#lmao i'm still a coward though and currently asleep

[javier-pena]

bloodstain

Chapter 2 of The Hunt

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader

Word Count: 6.2k

Rating: Mature

Warnings: mentions of death and trauma | very brief mention of blood | brief description of a panic attack | still a lot of hurt and just a little bit of comfort | misunderstandings | mild to moderate language | but maybe there’s also a ..... soft scene ...... | Din’s hands

Notes: First, let me start with saying that at this point taking a bullet for Dani @javierpcna​ doesn’t feel like it would be enough. She literally drops everything whenever I send her a new or revised chapter to look over and i cannot thank her enough! I kinda surprised myself with how quickly I finished this chapter, but that’s also thanks to Dani because the highlight of my day is sending her small snippets of what I’ve written and having her reply with “?????”. I also want to thank all of you who read the first chapter and left comments and sent messages, it means the world to me! I was so nervous about sharing this with you all, but I’m so glad I did. And finally, let me end this with saying happy birthday, Chrisann @darksber​!!! I hope you have a fun birthday and I hope you enjoy the second chapter as much as you enjoyed the first one.

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The snow comes over night. The cold, clean smell is the first thing your mind registers, even before it has time to make you feel confused about the strange bedsheets wrapped around you. And then you remember.

The screams.

The blaster shots

The fire, the blazing heat engulfing you, burning your skin.

Those men on their speeder bikes, laughing, looting, taking whatever the fuck they want.

And you, unable to stop them.

The feeling of cold, all-consuming despair makes a shiver run down your spine, makes you curl up in a tight ball beneath your blanket and shake so violently it makes you feel sick. Then you cry, and with the tears comes the heat until you’re so hot you feel sweat collect at the nape of your neck and run down your back in icy beads. After yesterday, you hadn’t expected there to be any tears left, but there are, so many, and they don’t stop, they seem to be endless, like a river flowing, rushing, tumbling over rocks and down a precipice, drowning everything in its way.

You hate those men, you loathe them, you want them dead, torn apart by wild animals, you want them dead after they beg you for their miserable lives, you want them dead and forgotten. That anger and that lust for revenge that seem to take up every cell and atom in your body are what finally helps you to stop crying. They don’t help you to calm yourself – you are anything but calm – but they help you to focus your rage on one goal: kill them all.

Because with the memories of the pain and the despair and the utter helplessness you felt yesterday (and still feel today) comes the memory of him. The Mandalorian. And remembering him means remembering the hope you felt when he offered his services, when he pledged himself to your cause. Shit. You shake your head. He did no such thing. He accepted a job. He only cares about the money, he doesn’t care about the cause. Yes, he will help you achieve your goal, but he’s emotionally detached from it. And you need to remember that. You need to remember it for your own sake because as soon as you assume anything else, it’ll get messy.

And he terrifies you. He terrifies you so much, especially in the light of day. Because the morning sun makes him feel real, solid, and so much more dangerous. And you have a feeling you shouldn’t keep him waiting.

You finally sit up and roll your neck and shoulders to relieve the pain the previous day’s labors have left behind. You couldn’t defend yourself against the Mandalorian, even if the muscles in your body weren’t screaming with pain. You don’t know what’s wrong with you. You don’t know why you would trust a complete stranger like that after everything that has happened to you, why you would trust a complete stranger who could snap your neck like a dry twig. Being around him feels like being constantly held at gunpoint. One wrong move and you’re dead.

But you need him.

Maker, you need him.

You get out of bed and stretch, then run your hand over your face to dry it off. There is a bowl of water on a small table next to the bed. You have to break the thin layer of ice that has formed on the surface, and when you splash it on your face, it is freezing, but at least it makes your burning cheeks feel numb and it eases the stinging in your eyes. You know you look a mess, but you don’t care. You get dressed in your soot-blackened clothes and then leave the small room. You have no idea if you’ll ever sleep in a bed again.

***

The morning air is icy cold. Two suns have risen, but the third one still hides behind the trees. The air is foggy, misty, and clouds of smoke pass you by. The settlement is already busy. In a shop next to the inn, a man heckles with the vendor in a raised voice. Two farmers lead a small herd of tauntauns down the street, while everyone tries to get out of their way. In the distance, a child is crying. It smells like fire and snow and life. You hate it.

