starport, Sorgan was largely forgettable to the rest of the Outer Rim and to Omera, that had been the appeal. Sorgan wasn’t supposed to be on anybody’s radar.

“Do you think they could help?”

Stoke glanced at Caben. “We don’t know who that could be.”

Caben rested his hand on the dredger, his other arm hanging across it. “It’s worth asking, don’t you think?”

“Not if they’re not planning to stick around long,” Stoke said, going back to his work. “And we’re needed here. The raiders were up at the springs last week. They’re getting closer.”

“We can’t sit here and do nothing,” Caben said seriously. “We need someone to back us up, Stoke.”

“We’re not “doing nothing,” Caben. If anyone leaves now there’s less people for the lookout.”

“What if we just went to Lau to see if the loggers could help? It’s better than not trying at all. Right, Omera?”

Omera surveyed the ponds in thought, realist and idealist arguing behind her. Neela and Fashol were tiredly sifting through dead krill in the eastern quad, chucking them into a bucket to be disposed of. The ash from the fires had clouded and poisoned the pond almost immediately after the attack, the blue-bodied crustaceans being choked out as the water turned grey. Entire ponds would need emptied and filtered, and the phytoplankton recultivated before they could even be reseeded with krill.

Between the ponds she could see the children pulling broken equipment out of walkways, their round faces somber. Winta’s especially had drawn into one of severe contemplation as she rigged up a pulley and rope to have three of the other children pull on it together, hauling one of the destroyed fishing droids out of the water. The expression she had was much too old for her young face.

“Caben’s right.”

Stoke and Caben, shocked for different reasons, jumped up to follow Omera as she wiped her hands on her apron and trekked back to the longhouse. Stoke spoke up first. “Omera, we don’t know who those people could be,” he hissed, looking around them for eavesdroppers. “What kind of crew needs a ship that big? You saw the guns on it.”

”Gunship means they could be mercenaries,” Caben said, perhaps a bit too excitedly. “Which means they could be hired.”

“Or gun us down for even asking…” Stoke said under his breath. “For all we know, the Klatooinians have been hitting Lau too and the loggers called in their own backup.”

“These raids have gone on long enough,” Omera said with finality. “If the bandits continue at the rate they have, we’ll have nothing to set aside for winter. There’s not enough ammunition to rely on hunting— And we need to conserve what defenses we have.” She started up the astromech and checked the power gauge, looking out again across the village. “This is the third time in seven weeks, and every time they attack they come further into the village.”

There was a burst of laughter out by one of the ponds; the three adults turned, seeing the children giggling amongst themselves as they stood from the mud. Winta had released the magnet on the droid once it was above land and the rope slackening sent them all to the ground in a tumble.

“We’ll pool the rest of what we made from the rainy season,” Omera decided. “Tell them it’s all that we have.”

As she readied the wagon, both men packed bread and pemmican into a satchel, listening as she gave them instructions and called on the other elders of the village for an impromptu meeting. Several of them were uneasy at the prospect of sending the men on their own through the woods, a fact Stoke supported, but Caben insisted that they’d bed down for the night in Lau and set out early enough the next morning to be back in the village by sunset. The bandits had only attacked three days ago and it seemed unlikely they would come back that quickly when the village had nothing to offer them.

One of the older men, a grizzled hunter by the name of Kolt, stepped away from the group as they discussed what Stoke and Caben might say to the loggers and potential ship crew. After the rest of them loaded the wagon and finalized the contributions to the purse he returned, a scattershot thrower and case of cartridges with him. He gave both to Stoke, and the solemnity of their mission was finally realized by those among them who’d had their hopes raised.

“Keep it on hand, come nightfall,” Kolt grunted. “Don’t shoot what you can’t see… But don’t hesitate if you need to use it.”

Stoke nodded, and with grim faces he and Caben set off for the long ride to Lau.

Sorgan appeared beyond the viewport as a lush blue-green marvel, a far cry different from the barren Tatooine landscape. As they descended Toro watched meadows, springs, forests, and rivers span out beneath them, more green wilderness than he’d ever seen in one place. The Crest circled a quadrant in the northern hemisphere, made a circuit and doubled-back to land a few kilometers out past a town with communal buildings near a river. The town was purported to be a trading post, one of a few on an otherwise sparsely inhabited planet. The population was spread out, no centralized starports or industrial centers to speak of, but it looked like there were a few outlying rural communities on the scanner. They would be a day’s ride away if and when they picked back up: Toro thought back to the catalogue of picks he’d been given the choice of at the Guild lodge he booked Shand’s commission from, mulling over the names of those he saw on various posting boards for the Outer Rim. Sorgan may have bigger towns east of their location that had a wider variety of local listings. Even provincial farm planets were bound to have trouble.

Mando cycled through the landing procedures, bringing the Crest to stasis before lowering it into a camouflaged clearing surrounded by trees. “You don’t have anyone who’s going to come looking for you, do you?” he asked, pulling the yoke up level with the horizon line. He flipped three other switches and the ship lowered steadily to the ground, settling with a hiss of hydraulics.

Toro shook his head. “You and the kid are the only ones on this crate with criminal pasts chasing them,” he said with amusement. “Still not sure what that one did to warrant Guild interest.”

The child cooed, tapping the arm of his seat. Mando stood and gestured for Toro to move as he went back into the storage compartment behind the cockpit and sifted through supplies. “Anybody with a score to settle? Anyone you owe money?”

Toro snorted and spread his arms with a look that conveyed Please, are you serious? “Definitely not.”

“Parents, headmasters, commanding officers?” the Mandalorian pressed. “Anyone who would recognize you in a port and raise the alarm?”

“… No.”

Mando came back to the ladder descending to the hold with a bag over one shoulder as he picked up the kid. “Don’t sound too sure about that.”

The Mandalorian slid one-handed down to the cargo hold with his boots on the outer rails of the ladder. Toro climbed down after him, skipping the last few rungs to hop down. “No one’s following me. I told you, I’m on my own.”

Mando dropped the subject. He put the kid on one of the footlockers and restocked his munitions from the armory before pressing a command on his bracer to lower the ramp. A warm breeze flooded in with the light, bringing with it the scent of damp earth and moss and a wavering hum that sounded like it was coming from the trees. Mando stepped over Toro’s bedroll, strapping the pronged rifle to his back.

“Get your gear together.”

“You think we’ll camp somewhere else tonight?”

“No,” Mando said. He moved Toro’s bag to the side with his foot before going back to the kid. “It’s in my way; keep it together and out from underfoot.”

It took a moment for Toro to process what he’d said: he scowled and did as he was told. “I’m not a kid, you know. Don’t have to tell me to clean my room.”

Mando turned to stare at him for a moment longer than he really cared for. It was getting annoying.

“I know you’re not a kid,” Mando said flatly. “Which is why I expect you to keep your gear in order. You’ll have to leave at a moment’s notice more often than not and what you carry on your person may be the only resources available to you. If you can’t keep track of your own equipment, what makes me think you’ll be able to handle anything more important?”

“All right, all right, point taken.”

“Good.” The Mandalorian faced him again. “Here’s the plan: I’m going into town to find lodging. I’ll scope out the area and be back before long. Wait here and watch the kid.”

Toro snorted indignantly. “If you only brought me along to be a babysitter, I’m out.” Toro tossed his bedroll and pack to the side, looking expectantly at the Mandalorian.

Mando called his bluff. “Fine by me. Start walking.”

Toro’s eyes narrowed; his patience with the bounty hunter and every taciturn jab that morning was running out. He stepped up to face the Mandalorian, jutting his chin in accusation. “What’s the point in agreeing to work with me if you’re just going to keep me grounded, huh? There’s no reason to waste time with two trips to town. I’m ready to go.”

“I don’t need distractions.”

”You could use another set of eyes.”

”What I could really use,” Mando said through gritted teeth, “Is somebody who can follow basic directions without arguing with me every step of the way.”

Toro was getting frustrated. “I’ve already more than proven myself,” he said. “I had your back on Tatooine.”

“Which is why I trust you to watch the ship and the kid,” Mando bit back. “This is the biggest town in the quadrant— If they can’t sustain us for even a week of laying low, we need to find a better area before nightfall. I don’t want to keep track of more people than I have to, so either you stay here as lookout or you cut your losses and take a hike.”

Toro stared down the Mandalorian for a long minute, but Mando didn’t waver. He glanced over to the kid before he sat back against a crate with a stormy expression and crossed his arms. “Fine. We’ll be here.”

“Good. Lock up if you’re outside for long.”

The Mandalorian left down the gangplank. The child next to Toro immediately shuffled down off his perch and toddled toward the ramp; he hadn’t anticipated that the kid would realize Mando was leaving him behind so quickly and hopped up to snatch the kid before he could go far. The Mandalorian didn’t look back, and the hum from the trees fell silent as he disappeared into the forest. The kid whined as he squirmed in Toro’s grip, small clawed hands reaching out to grasp at air as he babbled something unintelligible.

“Don’t worry, kid, your old man will be back before long,” Toro said. He surveyed the hold for something to put him in to keep him corralled, but arranging the crates would take two hands to get them organized into something that would keep the boy penned in.

The kid continued to wriggle. Toro struggled to keep a grip on him, for the first time worried the kid had no sense of self-preservation when it came to being dropped from several feet in the air. He had to readjust his grip more than once as he distractedly scooted trunks together with his boot.

“Cut it out, kid, he’s coming back, just relax and— Ow!”

The kid dropped to the floor, Toro staring at his bleeding finger in shock. The child had bit him and was now toddling on small but surprisingly quick legs down the ramp into the grass.

“Hey!” Toro hollered again, wiping his finger on his trousers and hopping down to jog after the boy with a grumble. He caught up to the kid and picked him up before he got too far, carrying him under his arm like a sack of potatoes back to the ship and keeping his fingers out of reach.

“Listen,” Toro said, plopping him back on a footlocker. “He’s not just going to leave you, all right? He left the ship here too, so settle down.”

The boy’s long ears drooped like a wilted flower. His big dark eyes were the saddest thing Toro had ever seen, gazing out at the trees.

“What’s with the ears? Cheer up, you look like a Gungan. I told you he’s coming back,” Toro repeated. “Trust me.”

The solemn child huffed, folding his hands inside his sleeves and resigning himself to his position on the trunk.

Toro rolled his eyes, but the plaintive features of the little thing were enough to prod him into rummaging around in the galley for a distraction.

“Here.” Toro fished around in a thin plastifilm bag and held out some dried meat. “Eat something.”

The kid, forlorn until Toro mentioned food, perked up at the proffered snack and took it without a fuss. Toro sat back and stretched his legs, eyeing the boy for any other sign of an escape attempt, but the kid seemed satisfied to sit and gnaw on the jerky so Toro tossed the plastifilm bag aside and crossed his arms, looking around the cargo hold.

It was quiet for a long time, save for the sound of the wilderness as the kid worked his way through the cured meat, and eventually the boy got up to explore his surroundings, curiously poking at foot lockers and cubbies at floor level. Toro watched him explore before the boy eventually got a supply box open and amused himself with rolling the contents around on the floor, stacking them and knocking them down or organizing them into piles and patterns. He was especially intrigued by the folding camp utensils, managing to open them partway and arrange several forks in a feathered display on either side of a cleaning rod for a blaster barrel.

Toro chuckled, surveying the space again and wondering if there was a toolbox he could commandeer for a couple hours. He’d already made note of the head and the galley, as well as the carbonite chamber and racks. The captain’s berth occupied only a fraction of the lower deck in something Toro would closer consider a closet than a cabin, and now knowing where the armories and medical cabinet were he’d fairly mapped the entire hold, save for what utilities lay behind the access panels at the bow. Abovedecks was a different story, but he liked the greenery and breeze the open docking ramp afforded them so he figured he’d save further exploration for another time.

The carbonite chamber had especially been of interest: he’d heard of some bounty hunters transporting live captures in carbonite, but he’d never seen evidence of it for himself. Those were the kinds of rumors that slipped through from the more unsavory relatives who would find their way home on holidays or when they were in need of a loan; it was shared as gossip just as often as it was used as an overexaggerated threat of punishment for bad behavior. Seeing that not only had one been installed on the gunship, but that it had multiple racks for acquired targets validated Toro’s hunch that Mando was the real deal. Shand may have been right about the hunter doing more lying in wait when it came to tracking her, but Toro saw how the Mandalorian fought in the garage on Tatooine, and the Crest boasted a substantial array of weapons compared to that of an average traveler.

The thought of Tatooine brought him back to the kid, who was now shuffling through one of the crates that had been turned on its side. It was mostly clothes or camping gear so Toro left him to play with them. He had no idea what the kid was but he walked upright and seemed alert enough to be sentient, so Toro figured he must be some species from the outlying planets he’d never heard of. Whatever the case was, the Mandalorian was willing to kill for him so Toro would at least see to it that he stayed alive on his watch. Nothing in the woods would clear a dozen yards of the ship without getting a blaster burn for its trouble.

Pulling his pistol, though, Toro looked it over with a frown. It was only operating at about eighty-five percent efficiency, and the trigger wasn’t quite finessed to his liking; originally built with the intent of being pressure-sensitive in the first place, the hair-trigger was touchier now than before. His momentary patch-job would work as long as he was mindful of the sensor, but it was liable to make the housing run hot even without firing concentrated charges. To really fix it he needed a fusioncutter and at least one grounded clamp to keep some of the mechanical pieces inside the receiver from touching while he worked on it some more, and he hadn’t found either while poking around the ship.

Toro stood, going to the gunlocker and jimmying around the casing until he found the release; the doors retreated to the sides and Toro couldn’t help but grin.

”Now that’s more like it…” he murmured to himself. “EE-3 carbine, drum blaster, mortar gun…”

Toro whistled, impressed. His hand glided over the stock of the grenade launcher, and then he looked up to probably the largest pieces occupying the racks. Lifting the two-part assembly free, he latched the MK sniper rifle together, sliding the barrel into place on clean fittings. Long-range weapons didn’t appeal to him as much as short-range action did; he wouldn’t deny that it was a beautiful gun, but what use was an impressive kill if nobody was around to give you the credit?

From what he could tell, the rifle could operate as two different weapons depending on whether the extended barrel was locked in place or not. Without the sniper configuration giving it an additional eighteen inches in length, it could be further disassembled down to what was still a solid blaster rifle for short range combat. He could only imagine what the impact would feel like at close range.

OSS telescopic sight with an infrared detector… Short relay gas primer, reinforced condenser built into the receiver, induction coil in the stock… Modified was an understatement. No wonder the bolts packed a punch.

Toro turned it over. He was surprised by how light it was, considering the length, but he supposed Shand hadn’t been one to linger anywhere long, whatever her jobs were in the past. He could respect the desire to stay on the move.

“What do you think, kid?” Toro asked. He gripped it one-handed with the barrel raised, sitting into one side with the weight of the stock resting against hip. “Think Pops will let me have it? He may be good but even he can’t sight two rifles at once, ha.”

Though he wasn’t expecting a reply, there seemed to be a distinct difference in the kid’s lack of noise that gave Toro pause. He looked back out to the crates.

”Kid?”

The child was gone.

Swearing loudly and creatively, Toro set the rifle back on the rack and darted towards the ramp, jumping down to the grass all in the span of a second. He scanned the clearing for the boy and, not finding him, jogged for the trees.

Nothing.

Toro took a breath and jogged back to the ship, grabbing his gun and belt. He hit the white button to the left of the ramp to initiate its retreat and squeezed outside before it raised, buckling his holster in place and striding back into the clearing. Ship locked, he analyzed his surroundings.

The Razor Crest glinted in the late morning sun. Scrutinizing the gleam, Toro realized the light only reflected from the upper twelve feet or so. He crouched to the ground, surveying the earth. The clearing was almost entirely in the shade— Grass grew in patches here and there, and there was moss around the edges of the brush, but the rest of the ground was packed mud, and damp at that.

Carefully, he matched a line between the Crest and the spot where the Mandalorian had disappeared, and upon closer inspection was able to pick up on some very small, three-toed footprints. His own boots had smeared or obscured a lot of them in his haste, but there were enough for him to find the exact edge of moss the child had disappeared behind. With annoyance settling just this side of trepidation Toro picked his way through the woods.

“He couldn’t have gone far,” he muttered to himself. “But wherrrrrre would he have gone first…”

Whatever hum emanated from the trees rose and fell in varying degrees of pitch as he tracked, effectively drowning out any possibility of hearing a child the size of a mouse droid shuffling through the brush. To make matters worse, the boy had a brown coat and skin the color of foliage, so the chances of spotting him beneath the sun-dappling canopy were further complicated by the unfortunate, coincidental camouflage.

Toro’s shirt clung to his back as he walked, sticky with sweat, and it didn’t seem to matter whether he was in the shade or not because the heat was the same regardless. Wispy mosquitoes whined around him, constantly waiting for him to settle before sticking to his skin with pinpricks of annoyance, and his trousers chafed, snagging on thorns as he continued muscling his way through the brush. When he passed by a tree bearing the same lichen he’d seen twice before, Toro let out a frustrated yell and stomped back to the trail. He kicked a stone out of his way and smacked another mosquito, angrily scratching the welt it left behind.

He’d always hated the idea of camping.

Toro groaned, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes and grinding them in frustration. “It’s really gonna set the old guy off if you lost his kid,” he said absently. “You look away for all of two seconds and he pulls an escape act… Might as well boot the kid outside yourself next time, steal the ship and pray that guy never finds you… Better chance at surviving than having to face him and fess up…”

The kid had to be going after the Mandalorian. There was nothing enticing enough to keep him out here, no berries or animals to draw his attention, and there were more than enough negative incentives to urge him back to the ship— Since Toro had yet to see the kid double back he had to assume he was on the search for the hunter. There was something resembling a foot path between the trees, but Toro didn’t know if the kid would have the intuition to follow it. He could only see it himself because he was at a height to do so.