The everyday noises are overwhelming to you; the melody of a hammer hitting metal in a nearby forge makes your skull vibrate, the voices of people talking makes you want to cover your ears with your hands and yell at them to shut up, the reverberations of the tauntauns’ claws against the frozen ground makes you want to take cover somewhere and hide until nightfall.

But you don’t run or hide or even just turn around to take a breath. Instead, you focus your attention on the Mandalorian.

He is waiting for you outside the inn. A thin layer of snow has collected on his shoulders, a sign he’s been standing motionless for a while. Even though the morning sunlight is pale and makes everything look hazy, you see him clearly. So clearly that you have to squint your eyes when you look at him. His beskar armor glistens from the sunlight it reflects, so much that the people on the street turn their heads to look at him. The wisps of smoke rushing past shroud him, but it’s not enough to dim the dancing shimmers. He carries a long staff strapped to his back, a kind of spear you’re pretty sure he didn’t have with him the previous night at the inn. And his face is hidden behind the helmet again, which probably shouldn’t surprise you, but it does. All of this just makes him look wrong. He looks so out of place standing in the middle of this dirt-poor settlement it makes you want to pretend you don’t have anything to do with him.

So you focus on what’s behind him. In one hand, he holds the reins of three orbaks, in the other a small bundle. He presses it against his chest like he’s holding a small child, not a lifeless piece of cloth. The orbaks are big, wooly beasts, dark grey in color, with two long, dangerously pointy tusks hanging from their mouths. Two of them have saddles strapped to their backs, the third one is laden with crates, saddle bags, even two long guns. The more you look at it, the more weapons you spot. What does one man need so many for? So much baggage will just slow you down. The bandits already have a day’s head start and travelling on heavily loaded orbaks will give them even more of an advantage. But this is probably the best the Mandalorian could do – the settlement is so poor, not even merchants sell speeder bikes – who would be able to afford them?

You shudder and wrap your arms around yourself, painfully aware that the fire destroyed everything except for the clothes you’re wearing. But they’re not enough to protect you from the bitter cold. You can see your breath hovering in a pale cloud in front of your face when you exhale slowly, you can feel the snowflakes on your bare lower arms as you walk toward the Mandalorian. You have no idea how he can stand there like the cold is nothing to him. Beskar doesn’t protect against low temperatures. To you, this is just further proof of how much he’s not human.

“Here,” he says, as you stop in front of him, holding the bundle out to you.

“What’s this?” you ask with a small nod at him, the bundle, and the orbaks. You don’t take it.

The Mandalorian looks behind him, then back at you. “Supplies,” he says.

You take the bundle from him and untie the chord that’s tightly wound around it. Folding back the thin cloth, you unwrap a long, dark brown leather cloak with fur linings and a thick, woolen scarf. The scarf looks itchy but feels very soft against your skin and the coat lies heavy in your arms, like a dead animal. The sight of these clothes leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, and you don’t move to put them on. Instead, you stand there, pressing the unwrapped bundle against your chest, and look at the Mandalorian with raised eyebrows.

“What’s this?” you repeat.

He doesn’t reply, just nods and makes a gesture with his now empty hand, motioning you to hurry up.

You don’t. You just look at him, shivering more and more with each passing second. You’re not sure if it’s from the cold or from the anger you’ve been feeling since yesterday, since waking up this morning, since unwrapping the bundle; everything is stoking up the fire, feeding your flaming rage

“Listen,” you start. You try not to let your feelings get the better of you, but it’s impossible. You don’t quite know yourself why this small gesture enrages you as it does, you just know you need to set some boundaries right now. “I don’t need your pity,” you continue. “I don’t need you to look out for me. I can take care of myself.”

The Mandalorian huffs. “This isn’t a gift,” he says, his voice completely level. “I’m paying for it with your money. I’m not forcing you to wear it, but if you go on the journey like that,” he nods at you, “you’ll freeze. You’re no use to me dead.”