The gunslinger slowed to a stop, considering that. He crouched down to the forest floor, feeling the earth dampen the knee of his trousers as he ducked his head. Soft, leafy ferns hovered roughly at the boy’s height by Toro’s reckoning, and below that was a shortened view of the look and distance of the trail. It was possible the kid was unaware there even was one; he could have strayed from the dirt path entirely.

That was a problem.

Toro could feel the muscles between his shoulder blades tightening with the tense concern that the kid had no idea where he was going and had simply gotten himself lost in the search for his guardian. Toro didn’t imagine the kid knew any more about the forest than he did, and there was no telling what he might run into.

Toro took a deep breath. Guess it was time to put those tracking skills to work.

He put one hand on his hip and surveyed the greenery, rethinking his strategy. Crouching back down and moving some ferns aside, he could see bits of displaced mud on top of leaves from where the boy’s robe had dragged, and as he moved the plants, individual fiddleheads retreated at his touch. Toro scanned ahead for already-furled stems, following them when they lined up with the child’s small, intermittent footprints. It was odd that though the kid’s path— what he hoped was the kid’s path— had strayed from the dirt trail, it was still going in the same general direction the Mandalorian had. Toro was doing his best to ignore Mando’s more obvious prints, knowing what he really needed to do was find the kid, but there was some relief in knowing he’d come across one of them at some point and at least solve half his problems when he did.

The child brushed another feathery fern out of his eyes, walking on soft moss and enjoying the feeling between his toes. The forest was alive with hundreds of creatures, large chirping bugs singing in the trees and winged creatures hooting between the branches. Once or twice he saw brown, soft-furred animals with stripes peering at him from dens built into the gnarled roots of trees, but he sensed no ill-intent from them, only curiosity. Though he wished he could stay and explore further, he was determined to catch up.

His guardian was somewhere ahead of him, he was sure. The apprentice hunter was still far behind both of them, but the boy paid him no mind, content to see and smell the freshness of the forest. It was far more vibrant than anywhere he had been in a long time, and he hoped they’d be staying there for a while. The air was clear and breathable, the sun warm… He could rest and explore and his guardian would be able to heal.

As the boy climbed over stones and pushed through the thicket of grasses back to the even dirt path, he wondered if his guardian had truly meant what he’d said when he promised he’d come back to the ship. He knew starships weren’t homes for most sentient beings— Perhaps this was his guardian’s home planet and he had a dwelling somewhere away from the ship, and away from him.

The child shook his head, waving away both gnatflies and troubled thoughts. The Mandalorian wouldn’t have made the apprentice hunter stay behind too if that were the case. The young man from-Tatooine-but-not had no reason to remain there either, and he had the sense his armored guardian intended to teach the apprentice the same trade and life he led. The two men had talked briefly after they departed from the desert planet, his guardian pointing to various places and controls on the starship, and he’d seen the younger man picking apart a blaster that morning in the cargo hold similar to how the Mandalorian had maintained his own tools and weapons during hyperspace flights when it had still been just the two of them.

There was a glint up ahead, and he quickened his pace, reaching out with openness through the lights connecting the living creatures of the forest to see more clearly; with a chirp he renewed his pace, happy to have finally caught up on the warrior’s trail.

Only moments later did he realize he wasn’t the only one.

”A-ha! Caught you!”

Drat.

The child was briskly scooped up by the young man with dark hair, raised up into the air and firmly grasped to his side. He frowned, squirming at the handling as the man scolded, until he saw the same gleam through the forest the child had caught only moments before.

The Mandalorian was looking at them, unmoving as the man holding him continued speaking. Dimly he could register a change in tone, the younger man’s pitch rising as he too saw the older hunter, but the boy couldn’t have cared less for the conversation he only understood a part of anyway. The warrior approached with measured strides and the boy reached out, cooing happily as the armored man closed the distance, speaking sternly with his crewmate; said crewmate was still making excuses and holding the child in front of him, as if to ward off any potential retaliation from the Mandalorian.

“What?!” the indignant apprentice was saying. “You should be happy, this means he knows how to find you on his own. Here take him, look he’s tired.”

The Mandalorian sighed but plucked the boy away and settled him comfortably against the cool planes of his armor. The child took hold of the bandolier in one hand and tapped the center of the quiet man’s breastplate, happy to be back where he belonged.

The logging community came into view around midday. Barges were docked upriver on the west side of town near a clearing in the woods; the bridge Mando, Toro, and the kid crossed was well-built with high enough clearance to give both timber rafts and the logger scows passage beneath. The air was clear and smelled of rich, black dirt, thick woods spanning as far as the eye could see.

Without a Guild lodge or more advanced information centers Din doubted Sorgan was used by hunters as a stopover, and he had hoped his and Toro’s presence would stir only curiosity. There were a few turned heads, and though people overall went about their business, something in the air didn’t feel quite right: as Din, Toro, and the child made their way to the common house between wattle fencing, the general chatter of town dissipated almost entirely.

The large rounded building was built of wood and woven, thatched reeds. Inside, a bar and a ring of sand encircled the central hearth, smoke rising to escape from the roof. Small tables were spread evenly around the room, diners and staff of various species milling about and conversing. Din kept his hands visible and his gait relaxed. It was entirely possible the town simply didn’t get many travelers.

A lumberman and a Twi’lek fisher played dice over next to the wall, out of the way of foot traffic. Two women and a man with dark, braided hair were in deep conversation close to the entrance, their boots well-worn and flecked with tsuga tree needles; they matched the muddy hooves of the bordok mules outside hitched to a post by the water trough with stun traps slung over their packs. A young father fed a child sitting on one table, the child’s smile bright despite his arm in a recent sling. At first, most of those in the common house appeared to pay them no mind, but subtle glances around the room traded unspoken words with their fellow townsfolk. The din of the common house hadn’t diminished, but there was a distinct change in what they were communicating.

One other person stood out: a stocky woman in armorweave and worn, blue-green armor sat by herself near the exit, eyeing them over a bowl of soup. Mando watched the rear cam in the head-up display inside his helmet, keeping his stride unhurried as he led the three of them to a table on the opposing wall.

The kid had wriggled down from Mando’s grasp upon entry to the town to walk on his own: Toro herded him to the right with his boot, skirting the felinx beneath a table that could probably eat him. The atmosphere of the pub was comfortable, the kind of place he expected on a planet like this one. It seemed like most people knew each other well enough to not pay them any mind, swapping tales and talking business over their plates. The bartender came to greet them, offering the local brew and asking if they were there for the midday meal before retreating to retrieve soup for the kid and something roasted for Toro. Mando declined anything to eat.

“You know, I’m starting to think you might be a droid,” Toro joked, stretching his legs and lacing his fingers behind his head. “Or do you just subsist off the nightmares of anyone who crosses you?”

The Mandalorian didn’t respond beyond what Toro assumed was a glare, but it still made him grin. The bartender returned with their food, setting down a flagon of swirling blue liquid between them. Toro dug in, pouring himself a cup.

“Really though, Tin Can, do you ever eat?”

Mando ignored him. He pushed the cup of broth over to the kid, helping him take a sip. “Tell me what you saw coming into town.”

“Rustic folk. Farmers and hunters, mostly, probably some fur and scale trappers.” Toro took a bite of meat, chewing around his words. The child pushed his bowl aside, leaning up on the table towards Toro’s plate with open interest. The gunslinger frowned and pulled his plate closer. “There’s probably a sawmill downriver.”

“Anything stand out to you?”

Toro dropped his voice low, confident that he’d landed on something to give the Mandalorian a little faith in him. “You’re in for a treat; you saw the woman at the front?”

Mando nodded.

“Pretty sure she’s an ex-shock trooper from one of the old Republic cleanup crews. Got a price on her head.”

“There’s no such thing as an ex-shock trooper,” Mando said. “Best just to leave her be.”

Toro stared, his food pausing halfway to his mouth. “That’s it? I just found us a job and you don’t want it?”

“Lower your voice,” Mando said. “If you want to confront a drop soldier, be my guest.”

”You aren’t going to back me up?”

Mando continued tearing apart hunks of bread for the kid. ”Do I look like I want to start a fight?”

“You walk in anywhere with armor like that, you’re basically asking for one.”

“We are here to recoup first and find lodging,” Mando said, his voice clipped. “Tangling with someone without a confirmed bounty the second we come into town isn’t a plan with much forethought.”

Toro frowned. “I saw her on the postings back in the Mid-Rim, Republic and ISB. Last name is Dune. If that’s not her she must have a twin.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes,” Toro said confidently, gesturing with his skewer. “You can tell by the tattoos on her— Wait— Where is she?”

The hair on the back of Din’s neck stood up, instinct crowding to the forefront. Snapping around to follow Toro’s line of sight revealed an empty table, the woman nowhere in sight.

“Watch the kid,” he ordered, standing abruptly and brushing past the table. He could hear Toro protest behind him, but he was already unclipping his holster and heading out of the curtained archway.

Outside, the damp air was quiet. Din surveyed the land and switched on the footprint relay in his visor, seeing her tracks round the back of the public house. Cautiously he followed, listening for movement as he passed between two of the buildings. As he rounded the walkway between the fencing, though, the footprints came to an abrupt halt.

He whipped around in each direction, scanning for a heat signature, but as soon as he turned and looked up, two feet hit him square in the chest.

The trooper swung down from a crossbeam, landing as Din’s back hit the outer wall of the cantina with a thud. In a flash her right fist made contact with his faceplate, knocking him back again and dizzying his senses. Her second swing telegraphed broadly and he dodged just in time— Her fist connected with the wooden slats instead, rattling them with a bang. Din twisted to land a hit to a kidney, feeling his fist meet solid muscle, and he heard her grunt in pain. His left hand lashed out to wrap around her throat the same time he shoved off the wall, blocking her left downswing with his vambrace.

The trooper snarled and brought her right arm up, dropping a heavy elbow down to break his grip on her throat— The move sent him off-balance and she used that half-second opening to grab his shoulders and knee him in the gut, hard. Beskar has no give to it and he felt the impact of her thick leg against each and every one of the injuries across his ribs and midsection. Pain exploded across his chest, radiating from the center of his sternum as she hauled him behind her to collide with the opposing wall.

Din shoved off and readied himself, pivoting to face her again. As the woman swung wide her fist connected with the jaw of the helmet, snapping his head to the side. A backhanded swing jerked him back to face her and he growled, blocking the third punch and grabbing her other forearm: with a sharp jut he headbutted her square in the face, hearing bone crack and sending her staggering back, but before he could grab his gun or blade she righted herself with a yell and barreled into him, pinning him to the wall with a crushing grip around his throat.

“Mando!”

Clutching the soldier’s wrists with an iron grip, Din jerked his gaze to the side, eyes wide as Toro came into view with his blaster drawn. Hearing the rookie’s hail, the woman turned too and yanked Din back out into the open with his back to Toro, putting him in the line of fire. Toro’s blaster shot glanced off Mando’s pauldron, jarring his shoulder. Toro cursed behind him and the woman grinned viciously, hauling the Mandalorian back with her by the edge of his breastplate.

Din dug his feet in, lurching back against her grip in anger. In the gap between them he struck out with one boot, shoving her off before drawing his blade the same moment the woman drew hers. Another blast of laserfire sailed narrowly past Mando, this time grazing the woman’s bicep. She cried out in pain, glaring at the rookie as the Mandalorian approached. Din struck out with the dagger, hearing it sing through the air, but his opponent wasn’t so distracted by the apprentice that her attention faltered, and her armored forearm came up to block the vibroblade in a skitter of sparks before she lunged in a downward arc with her own. Mando ducked his head, catching her wrist and twisting it outward, digging his thumb into a pressure point to force the knife out of her hand. The move forced a gasp out of her and in a rage the woman brought her leg up again, kicking him back into Calican.

Toro stumbled under the weight of the Mandalorian, clumsily trying to brace himself to keep both of them from going down, but he only succeeded in coming to a knee as Mando’s impact buckled him. Dune, instead of retreating to draw her own blaster, had followed through with another kick to Mando’s chest and reached out with one hand, grabbing the barrel of Toro’s blaster before bringing her other forearm down against his wrist. Blunt force pain seared up his forearm as she wrenched the gun away.

A plume of fire cut through the air between the Mandalorian and the woman, his flamethrower finally forcing her back. Toro grabbed the trooper’s blade from the ground and darted around the blaze, quickly closing the gap as she turned her aim towards Calican.

When Dune went to fire his blaster, however, the plasma cartridge immediately sent electrical discharge arcing over her hand. The trooper cried out and dropped it, barely having time to grab Toro’s right forearm above her in the incoming jab before Toro swung a sharp left hook across her jaw, dropping the blade from his right hand to catch it midair between them on the pullback with his left. Dune’s eyes widened in shock a half second before Toro slashed again, and this time he felt contact.

The trooper gasped, jerking back and pulling him with her; with a growl bordering on feral she pulled his arm down and twisted her body, dropping into a wide stance and hauling him up over her shoulder as if he weighed nothing. Toro landed square on his back, the air forced from his lungs in a rush, and he had to clumsily hook one leg up over her arm to keep from being pinned. It was a scuffle for status as they grappled with one another, Dune with bulk strength and Toro with sharp reflexes, the two of them rolling across the slick grass before landing in a locked contest of strength, each with a weapon in hand and fire in their eyes.

“Enough.”

The Mandalorian’s voice resounded like thunder, halting the fight with his blaster raised only a few scant feet from the side of the trooper’s head. The vibroblade beneath her chin hummed in the air. Her own blaster was jammed against Toro’s chest. The two of them glared at each other, panting from the exertion, neither wavering.

From behind all three of them came the distinct sound of someone snapping a stick, and all three slowly turned to see the green child perched in the grass behind the common house, half a skewer of roasted meat in each hand. His ears twitched as he chewed loudly, watching the adults with inquisitive eyes.

“… What is that thing?” the trooper asked, curiosity coloring her tone.

The boy took a large bite off the skewer and waved. Toro flexed his hand, still sore where the kid had bitten him.

“I think it’s a carnivore.”

The woman snorted. Mando lowered his blaster.

Toro slowly lowered the knife and clicked the safety on as the tension in the air dissipated. The pain was starting to register past the adrenaline.

Mando shoved his pistol in his holster. “You were supposed to wait inside,” he said irritably.

“This seemed like more fun at the time,” Toro groaned. The drop trooper grinned and pushed off of Toro’s chest none too lightly, standing and offering her hand.

Calican and the trooper both looked marginally worse for wear coming back into the common house behind the Mandalorian. The folks inside seemed more wary than before, and when Toro stopped by the bar to order another plate of food, the cook and the rest of the staff suddenly found work elsewhere and wouldn’t meet his eye. When he tried to get their attention or flag one down there was just enough conversation to say they couldn’t hear him, and the bartender who’d taken their order before was methodically stoking the embers of the fire, facing away from him and turning the spit.

Mando set the child back down at their table as Dune gave the two of them her name, dropping her gloves and helping herself to Mando’s cup and the flagon of spotchka. Toro reluctantly slid what was left of his plate to her.

Cara Dune was built only slightly less solid than a freight train. Her dark hair was short and utilitarian, and the callouses on her knuckles spoke as much to a life of hard work as they did to fighting. She carried herself with the easy confidence of a woman who knew her role in life and had never been given reason to doubt it. Despite the blaster graze and slash from the vibroblade she appeared to be in remarkably good spirits, content to eat with only a casual regard toward both audience and place settings; Toro got the impression bone broth was cheaper than roast grinjer and not near as filling.

“I figured you had a fob on me,” she said, taking a drink and grimacing around the flavor. Toro could still see blood between her teeth while she talked and wondered how bad her fight was with Mando before he’d gotten there. “Not many other reasons for hunters to come out this far.”

“Fair enough,” Mando said.

“How did you get out here?” Toro asked, wrapping his left hand in his handkerchief and resting his knuckles against the cold jug. “This planet hasn’t developed transportation faster than those pack animals out front.”

“Old buddy of mine owed me a favor,” Cara said. “I crashed with him for a while before he dropped me off on his way out of the system.”

Toro looked around, once again unimpressed by scenery that had not changed in the past twenty minutes. “What are you doing in a place like this?”

She gave Toro a lazy smile, settling back comfortably into her chair as she regarded him. “That info’s on a need-to-know basis, Sunshine.”

“Sure, sure, but you’re a shock trooper, aren’t you?” Toro nodded to the bands on her arm. “I heard they were working for the New Republic now, spec-ops on Imperial holdouts, stuff like that.”

“I used to be,” Cara said. The sly smile no longer reached her eyes, and she seemed to regard him the way a dog views surprise company at dinnertime. “At least during the war. Right now I’m enjoying an early retirement. Or, was.”

“Why leave?”

“Well my platoon used to do real work hunting down war lords and arms profiteers,” she said, swishing the spotchka in her cup. “Rooting out the settler compounds while the Alliance hit the big guns. Things changed after Endor though and we got moved to the cleanup crews.”

Toro leaned in, both forearms on the table. “You were a mercenary?” he asked with visible interest. The Mandalorian nudged his boot beneath the table. Toro ignored it.

“Not in as many words,” Cara said. “We did our share of gutting the Imperial settlements. Instead of facing them head on like we were used to, we had to go in quiet and get the job done with as little demo as possible before hauling the worst of them back to Central and calling it a day.”

“Good work if you get it.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the trade-off,” Cara said. “The fewer warlords we found, the more we were relegated to being political muscle, protecting diplomats and suppressing riots. They kept pulling us back towards the Core— And I didn’t sign up to be a New Republic guard dog, so I got out.”

“Nothing out here is near as interesting as being a merc.”

“Licensed contractor,” Cara said evenly. “And like I said, I'm retired.”

“Why not stay on the move?” Toro asked genuinely. When she narrowed her eyes in suspicion he poured her another drink.

Cara turned to the Mandalorian. “He always this nosy?”

“Yes.”

Cara snatched up the cup. “Not having to take care of a ship or worry about Guildsmen—,” she nodded to Mando, “— appeals to more people than you think.”

“We hadn’t intended to start a fight,” Mando said. “When you left we thought you might’ve been trying to get the drop on us. We weren’t looking for you.”

“Good,” Cara said. She drained her cup, turning it upside down on the table before standing. “Keep it that way, and move along— I’ve been here two weeks, and if you’ve got your own hounds after you I don’t want them barking up the wrong tree.”

As she readied to leave, Toro realized something and cut her off. “Wait, how’d you know we were Guild?”

Cara gave him a strange look. “Neither of you blend in,” she said, “And there’s only so many jobs a Mandalorian can have.”

The rest of the day was spent buying or trading for what supplies the town was able to offer; waterproofing wax, dry goods, and saddle soap rounded out most of the field supplies, and the Mandalorian picked up an extra canteen, in addition to a holopuck with a local atlas. The latter was difficult to come by since everyone they spoke to in town was reluctant to offer one up, and it took a more substantial fee to convince one of the traders to part with a spare. It was only after they’d received it Mando explained that it was likely only because that trader was from out of town— In most places, those who worked and lived off the land didn’t reveal where they trapped, hunted, or fished, should the people they gave that information to prove greedy or inconsiderate enough to try their own luck there as well.

Mando laid out the plan for the next day on the hike back through the forest, saying they’d find a town farther east in the morning: a territory dispute with the drop trooper wasn’t worth the trouble, and the eastern side of the mountains opened up into a coastline. Whether they stayed at a higher altitude or more towards sea level depended on what resources they could find regarding the Crest; Mando didn’t fancy more than a day’s ride hauling fuel if it came down to it.

Night fell as they traversed the woods back to the ship, supplies carted on a borrowed repulsorlift. Despite the fight with Cara Dune, Toro was restless after a day of menial work, and though the Mandalorian had shared useful information, he was about as talkative as the kid, which was proving to be not much at all.

“So what’re the rules?” Toro asked, finally cracking under the drudgery of stowing supplies. He hefted a canister up the ramp and put it in the hold to be arranged by the Mandalorian later. “With the helmet and all.”

The Mandalorian didn’t spare him a glance, eyeing the woods instead. He picked the kid up and set him down on the stack of storage units he’d commandeered, a lantern, handheld holoprojector, and the rough log set out on top. “It stays on.”

“Yeah, I gathered, but what else? What happens if it comes off?”

“If you try to take it, I kill you,” Mando said mildly.

“Oh big surprise.” Toro rolled his eyes. “You’re a walking armory. My guess is nobody but the kid gets within arm’s reach if they want to keep their limbs intact. C’mon, gimme the specifics. Do you have night vision? Do you eat everything through a straw?”

Mando didn’t respond, but considering Toro was still moving supplies for him he figured he had some wiggle room to poke the bear.

“Can I borrow it?”

The Mandalorian made a point of closing the logbook, finally turning to cock his head at the rookie and stare him down. “Kid, I don’t know you well enough to miss you if you were gone.”

“Ooh, someone’s got a sense of humor. Hey, Womp Rat, did you know your dad has a sense of humor?”

“Excuse us?”

Both Mando and Toro swiveled around at the sound of another voice, hands to their holsters; two men were approaching the clearing, still several yards away under the light of a wagon piloted by a droid. They were dressed in earthy blue and green clothes similar to the townsfolk, fitting in against the backdrop of the provincial planet. Toro eased back, getting his hand back under the crate.

“What do you want?” he hollered down to them.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you. Got dark faster than we anticipated,” the slighter man said, walking quickly towards the ring of lights set up around the ship once it was clear their presence wasn’t going to be welcomed with a blaster shot. “We were wondering if you could help us.”

The Mandalorian picked up the kid and strode away from the pair towards the bow of the ship to lift a panel under the engine, so Toro took it upon himself to meet them at the edge of the ramp.

“Town’s that way,” Toro said, pointing. He wiped his hands on a rag and tossed it aside, hands on his hips. “ ’Bout six kilometers.”

“No, we— Sorry, I’m Caben, this is Stoke— We weren't looking for Lau, we came to see if we could hire you. Our village needs help.”

“We have money,” the second man said.

“The log runners gave us directions,” Caben said, following after the Mandalorian but directing his plea between both of them. “They said we might be able to hire you, and whoever came on the gunship.”

Toro scoffed. He shook his head, going back to his work. “It’s just us,” he said proudly. “And you can’t afford us.”

“You don’t even know what the job is!”

“You wouldn’t have enough,” Toro said. “We’re Guild, we don’t do farm work, and we’re not staying here anyway.”

“It’s raiders,” Stoke said with an edge to his voice. His eyes flicked between Toro and the Mandalorian Caben was still trying to get around to talk to face-to-face. “Our farms have been raided three times in two months. We need them gone. The whole village chipped in everything they could.”

“We’re not mercenaries,” the Mandalorian said finally. He continued to prep the ship for lockdown one-handed, ignoring the farmers as the child watched.

“You’re a Mandalorian though, right?” Caben said, eyes wide as he took in the sight of the bounty hunter. “I’ve heard stories about your people— the legends, the hunters and fighters across the galaxy— If even half of what I’ve read is true—”

“Hey, look,” Toro said, cutting in. “We don’t need money, and I told you, we’re not for hire— At least not for this. Raiders or not, whatever you want us to do isn’t worth our time—”

“No, you look,” Stoke said, standing his ground against Toro’s dismissal. He met Toro in the middle of the clearing with squared shoulders. “We need help, and you’re the only people this area has seen besides tradesmen and trappers for four years. We’re lucky we’ve been able to hold our own in the middle of nowhere, but this is something we can’t fight by ourselves. It took us the whole day to get here, we can’t go home empty-handed—”

“And like I said, we’re not here to run off a few bandits for pocket change —”

Oddly enough it was the Mandalorian to interject next.

“You say you’re farmers?” he asked.

“… Yes?” Caben replied, unsure how to interpret the sudden interest. “Fishers, really. We farm krill.”

“In the middle of nowhere.”

“Yes?”

“Do you have lodging?”

The tone of Mando’s voice made Toro pivot on the spot, suddenly concerned the Mandalorian might actually be considering what the other two were asking of them. “Woah, Mando, you can’t seriously think— I mean I thought we were leaving—?”

Mando strode past him to meet the two farmers in the light. The space he took up made Stoke and Caben shuffle back a step in apprehension. “How large is your village?”

“About three acres in land near the river, a few more in timber,” Caben said excitedly. “A little over sixty people.”

“Any who can shoot?”

“Well— I mean it’s not— We’re mostly farmers,” Caben said, floundering. “We have slug-throwers, maybe a dozen people that can hunt, but even then, not enough ammunition. We can’t fight them in the open.”

The Mandalorian nodded. Toro’s bafflement and irritation rose.

“I can cover for that. You say you’re near the river?”

“Yeah.” The farmers nodded hopefully. “Seventy kilometers north of here at the river bend, give or take.”

“Good. We can take the ship and be there in less than an hour.”

“It’s— There won’t be anywhere to land something this big.” Caben shook his head for the first time, gesturing to the gunship. “The farmland is too soft and the trees are too thick. River runs on two sides past the timber, too. We were going to make camp tonight and travel at first light.”

The Mandalorian hummed in disapproval but weighed his options, assessing the ship.

“We can talk details on the way, but I’d rather not waste a full day traveling.”

“The mech has an autopilot and guidance system,” Stoke offered, gesturing to the wagon pilot. “There’s enough reserve power to get us back by morning, and enough of us to split up the watch and sleep in shifts.”

Mando considered it. “You willing to help load out?”

Caben and Stoke nodded eagerly.

“Good. Toro here will show you what to pack. I’ll need the credits you do have, and I’ll be back soon.”

The Mandalorian took the pouch of credits and finished notating instructions as Toro fumed, following him to the stern where the glow of the work lights cast shadows around them. “Mando what are you doing?” Toro hissed. “You said we weren’t staying here. This is chump change compared to what we can do. You should have told them to take a hike.”

“Let’s get one thing clear,” the Mandalorian said quietly. “You do not speak for me.”

The child’s ears flattened at his guardian’s tone. Toro gestured to the farmers, trying to keep his voice down even as his frustration built.

“Mando, this is insane, you and I can do better than this,” he said. “I thought we were leaving—”

“Calican,” Mando snapped. He loomed in the light of the Crest. “There’s only room on this ship for one captain. The last time you decided to make your own call on a job you nearly got my ship stolen and me and the kid— and yourself— killed. This is downtime built in to recover from that job. If you can’t handle my verdict, start walking.”

Toro ground his teeth at the reprimand, anger and irritation simmering under his skin. He had to tamp down his inclination to argue; this was far from the fast-paced hunting in sprawling cities and crime rings he’d anticipated when he signed on, but the recent memory of their job with Shand— and the tools of the trade he desperately hoped Mando was good for— stayed his tongue.

“What makes you think the job is worth the detour?” he asked, nodding past the hunter to the two farmers.

“Quartering us in the middle of nowhere to act as a deterrent for a week or two is a square deal,” Mando continued. “Can you handle that?”

“Will we move on after that?” Toro pushed. “Because as far as I can tell the only thing this planet has to pass the time is target practice.”

“Assuming you fix your blaster, that’s the idea.”

It’s only been a few days, Toro seethed. And he’s your only way off swamp-ridden rock.

The Mandalorian waited. Toro was coming to realize silent observation may be his mentor’s natural resting state, and it was more infuriating than anticipated. An argument, a fight— those he could navigate. Those were gratifying and gave him more to work with than the pointed stare and cold debate leveled at him now. It wasn’t that he took issue with the Mandalorian’s stubbornness as a character trait— It was the fact there was no telling where he stood in the bounty hunter’s regard at any given time. He had no way of reading the Mandalorian’s expressions, and not only had Mando disagreed with him on nearly everything that day, he seemed to have a more condensed arsenal of frustratingly sound logic backing up how he shut down Toro’s protests, and it frustrated Toro that he couldn’t articulate a strong enough rebuttal to stand his ground when the time came because it felt like he was being kept in the dark.

Mando’s decisions were justified. Toro just didn’t like them.

Toro had a feeling this decision would set the tone of their working relationship moving forward; he couldn’t help but remember what Shand said about the Mandalorian’s lack of personal connections meaning he could easily drop Toro at any time and cut his losses. Mando had clearly survived this far without him. If Toro didn’t suck it up and muscle through the next two weeks on Sorgan, he didn’t think he was going to like being stuck there for an indeterminable future.

After a long moment of deliberation, the tic of Toro’s clenched jaw finally settled.

“Fine,” he muttered. “What do you need?”

The Mandalorian nodded. “Pull this together from the ship.”

He gave Toro the list, some instructions for stowing the necessities, and the security protocols for locking up. Toro must not have been doing as well as he thought in hiding his dissatisfaction because without prompting, the Mandalorian handed the child off to Toro and followed up his instructions with, “Buck up and get moving. And watch the kid until I get back.”

“Hey, where are you going?”

“I’m calling in some backup.”

—

The Mandalorian retraced the trail leading to Lau before branching off from the woods and heading toward a spring. Din circumvented the town, briefly switching to the thermal imaging to orient himself before switching back to night vision. Though grateful for the first uninterrupted seclusion he’d had that day, he wasn’t able to fully relax knowing the kid was still back at the clearing, but he didn’t know what the drop trooper’s temperament would be at an unexpected arrival. Hopefully the rookie kept a closer eye on the kid this time.

Din still wasn’t sure what to make of the gunslinger. He was fairly sure Calican’s brash impulsiveness was a mark of youth and not one of a trigger-happy lust for bloodshed— He’d done surprisingly better in the fight against Cara than he had in the one with Shand (despite the fact Dune had at least sixty pounds on him), and he’d retained enough clarity of mind to hesitate when Din stepped in and brought the scrap to a stall.

However, the rookie’s inclination to jump feet-first into everything instead of hanging back concerned him. Din needed to be able to run point, and Toro had thus far not proven consistently capable of thinking first and acting second.

Din sighed, traipsing through the woods. The irony of taking on an apprentice whose ambition reminded him of his own at that age was not lost on him, and while it was clear Calican wasn’t bereft of talents or smarts, he lacked experience and patience and didn’t know when to apply the skills he had. The risks he took weren’t calculated.

He also didn’t have a near-indestructible suit of armor protecting him like Din had at that age.

As Din navigated the forest, he thought over their experiences and how they measured up to the mixed results of the past four days. Toro was sharp, and if he would just slow down and think, he’d figure out the answers he wanted faster and without having to rely on Din to break them down every step of the way. The arguing, the questions, the not-following instructions…

Toro wasn’t a kid. The immaturity at the core of his actions was the kind that resulted from the rookie still only thinking about himself first. If he couldn’t figure out how to work with Din— or anybody— as a team, he wasn’t going to get very far in life on credits alone.

Still, the gunslinger seemed to have some modicum of sense and a good awareness of his surroundings. He caught on quick to instruction once he relented to it, and he’d surprised Din more than once that day with the connections he’d been able to draw on the scant information available.

Toro had potential. He just had to apply it. Din knew he had high expectations, but if the rookie could prove his merit to him, he’d be able to work for anybody.

Toro didn’t know what to make of the farmers, and he got the impression the stocky one didn’t much care for him either. Caben made small talk at least, enthusiastic as they loaded out the supplies and blasters Mando had left them with and asked several questions about the Crest Toro didn’t have all the answers for. The child had whined softly after the Mandalorian left, his ears drooping and his eyes going all big and sad again, but he thankfully stayed close to where the men were amidst the load out and didn’t wander off.

“So what’s it like working for the Mandalorian?” Caben asked as they strapped down the wagon.

Toro scoffed. “I work with him. We’re hunting partners.”

“Bounty hunters?”

“Yep. Just came from Tatooine before this. Finished up a job concerning Fennec Shand.”

Toro watched them expectantly from the side, but Stoke and Caben exchanged a look and shrugged. “Sorry, no idea who that is.”

“Fennec Shand?” Toro asked, shocked. “The assassin who worked for the Hutts? Wanted in eight systems at least?”

“Already told you, you’re the first outsiders we’ve seen in four years,” Stoke said. “We hardly hear anything as is.”

“Well let’s just say she’s bad news,” Toro said. “Pulled a double cross on her though. She almost escaped, tried to go after the kid here. Mando and I ambushed her and took her down in the middle of the desert. When we dragged her back to Mos Eisley she tried to make a break for it and we ended up in a shootout in the middle of the night.”

Caben was invested. Stoke couldn’t care less.

“What’d you do with her after that?”

“Ah, well we brought in proof that she was dead and the broker paid out the bounty to us,” Toro lied. “Got a pretty penny considering how high profile she was.”

“Thought you said you two weren’t mercenaries.”

“We’re not,” Toro said, looking back to Stoke. Stoke side-eyed him from his seat on the wagon.

“Mercenaries will kill anyone for a buck. Hunters have credentials. We bag the criminals on wanted listings. Verifiable criminals and all.” Toro continued to twirl his blaster in hand. “It gets pretty technical when you get into Guild bureaucracy, I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.”

“Sounds cut and dry to me.” Stoke tied up his long hair and stretched his legs, leaning back against the trunks. “Pick a job, chase someone around, catch them and tie ‘em up, drag ‘em back and get paid.”

Toro rolled his eyes. “Yeah, if you simplify it like that.”

Stoke snorted. The croak of amphibians ebbed and flowed from the creek in the woods, the three of them falling quiet. The boy played in the grass with a silver ball, pushing it around the dirt between his feet.

Stoke spoke again. “Let me ask you this: if you two just got paid for a big job, why did you need to take our credits, even though we told you it was all our village had to spare?”

Toro froze, sweat running cool on the back of his neck. “Oh, Mando has his reasons,” he deflected. “He’s bringing backup, so you’re technically paying them, you know? We’re just coming to take a break between now and the next job.”

“Uh huh.”

“Gotta sleep at some point, you know?”

“Sure.”

The awkward silence settled again over the clearing. Toro’s leg bounced impatiently, looking around for something to do. Stoke narrowed his eyes.

“How long did you say you’ve been a hunter?”

“A while.” Toro quickly reached down and nabbed the kid by the back collar of his coat, bringing him up with kicking feet to turn him to the farmers at the back of the wagon. “Hey, do you have any idea what this thing is? Mando picked him up a while ago and we’ve got no idea what he’s supposed to be.”

Cara stood her ground, arms crossed. Both the long-haired trapper and the stout cook from the public house were unarmed, but the argument grew louder, their voices overlapping.

“— don’t want you causing any more trouble!” the trapper barked. “We’re giving you until morning to clear out.”

“I’m far enough from town,” Cara said. “This land’s unincorporated.”

“Move out,” the bald one insisted. His broad hands flexed into fists. “Or you’ll be moved.”

Cara laughed humorlessly. “Try it, Dagosh, see what happens.”

“We’re being civil. This is exactly why we asked you to leave this afternoon—”

“If you hadn’t snuck up on me I wouldn't have shot at you—!”