You feel heat rush to your face and settle in your cheeks. Without another word you put on the coat and tie the scarf around your neck. The coat rests heavy on your shoulders, weighing you down. It’s a size too big, but snug, and you stop shivering immediately. You run your left hand along the right sleeve under the pretense of fixing it, but you just want to feel the material under your fingers. It’s softer than it looks, which just serves to make you feel embarrassed and … stupid.

You feel stupid, so, so stupid. Did you really expect him to make you a gift? To look out for you? To care for you? You hired him to do a job and he’s just making sure you stay alive long enough to pay him. Much like the owner of a racing stable would do with his fathier. You scold yourself for having misread the situation. You blame it on the exhaustion you still feel, on the trauma you lived through, on the need for human connection you had no idea you even felt. There is no way to come out of this situation without feeling like a fool, so you just decide to ignore it. After all, it’s best if you just forgot about the whole thing. All you need to do in future is to be more careful around him so you don’t misinterpret his intentions again.

“Supplies?” you ask to distract yourself.

You wish you could see his face when he says, “Were you just going to follow them on foot with no food or weapons?” Because it doesn’t sound as if he’s mocking you, even though he should be. Hell, you should be mocking yourself. But he just sounds genuinely curious, as if this is a discussion about a topic you’re both not emotionally invested in, not a question of life and death.

“No,” you answer slowly, then look away. You have to admit you hadn’t thought about it yet, you were too focused on the idea of hunting those men down that you didn’t even consider you needed tools, supplies, food, and a means of transportation. “Thank you,” you add.

The Mandalorian gives you a curt nod, accepting your words of gratitude. You’re glad he doesn’t press the subject, any subject really.

Without him, you would have been dead within a day.

***

It is still snowing when you and the Mandalorian leave the settlement behind. As you begin your journey into the unknown, tiny snowflakes settle in the fur of your orbak, making it appear white instead of dark grey. It blends in perfectly with your surroundings, where everything is light shades of blue, grey, and brown. And white, so much white. You squint your eyes and yet the light still stings to the point you tear up. You envy the Mandalorian his tinted visor and you wish you had something similar to protect yourself. Alvorine’s three suns hang low, their pale blue light filtered through hazy clouds. Everything you see is blurred and too bright to look at directly – it makes you feel vulnerable and exposed. Even as you enter the cover of the trees, their bare branches do little to help keep out the light and the snow and so you lower your eyes to your reddened hands holding your orbak’s reins as you trust the Mandalorian to lead the way.

The air is cold this morning, so cold you tie your new scarf over your mouth and nose and still feel it sting in your throat. Your face, still raw from crying, stings too. Your hands are frozen shut around the reins and you can’t feel your fingers. When you try to move them, the action is painfully slow. You shiver despite the heavy coat on your shoulders as you sit hunched over to give the cold air less opportunity to cover your body with icy touches. You would never admit to it out loud because you’ve already embarrassed yourself enough for one day, but the Mandalorian was right – you would have frozen to death within a few hours of leaving the shelter of the settlement.

You raise your head briefly to look at him riding ahead of you, but he is the brightest object in a 10-mile radius, you think, brighter than your orbak’s fur or the snow-covered ground. Back in the settlement, you already noticed how the suns’ light reflects off his polished beskar armor, but out here in the forest with nothing around to distract your gaze, he is like a homing beacon, like a bright, blazing fire lit in complete darkness. This brazen display makes you shiver; he is on top of the food chain, too quick and powerful and deadly to hide his presence. He could be spotted from miles away by someone on a sentry tower and yet the person keeping watch wouldn’t stand a chance. The Mandalorian would catch them sooner or later, no matter how well they were trying to hide. Nothing can escape him, so there is no reason for him to hide his presence, to sneak from cover to cover like a thief in the night.

He frightens you.

What is also bearing down on you is the silence surrounding him, you and your orbaks. Yes, there is the sound of their hooves against the frozen ground, the swoosh of their fur every time they shake their heads, the soft thud whenever they brush up against a branch, making snow glide to the ground. But that’s it. That’s all you hear. The Mandalorian travels in complete silence. His armor doesn’t squeak or thump. You cannot hear the sound of his slow, steady breathing. Even his hands lie completely silently on the nape of his orbak’s neck, the reins resting against the worn leather of his gloves. And you envy him those gloves because the further you travel into the forest, the colder it gets, and the stiffer and more unresponsive your fingers get.