Somebody off to Cara’s left cleared their throat. The two men jolted in surprise as Cara’s hand went to her hip holster.

The Mandalorian had materialized between the trees like a specter, silent and shimmering. Both men blanched at his sudden appearance, exchanging looks as they stepped back. The Mandalorian cut an intimidating silhouette, the flames reflected in his armor the only motion against the darkness.

The trapper nudged his friend and the two backed away further with a call of “By first light, trooper.” They mounted the speederbike hovering past the light of the campfire and kicked off in a hurry, brush swishing loudly as it was displaced by the retreating hum through the forest. Cara pivoted away from the Mandalorian and grabbed her duffel, shoveling supplies in to break camp.

“You here for a rematch?” she growled. She tore a blanket from the ground and stuffed it into a rucksack, packing the rest of her gear. “Or do you just like to spectate?”

“… They give you trouble?”

“Save your pity,” she snapped. Bedroll and mess kit found their way onto the pile with military efficiency, sparse belongings tacked together and stowed in canvas. The Mandalorian watched her toss the rest of her food over the grass before she shoved past him. “And get out of my way.”

The Mandalorian remained silent as Cara packed, and it unnerved her.

She thought about finding a soft spot between all that armor to shoot him. She needed to find somewhere new to bed down for the night and didn’t feel like watching over her shoulder while she did.

Cara had learned long before that poison nettles and occupied dens were far easier to spot in the daylight. She’d been fortunate enough so far to avoid both, but the creek wound further into the forest away from the cleared footpaths and she’d still need to clear brush before getting a fire going. The rest of the predators stayed away from the light.

He stood there the entire time she packed, but it wasn’t a large campsite— Even half a minute beneath the gaze of black steel made the skin down the back of her neck crawl. He hadn’t moved from the tree, watching her impassively.

If the rookie was waiting in the shadows, she’d shoot him too and not lose an ounce of sleep over it.

“What?” she finally snapped. “Where’s your sidekick? If you came to collect on my hide after all, I’ll give you a real fight.”

The Mandalorian tossed something at her. She caught it automatically.

Credits glinted up from the bag in the firelight.

“I have a counteroffer.”

—

Five humans and a child of indeterminate species trundled through the woods on a wagon with enough space left in the back for two. Toro had shot Cara a saucy grin and winked while they were discussing bedding arrangements, at which she scoffed and tossed her duffle bag onto the pile, climbing up to prop herself against her rucksack. The gunslinger, despite his flirtation, stretched the entirety of his lanky body longways down the wagon bed next to the cases on the other side. The Mandalorian sat upright towards the front near the villagers, and the child perched on his lap, eagerly watching the trees go by as moths fluttered around the hanging lantern.

Something started to unnerve the villagers the farther they traveled into the forest: while Caben directed the droid ahead along the trail, Stoke watched through the trees as fog crept in, clouding the shadows between bark. It was hard not to notice the antiquated slugthrower he carried on his lap, and Din was starting to wonder if there was more to the raids than simple smash-and-grab thefts of food and supplies.

”You plan on bird hunting this time of night?” the Mandalorian asked.

Stoke glanced back over his shoulder while Cara and Toro swapped stories. “Just cautious,” he said. “The raids have had everybody on edge. We’ve tried tracking the bandits, but we think they move camps throughout the week, and we can’t afford to venture too far into the woods— There’s too much work to be done back home, and the raiders have something with them.”

“… Something.”

The farmer’s frown deepened. He tried coming up with the right description and, failing that, nudged his friend. Mando looked to Caben.

“We’re not sure what it is,” Caben hedged as he turned and rested his arm over the back of the bench. “They’ve got something big with them that sounds like a machine, but it has these… big red eyes, I guess, that move through the woods past what we can see, even at midday. It’s big enough to shake the ground, and we keep finding its footprints around the raiders’ old campsites.”

“What do you mean?” Cara cut in. She and Toro were leant in behind them now.

“Just… Big footprints,” Stoke said. “Round like a lotus leaf, with two toes in front like a lizard. Size of this wagon bed. They go all around the forest and overlap the most at their old campsites. There’s branches and bark shorn off the trees too high to be any of the other animals marking their territory or looking for food.”

Mando and Cara glanced at each other, their earlier assessment at what should have been a simple job now morphing into concern.

”Where do the tracks go?” Toro asked.

”Around the outer edges of the village,” Caben said. “We can’t tell if they go into the river or not. The tracks… Well, they keep us corralled toward the ponds. We don’t have enough slugthrowers to fight the bandits, plus whatever that thing is.”

Mando’s own frown deepened. It was one thing to scare off a couple dozen raiders, but it was another thing to go up against something that big and unknown. He didn’t think the villagers were pulling their legs; the loggers in Lau had also been guarded and uneasy. Whatever creature was lurking in the woods had apparently been a problem for some time, and their earlier pleading was starting to take a different light.

“Footprints?” Cara was asking. “Not tire tracks or treads? Nothing like a vehicle?”

“They’re feet,” Stoke said flatly. “If it’s a vehicle, we don’t know what it is or where it could have come from. There’s nothing besides Lau and villages like ours for miles around here. No fuel, no roads.”

“What does it do? During the raids?” Toro asked.

“We’re… not sure,” Caben confessed. “Something explodes and the bandits charge out from the trees, from different directions every time.”

“We’re usually focused on getting people far enough away and taking cover,” Stoke muttered. His hands tightened on the long gun on his lap as he focused on the trail. “The second time they showed up, some of us fought back but not all of us made it. Two were killed in the fight, and another is still recovering from their injuries. We’ve buried more people in two months than we have in five years.”

“… There’s a lot of children,” Caben said softly. He was watching the child on Mando’s lap, who was now gazing up at the stars. “As soon as the blasterfire starts, we’re just trying to get as many people out of the way as we can. The faster we run, the more people there are left by the end of it.”

A flicker of cratered earth filled Din’s memory. He could almost smell the acrid cordite as the farmers talked.

“… I don’t like it,” Cara muttered.

Stoke snorted, unamused. “Yeah, you’re telling us.”

Quiet settled again around them, or as quiet as the soft hooting and buzzing of wildlife would allow. Mando settled the child in on one of the softer bags, covering him with the edge of a blanket.

“Tell us what you can about the village and the bandits themselves,” Din said. “Sound like we’ll need as much intel as we can get.”

Notes:

I know the term ‘Venn diagram’ wouldn’t exist in Star Wars, I just don’t care. It’s a good line and I’m keeping it.

”I don’t know you well enough to miss you if you were gone,” comes from a story Rodney Crowell tells from his past about being completely wasted and meeting his then live-in-girlfriend’s father for the first time; After making a pretty bad first impression, Johnny Cash responded with the above line, and Crowell says it sobered him right up.

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#din djarin #grogu djarin #toro calican #cara dune #omera #caben #stoke #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #toro calican lives au #au #fic rec

[autumnwoodsdreamer]

Write a Different Chapter for Us

Chapter Seven: The Distract and Conquer Strategy

.....

Summary: Tony’s not-so-successful meeting with the board

Words: 3391

Rating: Teen

Characters: Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov, Pepper Potts

Relationships: Tony Stark/Natasha Romanov, Tony Stark & Pepper Potts

Tags: established relationship, family, pregnancy, conversations, PTSD, hurt/comfort

Note: Excuse my terrible math. Seven chapters, not six. Sorry. Carry on.

“The stock is going to be a major talking point.”

“Uh-huh.”

New York didn’t feel the same, but Tony couldn’t figure out what had changed.

“And that very public tussle with Whiplash is going to come up. It has a lot of investors nervous. Hence the stock drops.”

“Right. Got it.”

Everything was more or less right the way he had left it. There were some newly bent streetlights and a few obviously filled-in craters littering the sidewalks (apparently the X-Men and the Brotherhood had had another... tiff). But, other than that, it was the same city, teeming with the same hustle and bustle.

“But if we pull their focus to the latest advancements in our medical tech departments, we may be able to keep them happy... or distracted, at the very least.”

“Yeah? Good. That’s good.”

Actually, scratch that. The hustle and bustle was different. The people were... it was summer—summer vacation. There were more families out and about.

“We just have to be careful not to get through the business side of business too soon or we’ll back ourselves into a corner.”

“Of course.”

A young boy sat on his father’s shoulders, clearly thrilled by his new perspective of the world. His mother walked alongside; she looked like she was enjoying the sunny morning and whatever they had planned, but she still kept a careful eye on her son.

“Oh, and Galactus called. He’d like to replace our CFO.”

“Okay.”

Tony didn’t know the family, but he found himself hoping they had a good day, hoping nothing bad happened to them. Bad things happened way too often, especially these days—

He jerked backwards. Blinking rapidly, he pulled his gaze away from the window and rushed to orient himself. Car, backseat, Pepper, board meeting, stocks... Galactus? “Wait, what?”

Her glare, shot sideways, was about as subtle as his spacing out. “Are you with me now?”

He pried his fingers off the door handle, his knuckles aching from the death-grip. “Yeah. Sorry. Just... making sure New York’s still in one piece.”

“It’s all there and I can assure you it will still be there after this meeting.”

“I know.”

“Tony, I really need you to focus on—”

“So. Classic distract and conquer strategy?”

The sharp turn back to the matter at hand did little to convince Pepper he was fully on board, but she didn’t work with him for more than a decade and not learn the meaning of “futile” so she let it go with a terse sigh. “Basically, we just need to show them you aren’t dead and remind them that, even if you were, the company is standing on its own two feet and moving ahead.”

Tony grimaced. “Did the stock really drop that bad?”

She passed him her tablet, dropping it in his lap before he could track the movement. He stamped down the instinct to jolt backwards and forced himself to hold it, forced his focus to hone in on the colourful graphs and charts on the screen, forced himself to ignore the sudden flare of heat in his chest.

“You got attacked by a guy who sliced a garbage truck in half like it was a block of butter and then you made no verifiable appearance for almost a month. Yes, the stock suffered. Haven’t you seen the news?”

“Uh... no. Not really. Been a bit busy... recovering, you know?”

Something adjusted in her expression at that; he never did learn the right word to describe it—he knew it wasn’t quite sympathy, but it wasn’t totally devoid of care, either. With or without a name, he had come to understand it as her way of saying-without-saying: “Your life is ridiculous and I’m surprised you aren’t dead or dismembered yet... but I am glad you’re well.”

“Look,” she said, her critical tone easing, “I’ll run point on this. Just back my play and do what you do best.”

“Put on a show?”

That got a smile. “Yes, but no fireworks.”

“How about sparklers?”

“Nothing flammable.”

“Buzz-kill.”

“Fine. You can have glow-sticks.”

“Thanks, boss.”

. . . . .

Business mode took over, enabling Tony to project his most presentable version of himself: not dead, not in pain, totally on the ball and not thinking about anything that didn’t pertain to the company and its interests.

He sold the image well—Obadiah used to say he could sell water to a drowning man—but that was all it was: an image, i.e. no substance.

The pretty picture started fading as the meeting ran overtime. It was just a few small things: he couldn’t quite sit up straight, his replies came short and clipped, and he was just too aware of the knot of his tie touching his throat.

No one noticed; no one that wasn’t Pepper, anyway.

From all the way on the other side of the room, she caught him sliding two fingers between his tie and collar, not-so-subtly trying to tug it loose. She gave him a look; not exactly the glare he earned earlier in the car, but it was nearly there.

He corrected the action, turning it into a subconscious attire assessment. It couldn’t fool her but it didn’t have to.

They only just reached the finance affairs as the clock struck noon. Tony excused himself to the bathroom; he didn’t have to, but he mentioned the curry—it bought a few knowing chuckles and an eye-roll from Pepper which was always worth it.

After washing up, he didn’t hurry to return. He pulled out his phone and commandeered a spot on the floor near the sinks—Stark Tower’s restrooms were cleaner than operating theatres and his germophobia came and went as it pleased, so as long as he didn’t think about it, he was okay.

He wasn’t surprised to see no messages waiting for him; Pepper used to insist he keep his personal phone off while handling SI business but Iron Man, SHIELD liaising, and then the Avengers corroded that rule—now she just asked he keep it on silent.

No messages didn’t necessarily mean no problems. A tight, invisible band remained fixed around his chest as he typed and sent off a simple “Everything alright?” message.

Natasha replied within seconds. “All fine.”

Tony told himself he had to believe that. “Might be home an hour late,” he told her.

She sent a low resolution picture of a kitten with big, sad eyes.

He huffed a laugh, the small sound echoing in the confined space. The fact he married the World’s Most Dangerous Women never for a moment escaped him, but it certainly made her brand of texting that much more amusing.

“Want me to get you anything?”

“No. Had lunch ;)”

“Ok. Stay safe. Love you.”

He signed off with a heart emoji because that was another thing he did now (Peter once told him it was inaccurate and he should use the blue circle instead).

He checked the news, then checked his message bank again. No calls to assemble, no giant robots attacking the city, no aliens threatening invasion. He checked the time, reminded himself he had to get back. He checked the weather... and then the news again, just to be sure.

Nothing was happening in the world—nothing he could fix, anyway. It should’ve been a relief, but it wasn’t.

Giving the phone a rest, he shut his eyes and tilted his head back against the cold, tiled wall. Silence asserted itself, but between the constant ringing in his ears and the white noise of his thoughts, he hardly noticed.

Hiding in the bathroom wasn’t exactly professional; he knew he should pick himself up off the floor, get back, and give this his best, as was expected... but motivation eluded him.

In a bid to compromise, he allotted five minutes of peace and sternly told himself he couldn’t have more than that. When his five minutes were up, he got to his feet and headed out before he could argue.

Somewhere along the way back to the conference room, he decided to ditch the tie altogether, rolling it up and stowing it in his pocket.

The mood had shifted in his absence; judging by the stiff set of Pepper’s shoulders, it wasn’t good...

. . . . .

It was close to two in the afternoon by the time Tony got back to the Compound.

Sam, testing his new wings by flying circuits overhead, saw him arrive and waved from the sky; Tony responded with a mock salute.

On his way to the residential block, he caught sight of Steve and Daisy jogging around the lake; they were far enough away that he couldn’t exactly hear what they were saying to each other, but he still heard Daisy’s laugh—full and bright and real.

Beyond them, he just managed to glimpse some coloured blurs zipping about amongst the trees bordering the far side of the lake. Red and blue, white and black and teal, and—only now and then—a black and red blur: Peter, Gwen, and Miles. They liked to call their races and convoluted games of tag “training” in the hopes of appearing serious; Tony really didn’t care what they called it, he was just glad they were all enjoying their summer vacation.

Tracing his way through the lobby, heading for the elevator, a thought occurred to him: if someone had told him just six years ago that this was where Iron Man would take him, that he’d make a home filled with such crazy, colourful, incredible people, he wouldn’t have imagined anything like this; here on the other side of it, he couldn’t believe his life had once been so bland.

He wasn’t holding himself so stiffly when he finally reached his apartment, but hours of playing businessman had strained his still healing muscles. A dull but deep ache radiated from his core and seemed to settle in his bones; with effort, he could continue ignoring it, but experience warned him it would be worse the next day.

It didn’t escape Natasha’s trained sight. The second he walked in, her head snapped up and her gaze flicked from the hefty folder in her lap to him. After just a mere glimpse, her lips quirked and “I told you so” lit up in brilliant neon in her eyes.

He pointed an exaggeratedly stern finger at her. “Don’t say it!”

She tilted her head and batted her eyelashes. “Okay. Then you say it.”

“No.”

“Then I’m gonna say it.”

“Don’t you d—”

“You should’ve worn the brace.”

He rolled his eyes but a smile ruined the effect. “For the record, you didn’t tell me to wear it today.”

She shrugged and returned her attention to... whatever she was doing. “I’ve said it like a million times already; just pull up a memory and stamp today’s date on it.”

“Nag.”

“You love me.”

“Yeah. I do.” He kicked off his shoes and draped his wrinkled suit jacket over the arm of the couch.

Without looking, Natasha gathered some of the papers splayed out on the couch cushions and patted the now free space.

Tony accepted the invitation, collapsing bonelessly beside her. He took advantage of the respite and tried to relax; he didn’t mean for his eyes to slip closed, but he really wasn’t up to fighting it.

As nice as it was to be back in his own space, with Natasha safe and sound beside him, he got the sense this day wasn’t over just yet. “I’m a little scared to ask: but what is all...” he gestured halfheartedly, his hand hardly rising off the couch, “this?”

“Our next mission. Fury dropped it off just after you left this morning.” She nudged him softly in the side with her elbow before sliding the folder from her lap to his.

With a frown, Tony opened his eyes. “Natasha, I don’t know if you should—“

“I told him.”

“Oh.” He blinked and smoothed out the frown; it came back half-strength. “And... what did he say?”

“That he’ll take care of the heavy lifting.” She tapped the folder. “This looks like it’s more about research and connect-the-dots than chasing bad guys anyway.”

“Yeah, they always start that way.” Reluctantly, he pulled himself out of his slouch and began flipping through the papers. Reports, he supposed; he wasn’t making himself read anything. The thick blocks of words upon words soon gave way to photographs and he slowed down—maybe he could piece it together with just pictures for now.

The first few didn’t immediately connect to any relevant information: shards of metal, charred and jagged; bits of broken glass scattered over asphalt; cars with gashes and slashes and crumpled hoods.

Everything rushed into focus when he came to a photograph of a long, coiled tail of razors—segmented for flexibility and serrated for brutality.

“This is about Whiplash,” he said, his voice somehow quieter than he meant it to be.

“Fury’s been looking into it. He doesn’t think the Maggia was involved.”

“Okay... so who is?”