You cannot recall the last time you felt this uncomfortable. You wish there was something to distract you from – well – everything. Yes, you’re grateful the Mandalorian doesn’t ask you personal questions because you buried your old life beneath wet soil and dirt yesterday, and with it you buried any desire to share it with a complete stranger. He also doesn’t ask you about the men you’re hunting, and you feel like he doesn’t have to because he just knows. Maybe he talked to the people back at the settlement, maybe it’s the years of experience he’s had hunting people for a living or maybe it’s just instinct – he knows where he needs to be going, he knows what kind of equipment to bring along, and he knows what the best strategy is to catch his quarry.

You don’t know any of these things. And the more you stray from the bare minimum of human civilization and into the wilderness of Alvorine, the more you realize you wouldn’t stand a chance without the Mandalorian. You would’ve frozen to death if he hadn’t given you the coat. Or you would have starved, or died from exhaustion from trying to carry all your supplies yourself. You would have gotten lost and eaten alive by a wild beast. Or you would, by some miracle, have caught up with the men, but would’ve gotten killed by them because you didn’t bring a weapon. By the look of it, the Mandalorian brought enough for a small army. And the more you think about it, the more you are prepared to admit that you were never seriously planning on going after the bandits. You are prepared to admit you were just looking for a way out so you wouldn’t have to live with the pain. One or two rash decisions made from a place of hurt and despair, one or two unplanned steps can mean death on Alvorine. While wallowing in your revenge fantasies, you weren’t thinking about Brea – you were just thinking about yourself.

But somehow – and this time you’re convinced it’s because of his instincts – the Mandalorian offered you a chance at success, one you might not even have wanted. He listened to the people in that inn and decided helping you with your cause is the right job for him. You’ve never heard of a Mandalorian like that. You always assumed they were only interested in money or the thrill of chasing down the rich and the powerful, in letting them know that no amount of credits can keep them safe. But here he is, content with spending a week or more in the forests of Alvorine, hunting down base criminals for the ridiculous amount of 240 credits. It doesn’t add up. And you would ask him about it if he wasn’t an unapproachable, withdrawn man, covered in impenetrable armor. You would ask him if he didn’t terrify you so much.

You wish you could talk to him about … something, you just don’t know about what.

But he makes that decision for you. “Are you hungry?” he asks.

His voice cuts so unexpectedly through the silence that you flinch. It somehow surprises you that he is real and not just a concept you’ve made up in your mind, and idea to help you live out your fantasies of revenge and vengeance.

When you don’t answer, he turns his head to look at you. You squint when you return his gaze, trying to make up your mind whether you are hungry or not (something that feels impossible when all you are is terribly, terribly cold), but then he pulls on the reins of his orbak and brings it to a halt in the middle of the path. He glides down from the animal in one swift movement; a small cloud of freshly fallen snow rises up when his feet hit the ground but there is still no sound and this is starting to unnerve you. It takes him a few steps until he’s next to you, the top of his head reaching your shoulder, even though you’re still mounted high on your orbak, and then he says in a rough, almost unkind tone of voice, “I asked you a question”.

And you remember the deal, you remember having agreed to doing as he tells you. It’s just, you don’t have an answer for him. So you just shrug.

He grabs the rein of your orbak and you finally – finally! – hear his movements make a sound, a low creak as the leather of his glove brushes against the leather of the bridle. The orbak shakes its shaggy head but he doesn’t flinch. His visor is directed at you and you know he expects an answer from you. He’s growing impatient, you can tell from the way his shoulders tense as he lets his gaze wander over your body.

“You’re hypothermic,” he observes, and as the words leave his mouth, so does the air you’ve been holding in and you start shaking uncontrollably.

Now that he’s pointed it out, there is no denying it. You’re cold, so, so cold, frozen and raw, you can’t feel your own lips, your nose, your cheeks. Your fingers are lifeless lumps against the coarse fur of your orbak. If the animal would decide to bolt at this very moment, you wouldn’t be able to hold it back. You’re not even sure you could climb down from the beast right now. Of all the deadly dangers of Alvorine it’s the cold that has finally gotten to you. It’s laughable, and you would laugh, if you could feel your face.

“Can you dismount?” he asks you then.

This is a question you can answer. “I think so,” you say, even though you know you can’t. Your legs are like two solid bricks of ice, too stiff to be moved.

“Do it then,” he says, and it sounds so much like a challenge that you’re determined to show him you can do it.

He doesn’t watch your pathetic display though. He lets go of the rein and walks to the third orbak that is carrying most of your supplies. You’re grateful for that because as soon as you try to dismount, you feel your body tense even more until you glide down from the orbak with a disgraceful plop and land in the soft snow with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. The sounds you make draw the attention of the Mandalorian back to you, but he doesn’t rush to your side to offer you help. Instead, he turns his attention back to the task at hand, looking through one of the bags strapped to the pack animal. You’re convinced he rolls his eyes under the cover of the helmet.

You try to get up, and you manage after two fruitless attempts. Your legs are shaking, but at least they’re supporting your weight. Walking on them is another topic you’re not prepared to cover yet. And then you feel it again, that hot sting of embarrassment you felt this morning, trying to make itself known by speeding up your heart rate and adding a feeling of nausea to your general discomfort. You push it down without batting an eyelash. There is no reason to feel like this, especially if you compare yourself to the Mandalorian. Not everyone can be a ruthless killing machine, immune to environmental influences.

Then he’s back by your side, and with a gruff, “Hold this,” he pushes a heating pad into your hands. You’re not sure at first if it’s switched on because you don’t feel anything, but when you move it around in your hands looking for the on button you notice it’s cranked up to the highest setting.

“You need to tell me when you’re cold,” the Mandalorian continues in the same gruff tone of voice, while he unscrews a flask.

Once it’s opened, he pushes it into your hand with such force you stumble backwards. Your whole body tenses at the contact and you realize you’re completely alone with him. There is not another living soul around for miles except for the three animals next to you, and they won’t come to your aid if he suddenly decides to kill you. And he could. He is so strong; you had no idea how strong until he pushed you back like that with a motion that didn’t seem to take any effort at all. And with another effortless motion, he could close a hand around your neck and squeeze until there is no air left in your body. You wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Drink,” he orders.

You do. It’s a hot liquid – tea, you think – but with a bitter taste to it. It warms you up instantly, much quicker than the heating pad does. You still can’t feel your fingers.

“Just tell me next time,” he repeats. “Losing a finger to hypothermia is a nasty business.”

And now you do feel embarrassed again. You’re a burden, you’re slowing him down. You already lost a quarter of an hour because you can’t handle a bit of cold. It’s not surprising he usually works alone. No one is able to keep up with him, least of all you in your weakened, exhausted state.

But you can’t turn back. You refuse to give up so easily.

You nod to show him you’ve understood his instructions. Then you let your gaze wander around, looking for something to distract you. You can feel heat rising to your cheeks, and it has nothing to do with the warm drink or the heating pad. You know it doesn’t because you’re still shivering. But you’re not going to apologize to him. For some reason, you feel like he would just brush it off, act like it’s no big deal. But it is to you, and you wouldn’t be able to bear him acting nonchalantly. The other possible response to an apology from you would be him trying to comfort you and you definitely. don’t. want. that. The mere thought makes your heart beat so rapidly it feels like it’s going to explode any second. The mere thought of one of his hands resting on your shoulder in a comforting gesture makes you want to run. You don’t want him to care for you because it’s entirely at odds with his character, his whole being. He is here to hunt and kill, not to hold and comfort. And this is what you need right now – a killer, not a caretaker.

You take a few steps, walk past him toward a fallen tree to calm your nerves. The deep breaths of cold air you take make you cough, but he doesn’t even flinch. Good. You’re usually not like this, you’re usually not someone who can’t take care of themselves. After all, you’ve lived on Alvorine your entire life, you know how harsh the winters can be and how dangerous the cold is. But yesterday’s events broke something in you, and the realization that you might never recover from it begins to dawn on you, take hold of you with a grip icier than the snow clinging to your worn-out boots. The weight of what happened to you slams into you with full force and you have to lean against a tree, its rough bark scraping uncomfortably against your cold, bare hand.