“He doesn’t know. Our best lead right now is whoever supplied Scarlotti’s new tech.” Natasha picked out a leaf of papers from the spread by her hip. “Here,” she said as she placed it in his grasp, covering the photographs. “This is the report from SHIELD’s engineers. They’ve been examining it and this is what they have so far.”

“I didn’t know he left anything behind.”

“Well, I doubt he meant to; he was just in a hurry to get away.”

“Yeah, Hulk has that effect on people.”

Tony skimmed through the specs, curiosity buying his concentration. With just a glance, he could tell it wasn’t AIM’s handiwork, as he (and everyone else) had initially assumed. The design wasn’t simple, but it was straightforward, not encumbered with all the unnecessary frills AIM loved to add just because they could.

Also, it relied more on hardware than software. It was designed to shred and tear and slash, to make a mess: AIM liked weapons of devastion, such as blasters and bombs, but they thought too highly of their technological prowess to resort to tricking out medieval torture implements.

He scoured the information, the mechanic in him taking over, dismantling and reconstructing, fitting all the bits into place, seeing all the ways to improve it. Some parts struck him as just too familiar, stoking a weatherbeaten sense of indignation as he recognized components of his own invention mingled in with the otherwise unique design.

The report ended too quickly. Turning the last page, expecting to find more, the photograph of the whip lying inert on the road caught him off guard.

Huh.

He hadn’t noticed all that blood before... Was it all his? Had to be. Must’ve been from when it—

He closed the folder; he did it too fast and some papers folded funny and others just fell out altogether. “I’d like to have a look at the tech myself,” he said.

Natasha hummed. “I thought you might.”

“SHIELD engineers are good but... there’s, um... there’s things that they... they miss things.”

“Yeah, I know.” With the grace of her namesake, she moved the folder off his lap and placed it on the coffee table. With slow, purposeful movements, she tended to the papers, neatening and straightening, replacing and reordering, clearing the couch and the table. “How’s Pepper?” she asked, her tone light, even, steadying.

Tony rubbed at his eyes, tried to shift gears and follow along. “She’s... she’s good.”

“And Happy? Still enjoying the security business?”

He attempted a laugh; it sounded strangled. “Must be. HR is flooded with complaints. I didn’t see him today, though.”

“Too busy?”

“No. Pepper said he had a cold.”

“Again?”

“I think he’s just allergic to Socrates.”

He knew what she was doing. It was a trick, in the same way saving someone from drowning by luring them back to land after they’ve unwittingly drifted too far out to sea is a trick. It worked: he was back in the shallows. He wasn’t on the shore yet but at least he could stand.

He appreciated the distract and conquer strategy—really, he did—but...

Leaning forward, he got the weight off his chest so he could take a full breath. He held it, counted, then let it go in a sigh. “I’m sorry, Tasha, it’s just...”

“It’s alright. It’s always a little bumpy getting back into things.”

“But it shouldn’t be. I should be better than this.”

She moved. He braced, expecting a hand on his back or shoulder, but none came; instead, she uncrossed her legs and tucked them underneath her, moving so as to press up against his side. “It came up in the meeting today, didn’t it?” she ventured.

He nodded.

“Let me guess: the stocks dipped.”

“A bit, but the board was more concerned with...” He gestured, stiffly, aimlessly, but it didn’t help him find the words.

“With... how it looked?” Natasha supplied.

An empty laugh slipped out; he instantly wished he could take it back. “You know, it’s funny: when Iron Man takes on alien invasions or monsters that popped right out of fairytales, he looks like a hero; but when he gets into a wrestling match with a mobster who leaves him looking like a soda can someone stepped on, he’s just... reckless.”

In all fairness, it wasn’t an unanimous view; most of the directors and shareholders either liked Iron Man or were indifferent to Tony’s extracurricular activities, comfortable to let him do whatever he wanted so long as he kept it separate from the company. But there were others: ones who didn’t hate Iron Man, per se, but weren’t exactly thrilled with his existence.

Keith Laurel, one of the few board members who had worked with both Howard and Obadiah, had been the most vocal today. “We’re a multi-national tech conglomerate on the forefront of innovation, and we’re picking street fights with a local crime family now? Do you have any idea how that looks?”

Tony had had to physically bite his tongue at that remark. For one thing, calling the Maggia a local crime family was tantamount to calling McDonald’s a family-run diner. And while he couldn’t figure out what he’d done recently to tick them off, he definitely didn’t go and pick that fight.

Pepper had stepped in then and pointed out that Iron Man’s activities didn’t necessarily reflect on Stark Industries because, technically, he didn’t work for them. She addressed it, then, in the very next breath, directed attention to the medical labs in South America and their recent breakthroughs in prosthetic limbs, but Laurel wasn’t having it.

He had fixed his gaze on Tony. “You’re not CEO anymore. That’s a fact. But you still own this company—the company your father left you. The things you do affect his legacy. What would he think?”

It wasn’t a new sentiment. If he had a dollar for every time someone played the “What would your father say?” card on him, his fortune would double. He had heard it so many times throughout his life, parroted and reiterated to the point that, honestly, he’d grown numb to it.

None of it was new: stock drops, unhappy board members, legacies upheld or profaned, attacks on Iron Man, attacks on Tony Stark—he was used to it.

He was used to it, but this time... it didn’t feel the same.

“You aren’t reckless,” Natasha said, cutting through the storm brewing in his head. “I didn’t marry a reckless man, and I swear I would never have a child with one.”

Tony scoffed before he could censor himself. “I didn’t get attacked for no reason. I must’ve done something, I just... I can’t figure it out.”

She brought her hand into his field of vision before touching his chin and coaxing him to turn his head and look at her; the intensity in her eyes was strangely calming. “I don’t know why Whiplash attacked you, but I know you didn’t invite it.”

When her gaze became too much, he closed his eyes, but he didn’t pull away. He bowed his head so that his forehead met hers. It hurt, twisting and leaning to the side like that, but he didn’t care. “I’ll fix this, I promise.”

Her hand moved to cup the back of his head, anchoring him. “We’ll fix it together.”

. . . . .

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Chapter Six: Out of Commission

Summary: The next day, Tony has to go to a meeting. Fury comes to share some intel with Natasha

Words: 3060

Rating: Teen

Characters: Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov, Avengers Team, Nick Fury

Relationships: Tony Stark/Natasha Romanov

Tags: established relationship, family, team as family, pregnancy, conversations

Sleep didn’t usually sneak up on Natasha; but, then again, she’d been trained to not let herself acknowledge basic needs like hunger and exhaustion until she was safe—and she never felt truly safe until it was just her and Tony.

The evening had only just begun fading in when they curled up on the couch. Well, “curled up” wasn’t quite an accurate term; it was more of a coordinated sprawl. Regardless, she was finally comfortable—pressed up against him, stealing his warmth, letting the synchronized thrum of his arc reactor, his heartbeat, and his deep, even breathing draw the dregs of unease and worry from her being. For now, everything was alright.

She was already slipping asleep when he offered a movie. She heard herself hum an agreement, her body too heavy, too disconnected to try forming coherent, audible words.

The movie started. Her eyes refused to open even the slightest and all sound grew muffled and distant. Vaguely, she wished she had a blanket.

Tony shifted, carefully, thoughtfully, but it was still enough to pull her back to the edge of consciousness. He moved away, taking his warmth and heartbeat with him.

She made a noise—it was so pathetic, if she’d been even the slightest bit more aware, she would’ve hated herself. Now, she didn’t care; she wanted to stay here, wanted to sleep.

Why was he moving so much? Couldn’t he just...?

Arms slid underneath her and lifted her up.

A flash of instinctual panic rose at the touch, at someone holding her in a position she couldn’t control. She stirred, tried to drag herself awake and defend herself.

“Shh. It’s okay, Tasha; it’s just me—just Tony.”

The hushed, familiar voice reached her and she let herself relax. She trusted these arms—armoured or not, they always caught her.

Next thing she knew, she was in their bed, under the covers. Habit forced her onto her side, coiling her body up tight and secure. When a warm weight settled behind her, she drew closer to it, to him, and finally gave in to sleep.

. . . . .

For the first time in weeks, she slept right through the night and well into the morning, nausea and nightmares graciously bowing out and allowing her a rare dose of rest.

The other side of the bed was, unsurprisingly, empty. Somehow she just knew he’d stayed longer this time.

She got up. Routine tugged at her, insisting she dress and commence her workout and training. It didn’t take much effort to decline; she may have managed a whole night’s worth of sleep, but it wasn’t nearly as replenishing as it should have been. (That, and she wasn’t entirely sure what she could and couldn’t do regarding exercise—Bruce was still working on that part of the care plan).

She shuffled from the bedroom to the kitchen—actually shuffled, her body still too tired to pick her feet up between each step.

It seemed Tony had achieved the benefits of a full night’s sleep. He had already showered and dressed; Natasha took note of his business attire—smart slacks, pressed shirt, untied tie hanging around his neck. A mental memo sprang up, reminding her of something important he had coming up but she hadn’t paid enough attention to their schedule over the past few weeks to recall details.

He stood in front of the microwave, waiting, his arms folded and his back to her. She purposely didn’t silence her drowsy steps but he still visibly tensed in the split second between sensing another’s presence and registering their identity.

Twisting around, he saw her and broke out a smile, his arms unfolding and inviting her. “Ah, the dead arise.”

“Ha ha.” Natasha accepted the invitation and they locked together; no hesitation, no force—they just fell into place with one another like magnets. Still, she was careful not to hold on too tightly; he may have been standing straighter and not taking as many shallow breaths, but he wasn’t completely healed yet.

Her sense of smell had been so heightened and sensitive ever since the immuno-suppressants let her enjoy a more authentic morning sickness experience; everything stank, everything churned her stomach, even innocuous things she thought didn’t have any notable scent like tap water. But things weren’t so bad this morning; Tony’s coffee and cologne registered as normal, even comforting again.

Whatever he was making for breakfast, however, was another story.

The microwave dinged. Tony didn’t hurry to pull away; she didn’t really want it to end, but she let him go and then strategically moved to take a seat on a barstool on the other side of the kitchen island—as far as she could go to get away from the smell of food but still be in his company.

He pulled a bowl out of the microwave. Natasha had to wait for the cloud of steam to dissipate before glimpsing... soggy bread filled with vibrantly coloured curry.

Just as a precaution, she covered her nose. “What is that?”

“Bunny chow. Apparently.” Tony retrieved a fork from a drawer and poked at his breakfast while withdrawing to a further corner of the kitchen. “Daisy dropped it off for us last night, when you were asleep. It’s Thor’s new favourite food.” He took a bite, frowned thoughtfully, and went in for another. “She said it was really hot but—” a short, terse cough interrupted him. “Oh. Okay. There it is.”

Natasha snickered. “Milk’s in the fridge, dear.”

Tony shook his head and took another bite. “Nuh-uh. I can take it.”

“Suit yourself.” She shrugged and headed to the refrigerator anyway—it was probably a good idea to eat while she wasn’t feeling so sick—but she stopped short.

She hadn’t expected to see the sonogram on the door of the fridge, fixed perfectly at eye-level, nestled amongst their lists and planners and appointment cards and all the magnets they took to collecting for some dumb reason.

Subconsciously, she traced the black and white shapes on the smooth paper and the cartoonish strawberry holding it in place with a featherlight touch.

Grasping the reality of this situation still eluded her. In the wildly hopeful moments, she saw her and Tony and their child; in the moments fear threatened, she protected herself by just shutting down and not thinking about it. It had been easier to believe when they were with the Barton family, so close to Clint and Laura’s joy, enticed to imagine their own; now they were back to normal, back in the world they belonged, and it was a lot harder to deny who and what they were in the midst of it.

But just seeing these blurry pictures, just hearing that heartbeat... it pushed the vacillating mass of hope and fear aside, told perception and imagination to take a hike, and said: “No. Doesn’t matter what you think; doesn’t matter what you tell yourself. Right now, this is real.”

It was just a bit difficult to keep believing it...

“So, I should be back by lunch,” Tony said, his voice careful but trying for casual.

“Hmm? Sorry?” Natasha shook herself and resumed her task of searching the fridge, even though she was quickly losing interest in breakfast.

He shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve got that board meeting today. Can’t shift it again; Pepper already rescheduled it because of that scrap I got into with Whiplash and then, you know.” Flippantly, he drew a circle in the air with his fork. “Our vacation and all... that.”

Natasha frowned and straightened up, altogether abandoning her act. “If you don’t feel well, Pepper will understand.”

“I’m fine, honey, don’t worry,” he assured, fondly exasperated. A beat later, his expression faltered and he dipped his head, suddenly very interested in that curry. “It’s just... I... I don’t want to... well, you know...”

Realization broke her frown. “You don’t want to leave me on my own.”

He met her gaze, took a breath to speak, made half a sound, then shut his mouth and glanced away.

It was hard to explain, and even harder to understand; she gave him credit for trying and an uninterrupted minute to try again.

“It’s not that I think you can’t take care of yourself; I know you can.” He took a quick breath. “And I know I can’t really... do anything to help. But I don’t... I mean, I just...” The words stalled again, leaving him looking lost.

“I will be okay,” she said.

He nodded, the action stilted and hard. “I know.”

“And I won’t be alone. Jarvis is always here. And Bruce is just in his lab; anything happens, I’ll call him.”

Another nod, another “I know.”

“And Tony?” She waited until he picked up on the cue, waited for him to concede and raise his gaze to meet hers again. When he did, she gave him a smile infused with as much assurance as she could muster this soon after waking up. “You do help.”

It took a minute, but when Tony tried to smooth the worry from his expression and mirror her smile, she actually managed to believe it.

She slipped hers into a smirk—it felt like it fit this time. “Frankly, I’m more worried about the board.”

The shift in topic and tone tugged an eyebrow down, then he caught on to her mischievous hint. “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

She pointed to his breakfast. “They have to sit in a closed room with you all morning.”

He laughed; his real laugh, the one with a snort. “This is a very strategic move, mind you. It’s called mutually assured destruction.”

“Whatever you call it, I’m just glad it’s them and not me.”

. . . . .

Not ten minutes after Tony left, a discreet, electronic chime alleviated the just settling silence.

“Agent Romanov, Director Fury has just arrived in the apartment complex,” Jarvis announced.

“Is he coming here?”

In the space above the kitchen island, a holographic screen appeared and relayed crisp security footage of Fury, striding down the corridor, his back straight, his pace precise and purposeful but not unduly hurried. “Well, he appears to be carrying a rather hefty paper file,” Jarvis pointed out. “In my experience, he only ever brings those here.”

Natasha looked down at the bowl of muesli she’d just made; this day clearly did not want her to get through breakfast and, really, she didn’t feel like fighting that. She left it by the sink and headed to the bedroom.

Ordinarily, she would’ve been dressed for the day by now. She could probably squeeze in a shower in the time it would take Fury to reach the apartment, but she didn’t feel like moving that fast. Instead, she put her hair up and grabbed a gown (again, Tony’s; of course she had her own, but his things were always comfier, and stealing them in a comically obvious fashion was pure tradition at this point).

Fury knocked and waited. He only barged or snuck in during emergencies—emergencies were just so commonplace in his line of work that people had a tendency to misinterpret that as his nature, much like they did hers.

Natasha made her way to the entrance corridor but gave a quick flick of her fingers for Jarvis to open the door before she reached it.

“Next time that husband of yours decides to relocate the Avengers, I expect him to take into account the location of the SHIELD head office,” Fury griped the second he stepped over the threshold, deep voice filling the space. “Do you have any idea how long I sat in traffic?”

“Good morning, Nick.”

“For you, maybe. You didn’t have an idiot in a mini sitting on your butt the whole drive over.”

“You know Tony will just suggest you parachute from the Helicarrier next time, right?”

Fury rolled his eye. “Of course he would...” He cast a quick glance over her; whatever conclusions he drew from her admittedly disheveled state, he decided they didn’t need verbalizing. Still, his expression shifted, softening around the edges. “How is he?”

“Still stiff and sore, but better.”

“He got lucky.”

“Yeah. He did.” She glanced pointedly at the file Fury held at his side. “Business?”

His mouth pressed into a grim line. “Some leads turned up regarding the Whiplash incident.”

Natasha frowned. “Leads? I thought it was pretty straightforward.”

“Initially, it seemed so. But, as you know, you tug on a thread and things start unravelling. Long story short, it doesn’t look like the Maggia hired Scarlotti.”

Something stung in her chest and her stomach clenched. She moved towards the living room, towards the couch, putting forth effort to make it look casual. “And short story long?”

Fury followed her, took a seat on the opposite couch to her, set the file down on the coffee table between them and opened it. “It comes down to two threads. First of all: Scarlotti got away, of course, but he left behind one of his whips.” He flipped through the papers until he reached a photograph of the whip laying limp on dirty asphalt, its serrated segments still covered in deep red blood—Tony’s blood. “SHIELD managed to salvage it and our technicians have been analyzing it. Now, the Maggia are largely traditionalist when it comes to their weapons, but they have developed a mutually beneficial affiliation with AIM in recent years. AIM supplied Scarlotti’s original gear, which was an amalgamation of Vanko’s designs and bits and pieces of Stark weapons—both bootleg and authentic. The Maggia paid for all that. This,” he tapped the photograph, “still has traces of Stark’s tech, but everything else about it is new and unlike anything we’ve come across before.”

“So they got a new supplier?”

Fury shook his head. “The Maggia went on an arms shopping spree this past month. Coulson’s team has been interrupting as many of these deals and shipments as possible, the most recent being just last week.” He flipped through the file again, stopped at a section with a cluster of photographs and specs of various guns, all smooth and fancy and brutal. “These are all AIM. Scarlotti got his tech somewhere else.”