And then you see it – the bloodstain. One single, impossibly small, impossibly red bloodstain on the virgin-white snow. And everything stops.

You lurch forward and fall to your knees to examine it more closely. Yes, it’s definitely blood. You raise your head to look around, but you can’t spot anything out of the ordinary, just trees and snow and your own footprints. Your breath comes in short, labored bursts, and you suddenly don’t feel cold anymore. In fact, you don’t feel anything at all.

“What is it?”

The Mandalorian is there, crouching by your side. You point to the small, red dot, and he raises his hand to touch his helmet. His body grows rigid as he examines it, all the while not moving an inch. You don’t want to hear his verdict, don’t want to hear the conclusion he’s come to. That bloodstain stirs something inside you, a panic with such deep roots you feel it taking over your entire body, growing like weed, choking all other feelings, all life out of you.

Something in your body language must have given away this panic you feel, because suddenly the Mandalorian turns to you and says, “I need you to calm down.”

You nod, unable to speak. Then you turn your head away from him and throw up.

“Hey,” he says, and something in his voice catches your attention. It sounds almost … soft.

You turn back to him, running your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry,” you apologize.

“I’m going to look around,” he tells you. Then he raises his hand as if to comfort you, but you flinch away from him. His hand hovers outstretched between the two of you for a brief moment before he lowers it again. “Just stay here. Try to eat something. I won’t be long.”

He pushes himself off the ground, towering over you. You stand up too, your legs shaking, but before you can embarrass yourself more by stumbling into him, he takes off in a slow-paced run and you stare after him until the trees swallow him up. And then you’re alone. Alone with three orbaks and your panicked mind.

It’s not Brea’s blood, you tell yourself.

But what if it is? a different voice asks.

It’s not. It snowed during the night, and we’re too far behind those bandits. It can’t be hers.

It can, you know it can. They could have left her here to die.

There would be more tracks.

Then why are you panicking? Why did you throw up?

You can’t argue with that. Instead, you sink to the ground again, bury your head in your hands, and scream. You scream so loudly that even though the sound comes out muffled, the orbaks still move their heads nervously. A few trees away, a flock of birds takes off, chittering in disapproval. You scream until your lungs begin to burn, until your throat stings, until you feel like you’ve just sprinted ten miles. Then you grow quiet.

***

When the Mandalorian returns, it’s almost dark. You’re not freezing anymore because you spent the last two hours or so pacing up and down the path through the undergrowth you’ve made earlier, your mind racing with scenarios of him not returning before nightfall. You fear the nights on Alvorine and you know you should have told him about the dangers these forests hold. Because how could he have known that it’s almost impossible to survive a night out in the wilderness? Almost because if anyone could do it, it would be him.

When he returns, the pauldron on his right shoulder is smeared with dirt and his chest is heaving with silent pants, but he’s alone. You’re simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

“We’ll make camp here for the night,” he decides without so much as a greeting.

You open your mouth to tell him how dangerous that would be but then close it again when you remember the nearest settlement is miles and miles away and you wouldn’t reach it in time before nightfall. You don’t have any other choice.

He sends you to collect some wood while he moves to tie up the orbaks. You scold yourself for not having done that earlier when you were waiting for him, but you had hoped it wouldn’t take him quite as long and he would be back sooner. As you move around, picking up the driest branches you can find, you glance over at him from time to time. He is lost in his own task, tying the reins to nearby tree trunks, patting one orbak’s neck, then scratching another one’s muzzle. They trust him, stand completely still in his presence while he circles them, examining them for any injuries or anything that might cause them discomfort.

Finally, curiosity gets the better of you. “What did you find?” you ask, as you break a big, dead branch into two parts.

“Nothing,” he replies in his brusque fashion you’re slowly getting used to. “A dead animal.”

You nod, then focus on the task at hand. Your small discovery and subsequent … breakdown? … panic attack? … you don’t know what to call it, has already cost you so much time. You could’ve covered twice the distance today if he hadn’t stopped here because of you. But … this isn’t a rescue mission, you keep forgetting about that. This is a quest for revenge, and those bandits will be there, no matter how long it will take you to find them. It doesn’t matter if it takes you two days or two months to reach them.