Natasha skimmed through a random page of the specs and the technicians’ notes—while she wasn’t on Tony’s level, she understood a fair bit of the jargon. “Which... isn’t unusual. Despite his history with the Maggia, he’s always operated more as a mercenary.”

“And I would’ve been satisfied to leave it there.”

“But?”

“The second thread.” Without turning the papers again, he pulled out another photograph, this time of a young woman: dark hair, dark eyes, makeup and dress and jewellery aiming for elegant and glamorous but completely missing tasteful along the way. “Recently, the Maggia have been caught up in something of a domestic dispute. Count Nefaria’s daughter, Giulietta, has been trying to take over the family business. By force. The family is split down the middle. They don’t have time to focus on taking down Iron Man, especially when he hasn’t even crossed their path for months.”

Natasha sifted through the file until she found the first picture of the whip. Something about its design rang a faint bell but no connections presented themselves. “So Whiplash got his gear somewhere else, and the Maggia are too preoccupied to put out such a high profile hit.”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

“But you don’t know who made the gear or who hired him.”

Fury sat a little straighter. “That is where you and Stark come in.”

She saw that coming. It was like this mission had been handcrafted specially for them, calling as much for her finesse as it did his expertise.

As Fury continued, outlining other instances of enemy tech with components similar to the new Whiplash gear and the few, hazy leads to the shadowy figure at the centre of it all, a plan of action wrote itself in her mind, quick as an electric shock. Where to begin, who to contact, the paths to take, the favours to cash in—the spy in her was awake and alive and raring to go.

Tony would enjoy dissecting Whiplash’s tech as much as she would enjoy tracking down whoever had the audacity to put a hit out on her husband.

This was her nature, her element. Following clues and traces, bringing all the scattered puzzle pieces together, unravelling the mystery, never knowing just what the big picture will look like in the end, or where the—

She stopped herself.

It wouldn’t all be simple desk work.

“We may not be able to take this on,” she said. When no reply came, she glanced to Fury to ensure she had spoken aloud and not just in her head.

Some of the solemnity gave way to sympathy and he leaned forward. “I realize Tony may not be up to dealing with this so soon—”

“No, it’s not that. It’s me, actually. I’m...” she trailed off, uncertainty derailing her explanation.

Only Bruce knew, and that was out of pure necessity. They had decided not to tell Clint and Laura—as much as they trusted them, it didn’t feel right, not when it was their time to be happy. And they hadn’t sat down and discussed telling any others yet.

But they couldn’t keep it a secret indefinitely...

“While Tony was in the hospital, I... found out I’m pregnant.” She kept her gaze fixed on the papers covering the coffee table; she could sense the consolation in his expression, she knew she wouldn’t take seeing it (she blamed the hormones). “It looks like it may work out this time.”

A warm, calloused hand reached out and covered hers—it was a small gesture, but considering its source, it spoke volumes. “I understand,” he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze and then drawing back. He kept the silence in place for a moment, offering no further sentiments or sympathies—she didn’t need or want them, and he knew that; it wasn’t them, it wasn’t how they cared. “Would you mind if I left this with you anyway?” he asked. “You’re still my best agent and Stark’s gonna want a part of this.”

She considered it for a minute before nodding. “I just can’t do any of the heavy lifting.”

Fury stood up. “Leave that to me. Just do what you can.”

. . . . .

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Chapter Five: Heartbeat

Summary: The first scan

Words: 1819

Rating: Teen

Characters: Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov, Bruce Banner, the Avengers Team

Relationships: Tony Stark/Natasha Romanov, Tony Stark & Natasha Romanov & Bruce Banner

Tags: established relationship, family, team as family, pregnancy, conversations

Bruce chuckled. “You look nervous.”

“He’s scared it’s gonna be twins,” Natasha said with only an edge of her usual smirk.

“I’m not scared; I just told you to brace yourself, okay?” Tony clarified. “My dad was a twin and his grandfather was one of triplets; it runs in the family and it skips a generation.”

Bruce stood and gestured to his now empty seat. “Well, then, would you rather sit down?”

Tony’s eyes bulged. “It is twins!?”

“I haven’t even switched on the machine!” Bruce wheeled the seat across the room and set it beside the bed. “Just sit. I do not need you passing out.”

“I am not going to pass out,” Tony grumbled but acquiesced anyway, making sure he gave his friend a glare as he sat down, if for no other reason than to keep the mood light, keep the banter going—it made battling galaxy-conquering titans manageable, maybe it could help now.

“Well, if you do, you’re on your own.” Bruce retrieved another wheeled stool from under one of the desks and continued setting up. “Because I’m just gonna shove you in a corner and get back to my work. I’m not even giving you a pillow.”

Tony mock-gasped. “And you call yourself a doctor? With that bedside manner?”

“You are not my patient today so you are not my problem,” Bruce said, distractedly, punctuating his words with a staccato string of typing at the computer.

Tony racked his brain to find another comeback, another jab or joke—just something to stretch the back-and-forth a little further—but nothing came.

As much as he tried to smother it under wisecracks and subject changes or release it under the guise of something mundane or ridiculous, the real anxiety was still there, still gnawing away at him, wearing him down. He was no stranger to it in general, but this version was so different, so much deeper and so much sharper than what he was used to.

He never for a moment forgot that this was Natasha’s fight, too; the fear that plagued him, plagued her a hundred times more.

She hid it well. Just sitting on the bed, one knee up, she looked calm, almost bored as she fixed her gaze on the crisp view of the lake afforded by the windows dominating the wall behind Bruce.

Tony couldn’t believe her nonchalance, not when she had asked to take the long way from their apartment to the medbay that morning, and then asked if they could just sit by the lake a little longer; not when he had spent the past few nights with her on the bathroom floor, feeling so utterly useless as she threw up, over and over again; not when he had struggled to lighten the mood, to find words or gestures with meaning, with even just a sliver of healing power, and just having to settle for holding her when the exhaustion took its toll.

He may not have believed her crafted cool, but he sure did envy it.

Sitting there beside her now, made to wait in the quiet, his whole body ached to fidget. His fingers were itching to click and snap, to fiddle with the buttons on his shirt, to just grab something—anything—off Bruce’s tidy desk and turn it over and over in his hands for absolutely no reason.

But none of that would help anyone. Calling on every last ounce of the self-control the world accused him of lacking, he shut his eyes, took a deep breath as slowly and silently as possible, forced his body to be still, and took Natasha’s hand.

She exhaled, her expression cracking for just an instant. She laced her fingers with his, squeezing tight enough that both her and his knuckles turned white.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, just brought their interlocked hands up to his lips; as he pressed a kiss to her cold fingers, her death grip lost some tension.

Bruce let them have their moment. He obviously had everything ready but he ducked his head and made a very convincing show of inspecting the transducer, the bottle of gel, even a box of napkins. After a minute, and having quickly run out of things to fake set up, he cleared his throat. “Good to go?”

Natasha nodded and slipped her hand free of Tony’s to lift her shirt up. He didn’t miss the way her gaze flicked off to the side again; she hated baring her scarred midriff, hating feeling even just that little bit exposed.

Bruce applied the gel, mumbling an awkward little “Sorry.”

Natasha didn’t say anything, just reached for Tony’s hand, which he gave without hesitation, placing the other on her shoulder and rubbing her upper arm with his thumb.

The next few minutes crawled past, silence kept at bay with the soft whirring of the electronics and Bruce’s intermittent typing on the keyboard or clicking with the mouse. Every now and then, he would ask Natasha to hold her breath for a second or mumble some measurement or the other to himself but nothing else.

Tony watched the monochrome images blur and zip across the monitor. He had endured his fair share of ultrasounds—he had to get an echocardiogram at least once a year (another thing he trusted Bruce with). He could distinguish the different chambers of the heart and he knew what the shrapnel looked like, but he didn’t know what to look for in a prenatal ultrasound. He could learn; he could learn anything he set his mind to, but he very purposefully came here today sans a crash course in sonography. Natasha needed him as a husband today, not as a scientist.

She didn’t look at the screen; she just lay there, rigid as steel, staring up at the ceiling.

Tony resorted to gleaning clues from Bruce’s expression; there was a notably pensive crease in his brow, but it was too neutral to lend itself to any sure conclusion.

Eventually, Bruce’s brow smoothed out and a bright smile split his face. “You guys need to hear this,” he said and, not awaiting a response, clicked something on the screen.

Natasha instinctively tightened her hold on Tony’s hand as the computer relayed a quick, steady rhythm of muffled and garbled but still very distinct thumps.

Tony forgot to breathe for a second. He looked to Bruce. “Is that...?” His throat closed, halting the words.

His friend nodded. “That’s the heartbeat. And this,” he pointed to the monitor, dragged the mouse to highlight a portion of the sonogram, took a picture and kept the image on screen for a moment, “is your baby.”

It... really just looked like a lopsided jellybean, though an argument could be made for an inflated cashew nut.

Still, no masterpiece in ink or paint or stone could’ve meant more to Tony; they certainly couldn’t draw all the air from his lungs in one breath, leaving his chest burning and his heart racing like this. He looked to Natasha; she had abandoned her reluctance, her eyes now glued to the monitor as an unsteady smile tugged at her lips.

“Definitely ten weeks old and definitely just the one—seems you managed to dodge that Stark curse,” Bruce said, readjusting the wand on Natasha’s abdomen and continuing scanning. “Not ectopic, so that’s good. All the measurements are fantastic, actually. Textbook.”

“How big is it?” Natasha asked; Tony could feel the rigidity in her shoulders starting to ease.

“Uh... roughly... the size of a strawberry.”

“What kind of strawberry?” Tony asked. “They aren’t universally the same size, you know.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “A normal strawberry. About...” he held up his free hand, setting his forefinger and thumb about two inches apart, “this big.”

Natasha blinked, filing that tidbit away. “Can you... can you tell what it is?”

Bruce shook his head. “Not yet.”

Tony leaned over and pressed a kiss to Natasha’s forehead. “They’re a fighter, that’s what they are.”

. . . . .

Tests and examinations filled the next few hours; the summer sun had slipped and softened to a more enjoyable warmth by the time Tony and Natasha retired to the compound’s residential block.

As Natasha showered, Tony scoured their magnet-ladened refrigerator for one depicting a strawberry and soon found it hiding on the side, in amongst a gathering of cat Avengers (an anniversary gift from Kamala). He tacked the sonogram on the refrigerator door, in between the grocery list and week planner.

Natasha came through and curled up on the couch. She still looked pale and tired, the shower taking more than it gave; at any rate, she looked comfortable in his faded California shirt and, he suspected, his grey sweats.

It wasn’t yet evening but she said she could handle dinner now so he made dinner (just cereal—it was the only thing she could keep down and the only thing that didn’t stink to her at the moment).

As daylight began fading, Daisy stopped by. She and the others were heading out for curry—apparently, Thor had discovered a food truck that served something called “bunny chow”; he wouldn’t stop raving about it and now everyone wanted to try it, mostly out of curiosity.

Tony, mindful not to fall into excuses, just told her he and Natasha had planned to spend the evening in. Daisy wished them a good time and promised to bring them each a bunny chow, if it really was as good as Thor said.

They tried to watch a movie—Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, their go-to—but Tony had to carry Natasha to bed before the dolphins even finished their song.

He joined her. Even though he rarely slept a whole night through, he still made an effort to go to bed the same time as her.

He lay on his back for hours, propped up by pillows, arms folded behind his head, just staring at the diffused splash of light his arc reactor cast on the ceiling.

He remembered the other times; he didn’t think he could ever forget and it didn’t feel right to try. They would always be a part of him and a part of Natasha, no matter what.

Lying here now, fuzzy black and white pictures playing in a loop in his head, fighting for real estate amidst the usual clutter and train wrecks, he told himself he should stay cautious. But the optimist in him—the one that had believed and fought tooth and nail to get out of every cave and bottle this world had dragged him into, the one that could learn and heal and march on—wanted to hope.

For tonight, with his wife curled up beside him and sleeping soundly, he could let himself hope.

When his eyes finally grew heavy, he gave in and let Natasha’s steady breathing and the memory of a little heartbeat lull him to sleep.

. . . . .

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THE MANDALORIAN Chapter 16: The Rescue

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Chapter Four: Beginning

Summary: Natasha contemplates

Words: 648

Rating: Teen

Characters: Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov, Cooper Barton, Lila Barton

Relationships: Tony Stark/Natasha Romanov

Tags: established relationship, family, pregnancy,

With a mischievous but delighted cry, Cooper picked up the hose and turned it on his sister.

Despite already being thoroughly soaked, Lila shrieked and brought her arms up to shield her face. When there was a brief break in the assault, she sprang forward and jammed her hand over the head of the hose, sending the water spraying back at Cooper. Instinctively, he dropped it and she seized her chance, grabbing it and turning it on him.

Caught between laughing and shrieking, he took off running as she started chasing him.

“Hey!” Tony called. He spread his arms out—an easy target. “How come he gets all the water?”

Lila took the bait with glee, swinging the hose around in a wide, sloppy arc that sent water spraying all over the now muddy lawn, much to Lucky’s joy.

Tony feigned a surprised cry as the water hit him. Cringing dramatically, he cried: “Ah! No! Stop! Stop! Mercy!”

His performance got Cooper and Lila laughing even harder and banding together to torment him with the hose pipe.

Natasha watched on from the porch swing, shaking her head and laughing softly to herself, enjoying the playful scene.

They had only been here a week so far but the sun and fresh air was already working wonders on Tony; his cuts and bruises and even the dark patches under his eyes had faded—they were still there, still noticeable, but they were certainly healing.

Even she was feeling better, though not physically. Part of Bruce’s care plan proposed they suppress her enhanced immune system to keep it from recognizing the baby as some sort of disease to be stopped. They didn’t have to completely suppress it, just reduce it to normal levels. As unproblematic as that sounded, it meant Natasha would be subject to the full onslaught of pregnancy symptoms.

She had already experienced a glimpse of morning sickness—the otherwise inexplicable nausea and just general out-of-sorts feeling that pushed her to buy that box of tests from the hospital pharmacy two weeks previous. Then, it was hardly an inconvenience, perhaps easily dismissed, if she didn’t know better. Now... well, she was getting very familiar with the toilet bowl in the guest bathroom; just that morning, Tony joked that he felt a bit jealous that she spent more time with it than she did with him (to which she tried to snark something back but another heave interrupted her).

As encouraging and optimistic as Bruce endeavoured to be as he laid out the care plan, he didn’t sugarcoat anything. And Natasha, knowing full well it would not be easy and that nothing was guaranteed, did not hesitate.

So, physically, she felt drained and sick. But other than that?

After some bargaining, Tony herded Cooper and Lila to the porch, stopping to switch off the hose before following them. Lucky watched them leave, looking forlorn that his playmates were abandoning him; he quickly resolved his grief by continuing to roll in the fresh mud.

“Have fun?” Natasha asked, handing her husband two towels from the stack that had kept her company for the past hour.

He huffed a breathless laugh that left a brilliant smile in its wake. “Yeah. We sure did.” He picked one towel and set the other back on the swing seat. Bending down, he settled on his haunches and draped the old green towel around Cooper while Natasha wrapped Lila in hers.

His hands balled up in the worn fabric, Cooper flung his little arms around Tony’s neck; he caught him by surprise but Tony just blinked, forced himself to recover, and returned the hug with one hand on the boy’s back. “Thank you for playing with us,” he said.

Lila joined the hug. “Yeah! Thank you, Uncle Tony!”

“You’re welcome, Baby Agents.”

Natasha indulged another smile.

She was beginning to believe they could have this, too...

. . . . .

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Chapter Three: The Good Doctor

Summary: Tony and Natasha give Bruce a call, seeking his help

Words: 1538

Rating: Teen

Characters: Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov, Bruce Banner

Relationships: Tony Stark/Natasha Romanov, Tony Stark & Natasha Romanov & Bruce Banner

Tags: established relationship, family, team as family, pregnancy, conversations

Bruce Banner, not yet awake, answered the call on reflex alone.

Lying flat on his stomach, his head half turned and submerged in a too-soft pillow, he awkwardly bent his arm to hold the phone to his ear. He groaned something unintelligible and nearly drifted off again in the time it took for his caller to respond.

“Hey, Banner? Where are you?” A chirpy voice greeted him.

“Tony?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Hi.”

“Whuzthuhtime?” the doctor slurred.

“Uh... I don’t know what the time is by you. Probably something ungodly. Sorry.”

“Whuzthuhproblum?”

“The problem? Well, it’s, uh... it’s complicated.”

Despite the dense fog of disturbed sleep hanging over him, Bruce did not miss the apprehension in his friend’s voice. He willed himself to wake up further. “When is it not?” he asked, rhetorically but at least somewhat more coherently.

Tony laughed. Nervously. “Oh, trust me: this one’s a doozy.”

Why me? Bruce thought but didn’t verbalize. Not yet willing to sit up and relinquish all hope of returning to sleep, he slid his other arm under his chest to switch the hand holding the phone and extended the other towards the nightstand to switch on the lamp. Gradually, the light brightened but remained a pleasant, unobtrusive glow—bless the soul that invented smart lamps.

“Where are you?” Tony asked again.

“The compound. In New York. And I was enjoying two weeks without you.”

“Sounding a bit grouchy there, Brucie. Wake up on the wrong side of the bed, did we?”

Bruce huffed out a heavy sigh at his friend’s singsong tone. “I’m still in bed, I want to stay in bed, and you’re being a pest.”

“I love you.”

“That’s debatable.” He rolled onto his back, cinching the covers around his legs, burrito-style, in so-doing. Consciously, he quelled his irritation—Tony enjoyed acting like an over-caffeinated puppy but never bothered anyone unnecessarily. “Why did you call? What’s wrong? Is it—?”