“Did you eat?” the Mandalorian asks you, interrupting your train of thought.

You shake your head and he sighs. Then he reaches into one of the saddle bags and pulls out a ration pack, tossing it to you. He proceeds to clear away the snow around the small pile of wood you’ve collected before doing something with his arm, so flames shoot out of the vambrace, igniting the stack. You can’t help but stare in fascination because you’ve never seen anything like it.

It doesn’t take him long to get a fire going. You grab one of the two bundled up, coarse blankets from the pack orbak and spread it on the ground next to the heat source, huddling up close for warmth and protection. You tear open the ration pack and begin to eat.

“I should’ve told you before, but it’s dangerous out here at night.” Your mouth full, you watch as the Mandalorian sits down opposite you, the fire between you. The warmth spreading through your body and your steadily filling stomach make you talkative. “There’s monsters in these woods.”

He chuckles softly but you’re sure it’s just your imagination. There is no way you could’ve heard a sound like that over the crackling fire. But before you can ask him about it, he raises his hand to remove the dirty pauldron from his shoulder, and you’re so distracted by that piece of steel being lifted off the body it usually protects that you stop thinking altogether for a moment. It’s stupid, you know that, but a part of you still thinks he might be a machine, and seeing that pauldron being removed from his shoulder feels almost forbidden, like you’re the audience to some ancient, sacred ritual you have no right to observe. You lower your gaze to the flickering flames.

“I’ll keep an eye out for those monsters,” he assures you, and you’re not sure if he meant for it to sound mockingly, but it doesn’t.

You still don’t think he fully believes you.

“Alvorine is a dangerous planet,” you tell him in a quiet tone of voice. “It might not seem like it compared to what you’re used to, but to us the dangers are very real.” You’re still not looking at him, but there is no point – you can’t see his face anyway.

“I believe you,” he says. “But fire is usually enough to keep the monsters at bay.”

As a response, you nod, even though you’re not sure he’s watching you. So you finally raise your head again to look at him. The pauldron is back on his shoulder, but his gaze is directed at the orbaks.

“I’m going to feed them,” he tells you. “They’re getting restless. Try to get some sleep.”

You nod again and stretch out on the cold, hard ground. Shivering, you pull your coat tighter around yourself. The fire is barely warm enough to keep your fingers and toes from falling off, and once it dies down, there won’t be anything keeping you from freezing to death. Briefly, you’re considering pulling the blanket out from beneath you to use it as a cover, but then you wouldn’t have anything to protect you from the cold ground. With a sigh, you close your eyes, trying to ignore the discomfort. Instead, you focus on the sounds around you, on the branches brushing against each other when a cold breeze tears at them, on the orbaks huffing impatiently and almost nervously, and on the crackling fire, the heat that makes a piece of wood snap in half ever so often. And then you hear another sound, footsteps, and your eyes snap open again.

The Mandalorian towers over you, and it’s the first time you were able to hear him approach. Instead of feeling proud of yourself, you bolt upright, adrenaline pumping through your veins. Whatever happens next, you know you don’t stand a chance against him. He slowly leans down, and you try to get away from him, but your muscles are frozen stiff and don’t cooperate. His arms move as if to grab you and a strangled cry escapes your throat.

But it’s just a blanket, just the other blanket, and he wraps it tightly around your shoulders. “Here,” he says with a low grunt. If he noticed your alarm, he doesn’t comment on it.

You look at his helmet reflecting the light of the dancing flames, and you wish you knew what was going on beneath it. Is he offended? Annoyed? Or maybe just as cold and exhausted as you?

“What about you?” you ask, grabbing the coarse material to hold it tightly against your body.

“I’m not cold,” he answers, standing up again. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you before sunrise.”

You watch him walk back to the other side of the fire and settle down on the cold ground with just his cape to keep him warm. And for the first time since you met him, his stoic presence doesn’t fill you with dread or panic or trepidation – he just makes you feel calm.

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#the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #mando x reader #star wars #din djarin #pedro pascal #fanfic #the hunt fic #lmao i'm still a coward though and currently asleep #tw: flashing gif