“I’m fine.”

“Which is usually the very thing you say when you’re absolutely not,” Bruce pointed out with tangible exasperation.

“I’m fine,” Tony repeated, calmly and earnestly. “Listen, there’s something else very urgent I need your help with, but I first need you to promise.”

“Promise what?”

“Just say you promise.”

“Tony...”

“Okay, okay; I need you to promise you’ll keep it quiet.”

Bruce gave up on sleep entirely then and sat upright, a frown carving deep lines in his brow. “As your doctor, I am, to a degree, obligated to keep certain matters private,” he explained, seriously. “But if you’re in some kind of trouble or—”

“No, no; it’s not like that,” Tony quickly assured. “Maybe a bit. Not... well, nothing illegal.”

“Whatever it is, it’s getting you worked up. Just tell me,” the older man practically implored. “You have my word I won’t do anything... indiscreet. I would never do anything that could hurt you—you know that.”

A beat of silence from the other end of the faceless exchange followed. Bruce held his breath and strained to listen in as he heard mumbling and material ruffling like his friend had just slipped the phone down and pressed the speaker against his shirt in an attempt to mute a conversation between him and someone else in the room.

Tony held the phone up in time for Bruce to hear him breathe in deeply. “It’s Natasha,” he finally, reluctantly said, not really clarifying anything.

“What about her?” Bruce prompted, inwardly thinking: I’m a doctor, not a dentist—why do you always make me pull your teeth? “Is she in trouble? Is she hurt? Is she missing?”

“No, she’s fine. Okay, not really fine. Well, not not fine. You see, she’s, uh... actually, she’s—”

“Spit it out or I go back to sleep.”

Tony exhaled. “She’s kinda... pregnant.”

“Kinda?”

“She is.”

“What?”

“Pregnant.”

“Yes, I got that bit. Thank you.” Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. His mouth was dry and his head hurt—typical side-effects of waking up for him, but as he grew agitated, they asserted themselves. He let out a controlled breath and let his hand slip off his face. “Natasha’s pregnant. Okay. That... that should be impossible. Her physiology... it was tampered with so much, she shouldn’t even be able to conceive. Beyond that, her immune system shouldn’t let the pregnancy get far enough for hormones to cause symptoms.”

“We know all that,” Tony said, quietly.

“Is she there?”

“Yeah. You’re on speakerphone, by the way.”

“Hi, Nat.”

“Hi, Doc,” came Natasha’s voice sounding unusually small and tired. “Sorry to wake you.”

“It’s no problem,” Bruce assured, his gentleness restoring.

“Is this too much for you, Banner?” Tony asked, genuinely concerned.

“No, I’m processing it just fine.”

“No chance you’ll Hulk-out?”

“You made a bet before you called me, didn’t you?”

“No!”

“Yes,” Natasha supplied.

“Thought so.” Two days worth of stubble scratched his palm as he scrubbed a hand down his face. “You’re still with the Bartons, right?”

“Yeah; we arrived yesterday.”

“But we can be in New York by this afternoon.”

“Hold your horses, Tony, let’s just go back a step here. How am I supposed to help you if I don’t really know what’s going on? Natasha, I’m assuming you took a test, right?”

“A few, actually.”

“Consistently positive?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, we’re getting somewhere.” As if wrestling off a vicious anaconda, Bruce kicked the tangled sheets off his legs. Once free, he pushed himself to the edge of the bed, planted his bare feet in the soft carpet and reached for his glasses to restore his short-range sight. He got up, crossed the room in a drunken-like stumble and plonked himself down at his desk. “Please explain as much as you know about what’s going on,” he instructed as he turned on the desktop lamp and located a notepad.

Natasha methodically relayed all she knew of her situation (i.e. how far along she suspected she was, the extent of her morning sickness, when she took a test, absolutely anything and everything she could tell was out of the ordinary, etc...). Bruce speedily wrote all the points down, absently making noises of acknowledgement as he kept pace.

“So?” Natasha prompted after she had divulged all she possibly could.

Bruce’s heart clenched at the worry tainting her voice. “Well, you’re definitely pregnant,” he said, calmly. Tapping the lid of the pen on the page, he swiftly reread the notes to himself. “At least seven or eight weeks along. It all sounds like it’s going well, but...” He put the pen down and pushed his glasses up out the way to rub his eyes—this was a lot to wake up to.

“But?” Tony prompted.

“You have to understand it’s still a very vulnerable stage. Through absolutely no fault of the mother, a normal pregnancy may not even reach the second trimester. It just... happens.”

A silence followed and, even all these miles apart, he swore he could feel their blood running cold.

“Aren’t there precautions we can take?” Tony asked, his voice tight.

“Mostly just careful diet and avoiding stress. I can email you some information. Listen, I know you two are pretty unsettled, but please try to stay calm and rest; it’s the best thing you can do for the baby right now. From what I’ve learnt of Natasha’s biology, it prioritizes healing. So if she stays healthy and doesn’t sustain any major injuries, her body will just focus on protecting the baby like any woman’s body naturally would. When you come home, I can run some tests, do a scan, and see where we are. In the meantime, I’ll do research and devise a proper care plan. Of course, if anything happens or you’re just worried about something, call. I can reach you within an hour.”

Even though they were states away from each other, the doctor could feel the weight lifting off his dear friends’ weary shoulders. Tony confirmed the notion with his heartfelt, “Thank you.” which Natasha echoed with equal sincerity.

The issue settled as much as it presently could be, an idle chat followed, their conversation calmly and naturally drifting between subjects of a lighter, more domestic nature. Bruce always enjoyed hearing about the Barton kids’ antics.

The unexpected call wound down on pleasant terms and they said their goodbyes, agreeing to meet together after their vacation.

Bruce, having lost all desire and ability to return to sleep, washed and dressed instead, then made his way to the medical bay which, during quiet times like now, doubled as his research lab. Promptly, he drafted the promised email, sent it off with a few helpful links, then set about gathering all his notes on Natasha’s biology and reviewing what he knew on the whole subject.

Halfway through the morning and halfway through an article about high-risk pregnancies, Bruce paused. A thought occurred to him, distracting and disturbing him. His concentration derailed and he slumped back in his chair, his gaze fixing on empty space as his eyes widened and his jaw slackened.

Stark and Romanov.

The world’s most eccentric genius and the world’s most dangerous spy were going to have a child...

Bruce raked an unsteady hand through his quickly greying hair.

Oh, have mercy on us...

. . . . .

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Assume they have access to ikea furniture

#I think he could do it well #he’d use the force and work it out like they learn to build lightsabers #grogu djarin #the mandalorian #polls #poll

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Chapter Two: Coming Morning Light

Summary: In the quiet of early morning, Natasha shares her secret with Tony

Words: 2479

Rating: Teen

Characters: Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov

Relationships: Tony Stark/Natasha Romanov

Tags: established relationship, family, pregnancy, conversations

Just a heads up: there is allusion to previous miscarriages. Nothing graphic but I’d rather be safe and warn.

. . . . .

The vague, uncomfortable notion of something amiss awoke Natasha in the pale beginnings of the next morning.

Propping herself up on her elbow, she cast her gaze over the right side of the bed only to find it empty; a quick touch of the cold, crumpled pillow told her Tony had abandoned sleep hours ago.

It didn’t worry her: he rarely ever stayed in bed the whole night through. It was just strange that she’d slept deep enough not to notice him sneaking out.

She settled back down, bundling herself up in the soft covers and staring up at the thin light streaming in and painting the ceiling. She told herself she’d get up in a minute and go find him. Maybe two minutes...

If they were home, in Malibu or Manhattan, she knew she would find him in the workshop or in the lab, tinkering mindlessly on old projects with rock music blaring in the background. But there was nowhere for him to escape to like that out here—not unless he was desperate, in which case the Bartons’ tractor would receive yet another unnecessary upgrade.

In lieu of mentally stimulating and distracting work, Tony would have sought out a quiet and relatively secluded spot to think. Not the kitchen, not the living room; he would want to take advantage of the fresh air and wide open spaces to clear his cluttered mind.

The front porch, she concluded.

Now would be a good time to tell him, she also concluded.

With a childishly reluctant groan, she rolled back onto her side, pulled the covers up over her head and curled up tightly as if she intended to return to blissful sleep and let the chance to speak pass her by. She could afford it; they had a whole two weeks stretching lazily ahead of them—plenty of appropriate opportunities would present themselves.

But she had already allowed an entire week to lapse without breathing a word of it. Forgivable, only for the fact he spent most of it drugged up and borderline comatose, connected to copious amounts of monitors and machines, barely managing to squeeze her hand and offer a false smile of reassurance.

It wasn’t her secret to keep, she reminded herself with a sigh of defeat.

The decision finally solidified, she threw off the covers and got out of bed. On her way to the hall, she slipped on her robe and retrieved the proof buried deep in her rucksack. She put it in her pocket and crept swiftly and silently down the stairs.

Outside, in the soft air, Natasha found her husband, sitting still and slightly hunched on the far end of the porch swing, his drowsy gaze lingering over the yard, dimly lit by the far away sun.

Bare feet facilitating quiet steps, she crept onto the decking and stopped, hesitant to interrupt the spell hanging over him.

. . . . .

In life, it seemed people either existed in a conscious or unconscious state; everyone (with nearly no exception) experiencing both in the span of one day. Tony Stark, however, dwelled in neither; or, rather, he dwelled absolutely in neither.

His constant state of thinking perpetuated an inability to sleep as well as an inability to devote himself to routine life, leaving him trapped in a strange state of hyper-awareness and oblivion.

Most people had a “train of thought”; he had cross-continental lines, multiple stations, car yards and innumerable wrecks scattered about. Thoughts, ideas and musings raced at all speeds on complexly interwoven tracks—new ones created constantly, old ones never put out of service.

Lately, there were more trains than his mind could manage...

So before any trace of sunlight breached the horizon, he abandoned his futile attempts at rest and left the bed, doing so with care not to disturb his peacefully sleeping wife.

Barefooted, he made his way through the house in relative silence, aided by the convenient bluish light from the arc reactor.

Outside, in the soft air, he took up residence on the front porch swing and whole hours slipped by unnoticed.

Clean, chilled air blew through, rustling the tops of trees and sending water-like ripples through the sea of dew-soaked grass covering the surrounding fields. Birds awoke and sang morning songs to one another, crickets continuously carrying the bass notes. The sky blushed with the first hints of colour and stars faded away. No cars, jackhammers or sirens dared interrupt the tranquility blanketing this little corner of a world all too often shrouded in danger.

Lost to his thoughts, Tony let his gaze absently and unseeingly linger over the yard bathed in a transient, pale mix of moonlight and early dawn. Here, sitting alone and still, he worked on a new design for a water purification system while rehearsing a speech for a Board of Directors meeting scheduled three weeks away while replaying the memory of Barton’s kid spitting up on him hours earlier while wondering what could possibly be worrying Natasha; everything demanded his attention and everything held his attention.

The proverbial trains stalled at the creak of the screen door opening. Bare feet stepped onto the hollow wooden decking but didn’t approach.

“Trouble sleeping, darling?” his wife ventured, striving to call him to the moment without startling him.

He turned towards her, blinking rapidly as a few trains ran faster despite his orders to halt all lines. “Couldn’t get comfortable,” he answered when her words finally computed. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She shrugged and drew her gown closed, tucking her arms into each other and hugging herself tighter. “Bed gets cold without you,” she remarked, her tone conversational.

“Sorry. I can come back...”

“It’s fine. It’s pretty much morning now, anyway.”

He nodded and idly returned his gaze to the yard. Vaguely realizing he had been rigidly hunched over for quite a while, he moved to straighten up. Stiff muscles protested and pain split through his side. He barely managed to stifle a grunt as he moved imperceptibly to massage the sluggishly healing injuries.

“Why aren’t you wearing the brace?” Natasha asked, her voice as gentle and soft as the light of the new dawn.

He winced; he knew she wouldn’t fail to notice. “I... forgot.”

“The doctor said you need to wear it.”

“I couldn’t find it.”

“Tony...”

He rolled his eyes. “I can’t breathe with that thing on, Tasha,” he grumbled.

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I can’t.”

“You’re being childish.”

“No, you are.”

She shook her head but he caught her fond smile of disapproval and counted the victory. “Then let me help you with some bandages. You have to let those ribs heal.”

“I know, I know,” he said in a sigh, not actually annoyed by her gentle concern. He looked up at her with brighter eyes and a small, lopsided smile; the fog of deep thought had lifted and no trains had crashed. “Are you gonna stand there and nag or come sit and watch the sunrise with me?”

She joined him, accepting the invitation without a glimmer of hesitation. In a very cat-like manner, she curled up beside him, tucking her legs under her and resting against him carefully. As the seat rocked backwards, he anchored his feet to steady them while shifting to accomodate her. The lightest touch ignited hot stings of pain, but he didn’t mention so as he wound an arm around her shoulders.

They stayed like that for a while, at peace in their environment and content in each other’s quiet company. A better cure for anxiety and pain did not exist.

But something unsettling still tainted the calm. Tony had sensed it on the plane, in the car, even at dinner: a looming, intangible presence breathing down his neck but never there when he turned around. He couldn’t bear to have it—whatever “it” was—continue cluttering the air.

He took a slow, deliberate breath, letting his chest expand and his shoulders roll back. “You want to talk about it?” he finally asked.

Tilting her head, she looked up at him, brow furrowed in quizzical suspicion.

He gave a small chuckle. “What? You think I don’t notice when something’s bothering you? You haven’t been yourself all week.”

She nestled her head back down against his shoulder. “I’ve been sitting at my borderline comatose husband’s bedside all week; of course I’m not myself.”

“My near-death experiences don’t usually leave you this... somber,” he pointed out, carefully, vividly recalling a blurry glimpse of her distressed expresssion as doctors and nurses pried crumpled, bloodied plates of armour off him, seconds before he blacked out. “Come on,” he prompted, lowering his voice, “what’s the matter with you, Tasha? Something I said? Something I did? I have a sieve for a memory; you have to help me out here. Something someone else did? You didn’t eat much dinner: are you feeling okay?”

She remained stiff and silent as he quietly rambled on, leaving him to ponder the magnitude of whatever be the secret she kept. Before he could imagine anything too horrible, a deflated sigh slipped from her lips and she drew away from the comfortable embrace, halting his lighthearted but aimless utterings. She slid her hand into the pocket of her gown, pulled out an unassuming stick of plastic and, in one quick, unceremonious motion, passed it to him.

He accepted it and held it gingerly. Leaning forward, elbows on knees, he curled his bandaged hand around his chin and mouth as he examined the slim stick.

By the pale light of the arc reactor, he saw two pink lines framed in a little window.

A minute ticked past and he realized he needed to verbalize some form of acknowledgement.

“Is this yours?” he asked, dumbly.

“Ours, technically,” she replied, gaze drifting to her hands as she clasped them tightly together in her lap, her knuckles turning white.

“And this is... it’s positive?”

Regardless of the redundancy of the question, his wife nodded.

Warmth and sensation drained from his hands and feet, leaving his extremities cold and numb while a sharp heat spread from his tightening, churning stomach.

He scraped a hand down his face to keep his expression under control—he didn’t know what was appropriate to display and he understood even less what he presently felt. For a long, uncomfortable moment, he kept his hand firmly clamped over his mouth, aware throwing up would never be considered an appropriate reaction to anything.

“How long have you known?” he asked when he felt he could.

“I found out on Sunday.”

“Sunday? When I was...?”

“Borderline comatose, yes. You can see why it didn’t seem appropriate to bring it up.”

“So you’ve been dealing with this all week by yourself?” His heart felt cold and heavy with shame as if he had knowingly neglected his duty to her.

Her lips pressed tighter together and he knew she was biting down hard on the insides of her cheeks to keep herself from tearing up—it wasn’t something he saw often but he couldn’t mistake it.

He closed his eyes, filled his sore lungs, and exhaled a long, controlled breath as the impulse to shut it all out, to flee, to retreat, to curl up somewhere not here surfaced. For her sake, he had to keep himself right there.

“Tasha?” He spoke with glue in his throat. “Nothing’s happened yet, has it?”

Her reply was a hardly reassuring, barely audible: “No.”

“So, you’re still...?”

“I think so.”

“Do you know how far along you are?”

“Not exactly, but it can’t be too far yet. Further than I’ve gotten before.”

“You haven’t been to a doctor? Or SHIELD medical? Or... something?”

She shook her head. “There’s no point; you know what they’d say, anyway. That they can’t do anything; that it’s not... viable; that it’s only a matter of time before... you know...”

“You don’t have to say it,” he assured, softly. Gingerly, he reached over to wipe her quiet tears away with the pad of his thumb, her cheek ice cold against his palm. “And you don’t have to worry. We’ll figure this out; we always do.”

For a moment, she leaned in to the hand cupping her face and gave in to the comfort, but he knew the reflexive reassurance wasn’t enough.

With a deflating sigh, she pulled away, taking his hand and holding it in hers. “It’s not that simple,” she said, her expression clearer but her tone still trembling. “This isn’t a mad dictator from another planet, or an army of rogue robots trying to destroy humanity; this is... this is my messed up body and all that stuff they did to it—the stuff I let them do—coming back to haunt me. I can’t fix it; you can’t fix it. There’s just nothing we can do about it. I’m sorry.” She shut her eyes and a stream of tears trickled down each cheek. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“You wanted to spare me?” He didn’t want to sound hurt but he was and it shone through and he didn’t really try to hide it. Thankfully, he possessed enough self-control not to let the “How could you?” slip off his tongue.

“You’ve been through enough.”

“So have you. The point is: we go through things together now.”

“Please don’t get your hopes up. I only told you because you have a right to know, not because I thought there’d be a happy ending this time.”

“Don’t talk like that. It... might be different this time. If nothing’s happened yet, we’re not fools to hope. We are never fools to hope. Natasha, you and I fight everyday for people who can’t save themselves.” He squeezed her hand and waited until she conceded and returned her gaze to him before he earnestly concluded: “Someone needs us to fight for them now, so that’s what we’re gonna do: fight.”

She tugged her sleeve over her hand and roughly wiped her now red eyes. “And how are we supposed to do that?”

He looked back at the deceptively simple stick of plastic in his other hand; none of this seemed real. “I don’t know,” he confessed, truthfully. “But we’ll figure something out, I promise.” He attempted a smile that held its shape for the most part. “You know I won’t sleep until I do.”

Her lips quirked at the final assurance and she nodded. None of the fear faded but she couldn’t find it in herself to argue with him anymore—certainly not when hope burned in his eyes like a fire in winter.

He drew her to his side, pressed a kiss to her forehead and held her close.

They stayed like that for a long while, just holding one another safely, keeping the air free of superfluous words and hollow sentiments as they let the reality and uncertainty crash over them...

. . . . .

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Din Djarin + Funny Text Posts

#you got me with the noisy joints one 😆 #oh. and that shower one. classic din #these are amazing! perfect fits for din and grogu #din djarin #grogu djarin #the mandalorian #star wars memes

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The poser is back!

It's me, I'm the poser.

#din djarin #grogu djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanart #fanart #clan of two

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While on a much needed vacation on the Barton Family’s Farm, Natasha shares some life-altering news with Tony...

Chapter One: Fields & Fences

Summary: Tony and Natasha arrive at the Bartons’ farm and meet the newest member of the family.

Rating: Teen

Words: 2849

Characters: Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton, Laura Barton, Cooper, Lila, Nathaniel

Relationships: Tony Stark/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Laura Barton

Tags: established relationships, marriage, pregnancy, family, team as family, hurt/comfort, angst

(Author’s note at the end)

Natasha, weary from a week of anxiety that had yet to settle, lay back in the passenger seat and let her mind wander through the fields and weatherbeaten fences slipping by out the window.

Though lost in contemplation, at irregular intervals, she shifted her gaze from the passing scenery to glance over to Tony. One hand steadied the wheel while he propped his other arm against the door, resting his head in his bandaged hand. Seated to her left, he couldn’t obscure the side of his face discoloured with a vivid splash of indigo rimmed with yellow.

It hadn’t been a terribly long or strenuous drive; quite to the contrary, it was the most peaceful trip one could take. But concern niggled at her whenever she caught a glimpse of a pained grimace flitting across his expression or noticed him shift in his seat.

A set of familiar wooden gates bordering a tree-lined driveway interrupted the landscape of fields and fences, signalling that their two-hour long journey had reached its end.

With a soft sigh, Tony straightened in his seat and returned the bandaged hand to the wheel. Working down the gears with the smooth skill of a racecar driver, he slowed dramatically, pulled off the road and through the gates left open in anticipation of their arrival.

Fading sunlight trickled through the leaves overhead, playing with the cloud of pale dust billowing in their wake as they drove down. The cloud lazily swirled around the rust-red station wagon as it came to a stop outside a quaint, double-storey farmhouse dressed in flaking white paint and framed in gold, courtesy of the setting sun.

Keys jangled as he turned the engine off, a cricket choir all too readily filling the absence of the rhythmic hum. “We’re here,” he stated, redundantly, voice dim and hoarse from fatigue and disuse but still too loud for the sudden quiet blanketing the car. He scraped a hand down his face in an attempt to wake himself up, wincing when he thoughtlessly aggravated the still sensitive bruises.

Natasha set her seat upright, rolled her window closed and unfastened her seatbelt but made no further move to leave the vehicle. Blinking a little faster, hand hovering over the door handle, she rushed to reach the decision she had procrastinated making for the entirety of a three-hour long flight and a two-hour long drive.

Her husband noticed the uncharacteristic hesitation and glanced to her, his brow furrowing. “Something on your mind?”

Something heavy lodged in her throat. She had maintained the silence to accomodate clear thinking, not to worry him. To chase away the unease, she swallowed, took a deep breath, and gave up mustering courage.

“I’m fine,” she said and opened her door.

They knew each other far too well for the reassuring smile she offered to have any chance of fooling him into believing the half-hearted sentiment, but he didn’t call her out right then. With an absent nod of the head, he abandoned the subject as quickly as he had addressed it.

She stepped out the car and a breath of warm summer air blew through her long curls. Loose gravel crunched under her boots as she made her way around to retrieve her rucksack and the duffel bag from the backseat.

Tony moved to get out his side, shifting his aching body carefully. Gripping the door for support, he hauled himself out the car and stood. Tentatively, he stretched, his expression scrunching in pain at the necessary procedure.

His wife watched on, waiting for him to finish stretching before she came up to give him a quick kiss. “You’re getting old, babe,” she teased; an ironic joke given the fact he’d only just stepped into his mid-thirties.

“If I am, you are,” he grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck and grimacing.

She handed him the duffel bag and motioned to the house. “Age before beauty,” she sang with a lighthearted, mischievous smile to brighten the mood.

It worked: a corner of his lips quirked to mirror hers.

He reached past her to get his rucksack. Slinging it over his shoulder, carrying the duffel bag the other side, he stepped up to the creaky old porch and she followed. “Don’t get cocky,” he warned her, automatically lowering his voice as he opened the never locked screendoor. “You’re only five years younger than me.”

. . . . .

They entered the house as if they lived there, welcomed by the smell of clean cotton and fresh bread. The door announced their presence with an old wooden creak that echoed through the cozy house better than a bell could.

A chorus of gasps and exclamations rang out from the kitchen and excited footsteps came racing down the hall.

Without a glimmer of apprehension, Tony let his rucksack slip off his shoulder and fall with the duffel to the floor as he lowered himself down on one knee and spread both arms out, a genuine smile brightening his battered features, chasing the aches away like sunlight did clouds.

“Uncle Tony! Aunt Nat!” twin voices cried.

“Smaller agents!” Tony returned the greeting, bracing himself as two small bodies launched at him like a set of torpedoes. They didn’t knock him over but they did manage to knock the air out of him. “Oof! Good to see you munchkins, too,” he said, sounding suffocated but still wrapping them up in a tight embrace, a child on either side.

Kept innocently oblivious of the world beyond their little town, they knew of nothing relating to the bandages and stitches holding him together; neither would he want them to. Happily, he ignored the pain for their sake.

Lila extended and curled an arm around her aunt’s knees to draw her near. Natasha dropped her bag and bent to properly join the ardent embrace, all worries fading as she indulged in the familial love.

Pulling away, Tony held the children at arm’s length and looked them up and down, eyebrows dipped in exaggerated skepticism. “Did you guys shrink?”

“No,” Lila refuted, a giggly lilt in her young voice.

“Are you sure? I swear, you guys were, like—” he held his hand up high over their heads, as far as his arm could stretch from his knelt position, “—that tall last time.”

Cooper shook his head, emphatically, almost sending his glasses flying. “We were not!”

Tony’s expression crumpled into a faux pout. “Were too!”

“We’ve grown!” the boy countered, a smile suggesting he recognized the joke as such despite his indignant tone.

Tony shook his head. “Nah, I don’t believe you.”

“Well, you stand to be corrected,” their father chimed in as he came through from the kitchen. Amusement crinkled the edges of his sharp grey eyes. “Laura marked their heights on the pantry door yesterday; they have proof.”

Tony glanced up. “Hey, Clint.”

“Hey, man,” his sometimes-teammate returned the greeting. His jovial expression fell when he saw his friend’s bruised face, but he quickly masked the surprise and said nothing.

The brother and sister seized their uncle’s hands and tugged in unison. “Come see!”

“Okay, okay!” Tony clambered to his feet as a little human on either side attempted to drag him down the hall with their combined—and admittedly impressive—strength.

“Go easy on him!” their father called after them.

“It’s fine!” the inventor assured over his shoulder, a laugh in his voice. “I can handle myself!”

They disappeared into the kitchen, the children chattering on like morning birds.

Natasha stored up every moment in her memory. She adored the effect children had on her husband, miraculously bringing him back to life and reviving his joviality. What she wouldn’t give to have him permanently so...

Clint turned to her. “World still in one piece?” he asked, opening his arms.

“More or less,” she replied, comfortably slipping into a warm embrace with her dear mentor and oldest friend. “Crazy and complicated as ever.”

“Ah. Just the way I left it.” He pulled away and the lightheartedness faded as his brow crinkled in honest concern. “How’re you two holding up, though?” he inquired, lowering his voice. “Tony looks pretty beat up. What happened?”

Her expression fell away and she bent down to pick up the carelessly discarded luggage. “Last week, the Maggia hired Scarlotti to take him down,” she explained, simply, as if it were as typical an occurrence as grocery shopping—for them, it practically was.

Not waiting on an invitation, Clint helped with her task, retrieving the other rucksack and the duffel for her. “Whiplash?”

She nodded but didn’t meet his gaze. “Yeah. It wasn’t pretty.”

A grimace pinched his calloused features. He knew firsthand the mobster’s reputation for brutality—he was one of the few who lived to tell the tale. “How bad?” he asked in a sympathetic whisper.

With a shrug, she stepped past him to reach the stairs. “Bit of internal bleeding, cracked ribs, concussion,” she rattled off. “The usual,” she concluded, trying to sound nonchalant and unaffected.

Clint caught up to her and placed a hand on her shoulder, asking her to stop and face him; she conceded willingly. “If you guys were dealing with that, you didn’t have to come,” he told her, genuinely concerned for his friends.

She shook her head and gently shirked off his hand but didn’t immediately turn and continue up the stairs. “Tony wouldn’t miss summer vacation with you guys for the world. Seriously, you should have seen him: he was ready to stage Mission Impossible to get out of the hospital. Thankfully, he wasn’t up to doing anything too stupid; he just spent the week pestering the doctors to discharge him early.”

While the worry didn’t ease, the archer still managed a light chuckle. “So this is actually a respite for the poor medical staff that had to deal with a Stark who couldn’t stand to stay in bed?”

“Pretty much...”

. . . . .

After confirming they had—according to the latest marks on the pantry door—grown at least two inches each, Lila and Cooper bounced from one topic to the next with little correlation between the subjects.

They explained their plans for the summer holidays, focussing their excitement on the coming two weeks of Tony and Natasha’s stay; shared some random gross facts about exotic bugs and bodily functions they learned from their classmates; and then caught their honorary uncle up on all relevant recent events: Lila had lost a tooth in a toffee (which she kept, much to her mother’s disgust); and Cooper had new glasses (which didn’t have night-vision, much to his dismay).

They talked fast, as if allotted only an hour with him and not a whole fortnight to come. He didn’t mind. Sitting on a barstool, strategically leaning on the kitchen counter, he listened to their stories and ideas with genuine interest.

Eventually, despite concerted effort, his eyelids began drooping and his body kept trying to curl in on itself.

Despite his superhuman capacity for denial, he could soldier through the repercussions of being attacked by Whiplash’s razor-sharp, electrified whips for only so long. Even so, he couldn’t find it in him to excuse himself...

Midway through a retelling of an incident involving frogs and drainpipes, Lila’s eyes widened as she realized something astronomical. “You haven’t met Nathanial yet!” she cried.

“No, I haven’t,” Tony admitted with a shake of his head. “I thought he might be sleeping.”

“He’s always sleeping,” Cooper muttered. Clearly, he had only recently learnt that babies weren’t instant playmates.

Lila slipped off her seat and tucked her small hand into Tony’s, not at all perturbed by the bandage. She led him down the hall and up the stairs and he followed as best he could, though he struggled to keep in step with her. She paused when they reached the landing and looked up at him. “You have to be quiet,” she told him in a whisper, her finger held to her lips.

“And don’t sneeze, even if he’s awake,” her brother added, coming up behind them. “It scares him.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tony assured, matching their volume as they made their way to a spare room. Bruce usually stayed in this particular room when he visited but now it was furnished and designated as the new baby’s nursery.

Clint made the furniture himself, from scratch; the archer’s secret competence with carpentry never ceased to amaze his teammate who once believed the man didn’t even possess the ability to glue two popsicle sticks together. Tony, a craftsman himself (albeit a different branch), marvelled at the skill and finesse demonstrated in the sturdiness, functionality and aesthetically pleasing appearance of the cot, the bassinet, an upholstered rocking chair, and a changing table/wardrobe.

Some in the team had rallied and put to use their own various hidden talents to provide a few sentimental finishings that now decorated the room: Tony’s mobile of cartoonish robots made from scrap metal hung above the cot; Steve’s beautiful, almost realistic painting of a family of ducks on a peaceful lake hung on the wall above the changing table; and Peter’s delicately sewn quilt lay spread over the bassinet, the playful animal motifs paying tribute to their odd assortment of themed teammates.

Near the window, in the rocking chair, Laura idly rocked back and forth, looking exhausted but still managing a warm-hearted smile at the inventor and the children as they entered. Like a loyal sentinel, Clint stood beside her, a hand resting on her shoulder.

Natasha stood near the bassinet, swaying gently as if to a lullaby; the family’s one-eyed mutt, Lucky, sat at her feet, happy and calm but with a protective air about him.

Only when Tony approached did he see the swaddled baby sleeping soundly in his wife’s arms.

“So this is little Nate, huh?” he said, voice softening in that way everyone’s automatically does when a baby is present.

“Yeah. Little traitor,” she said, her voice so warm and fond.

She shifted to let him see their godson better, the motion mildly disturbing the infant. With a tiny whine, he stirred and his expression pinched. Then glazed eyes blinked open and searched but quickly slipped closed again as if disinterested. He easily settled and resumed snoozing.

Lila and Cooper predominantly took after their mother, but the last Barton child inherited their father’s features. In contrast to his siblings’ long-lashed hazel eyes and silky chestnut hair, Nathanial sported steel grey irises and a soft tuft of sandy-coloured hair. Even though he was only four weeks old, his face resembled Clint’s sharper, sturdier outline as opposed to Laura’s smoother, rounded shape.

“He’s incredible,” Tony breathed, genuinely awestruck by the wonder tenderly cradled in loving arms and snoring peacefully; up until that moment, he didn’t know babies could snore at all.

“He really is something, isn’t he?” Snuggling him close, Natasha kissed Nathanial’s little head; he seemed to smile at the gesture but Tony wasn’t sure how much awareness to credit the baby with. “Do you want to hold him?”

“Huh? Me?”

“C’mon; it’s not difficult.”

The offer sent a small flash of panic through him, but also a spark of excitement. He turned to the baby’s parents as if to ask permission. Clint’s lips curled and parted like he had a snarky joke waiting, but Laura silently dug her elbow into his ribs to halt the quip.

“Go ahead,” she encouraged Tony with a nod and a smile.

“Yeah, okay,” he finally answered, secretly eager.

He had held babies before, but usually briefly and in rescue situations where there was no time to consider technique. Every other time an infant was in his presence, he naturally shied away from holding them, sure that the finesse was beyond him and he would only end up hurting them.

Presently, he awkwardly fumbled with his arms and hands, struggling to determine the best way to fold them in preparation and receive the delicate being.

“It comes naturally,” his wife assured, reading his mind as ever. Before he could lose any courage, she smoothly transferred Nathanial from her hold to his.

All apprehension, uncertainty, and inadequacy evaporated the moment the tiny human bundled in a blue and white striped blanket lay cradled in his arms. Just as his wife had said, an undocumented instinct surfaced then and he settled comfortably into holding and even rocking the infant.

“Hey, kiddo,” he found himself effortlessly cooing in a voice too soft to be his.

Steel eyes drowsily blinked open again and locked onto the new face. He braced for the inevitable, customary cry he’d seen countless times in movies, but Nathanial seemed too intrigued and captivated by this new person to begin wailing for no good reason.

“I’m your crazy Uncle Tony,” he introduced himself, somehow feeling it was only appropriate to follow with the disclaimer: “Don’t worry, we’re not actually related.”

As he mindlessly babbled on, enjoying the warmth and the weight of a baby in his arms, out of the corner of his eye, he caught Natasha watching him with a satisfied smile and an unreadable sparkle in her eyes...

. . . . .

Next Chapter >>>

. . . . .

Author’s Note

I started writing this about seven years ago and I’ve come back to it I can’t tell you how many times. At one point, about four years ago, I posted it on ao3 but ended up deleting it shortly after (which I am sorry about because I know some enjoyed it).

My reasons for deleting it back then were complicated but mostly it boiled down to a really rough patch in my life where I just lost all confidence in myself and anything I made. For the first time in years, I stopped writing and it got bad enough that I couldn’t stand to leave my works posted.

I’ve gotten a lot better since then. I took a chance and got back into writing and I ended up crafting a whole series in another fandom. I’ve learned so much and I’ve come back to enjoying this craft that I’ve loved since I could hold a pen.

But this story has never left my thoughts.

I’m reposting it as it was. I don’t know if I’ll continue it but I’d like to share it again anyway.

If you’re here, reading this work again after all these years, I want to thank you for your patience with me.

If you’re new (and you’ve made it this far), I’d like to thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy the rest (there’s five more chapters to come 😉)

#tony stark #iron man #natasha romanov #black widow #clint barton #hawkeye #laura barton #ironwidow #tonynat #avengers #ironwidow fanfiction #avengers fanfiction #my writing #write a different chapter for us #black & red

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