#EVERYONE IS TOUCH STARVED AND PAZ HAS HEART EYES UNDERNEATH HIS STUPID BLUE HELMET

[stubbychaos]

Mind Over Matter

Part 1

Pairing: Paz Vizla x Nurse!Reader

Summary: A particularly rough day at the infirmary leaves you exhausted and dead on your feet, but a familiar blue Mandalorian decides to make it a habit to walk you home--a habit that you think you can get used to.

Rated: M for darker themes. Please read with caution if you have any past experiences with abusive relationships or grew up in a toxic environment.

Word Count: 6.5K

Warnings: Descriptions of abuse, injuries and broken bones, though I tried to keep it pretty non-detailed. Extremely brief mention of drug use. Other than that, this is mostly heavy angst/hurt/comfort, with a dash of tooth-rotting fluff and tenderness.

I hope you all enjoy this chapter!

You see the blue Mandalorian four weeks and five days after your initial meeting.

Not that you’re counting or anything.

The heavy-infantry warrior is waiting for you after a particularly rough day where you don’t leave the infirmary until almost three in the morning, though he seems unfazed by being awake at such an ungodly hour, lazily leaning against the side of the building with thick arms crossed over his broad chest. Your wild mane must be an absolute mess after a sixteen hour shift, long locks fighting against the elegant braids you styled your hair into over half a day ago and your vision is borderline blurry as you almost walk past the Mandalorian without noticing him. 

You’re not even aware of the way his visor slowly follows you as you tiredly stumble out of the infirmary, hellbent on getting home in one piece so you can get a couple hours of sleep before your next grueling shift.

You’re only a few steps past the massive warrior when he clears his throat loudly and you finally register his presence as you slowly turn around on your heels with narrowed eyes. You’re blinking owlishly at him to confirm he’s actually there and not some figment of your wild imagination, or some fatigue-induced hallucination, and you perk up a little when you realize that he’s really there. The vivid moonlight seems to emphasize the lighter blue in the hollows of his steel cheeks and you think his armor looks far more polished and less dingy than the last time you had seen him.

“You uh, hey--you--”

‘Way to speak so eloquently,’ You chastise yourself, realizing you’re making a fool of yourself when he cocks his helmet to the side as he seems to notice how fatigued and incoherent you are. Perhaps a cock of the helmet is the equivalent of a raised brow and you think he must be amused by your delirious state, though he doesn’t point it out and allows you to be a bit of a mess without making you feel bad about it.

“Saviin’ika,” He greets you with a polite nod, hands falling limply to his sides as he slowly approaches you, seeming completely docile and passive while he observes you through the guise of his shiny visor.

“Mandalorian,” You mumble blearily through a mighty yawn and you hear him sigh a little when you rub your burning eyes, though you remain as diligent as ever and force yourself to focus on any new wounds he might have obtained, “You’re not injured again, are you? I can go get my supplies if you need stitches again? I might even have some bacta pa--”

“No, saviin’ika, I’m not hurt,” He chuckles and you notice the way his visor seems to scan your face closely, making you feel self-conscious of the deep bruise on your flushed cheek and your sore bottom lip that is split in the middle and currently healing, “Had some business to take care of in the village. Thought I would check up on you.”

“Ch-Check up? On me?” You raise your brows at him and tiredly rub your eyes, suppressing another yawn before speaking, “At three in the morning?”

“It is only safe for me to come out when it’s dark and there are less people wandering these streets at this time,” He informs you, offering you his elbow, just as he had a month ago after your initial meeting, and you take it this time without any hesitation, “Because of the Empire, our kind are now nearly extinct and we have been forced into hiding; because I am the strongest in the tribe, I am usually the one chosen to go on hunts or provide supplies. When I come out of the enclave, it is solely to provide for my people and protect them.”

“And walk me home?” You add inquisitively, wincing when your little smile tugs at your sore bottom lip, “Which you really don’t have to do by the way. I appreciate it, but I don’t want you to have to feel obligated to check up on me. I know you may not think so, but I’m tougher than I look.”

“I never believed you to be weak, saviin’ika, and I do not feel obligated to do anything,” The huge warrior observes closely as you struggle to keep your heavy eyelids open and you think they must weigh as much as his armor; you wonder if the metal ever weighs down his body after an exhausting day and you can’t even begin to imagine how heavy that cannon must feel on his back, “I heard talk earlier of raiders wreaking havoc on shop owners and villagers. Wanted to make sure they didn’t steal shit from the infirmary again; you were already low enough on supplies as it was.”

You shudder when you think of the robbery from a couple months ago and you hate the feeling of helplessness that washes over you when you remember how overpowered you had been at the time. 

Of course you still had the vibroblade that the Mandalorian had let you borrow, but you weren't exactly skilled when it came to wielding any kind of weapon and the raiders probably would have laughed at any feeble attempt to protect yourself. Still, it didn't stop you from carrying the weapon inside of the pouch you normally kept your credits in and you hoped that if the situation ever called for it, you wouldn’t hesitate to use the beautifully crafted weapon.

“You...” Your cheeks are burning at the way his tone softens a little when he confesses his worry, “You were thinking about me? About the infirmary? But you’re...”

“I’m what?” He huffs, stepping a little closer and towering over you in a way that you think is supposed to be intimidating, though you have to force your giggles away as he tilts his helmet downwards to regard you properly. For some reason, you find it difficult to find him imposing when he had once offered to let you stab him if you had simply felt threatened by his presence. You think that any hopes the Mandalorian had of intimidating you flew out the window the moment he surrendered and gave you one of his weapons, something so incredibly rare for the fearless warriors.

“Grouchy? Stubborn? Kinda cold and rough around the edges?” Your answers come out as more of a rapid fire of questions and when he cocks his helmet further, you quirk a brow up at him in a challenging way, “Besides, you were the one that said after you walked me home, I would never have to see you again.”

"Were you hoping for that?"

"No," You reply earnestly, still gazing up at him with a fond expression, "I'm glad you're here. Especially since I just got off from a sixteen hour shift and can’t even see straight," His helmet jolts to the side a little to get a better look at your face and you know he sees your newest injuries, along with the glossiness that shines in your unfocused eyes. His modulator picks up a strange noise that seems to get caught in his throat and you wonder what must be going through his head as he closely observes you, his helmet dropping a little bit.

You knowingly smile.

“You do care, don’t you?”

He huffs a little as you latch onto his elbow with both of your hands instead of just one and you’re surprised that he seems to miraculously remember the way back to your shoddy hut, easily guiding you through the bleak village where very few linger in the deserted streets. You’re grateful for the way his body is built like a brick wall, easily supporting your weight whenever you sway or sag from exhaustion. The blue warrior doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest by your vulnerable state, remaining diligent and cautious as he gently tugs you past a shady looking group of five or six men that barely spare you a glance, most of them glaring at the heavy-infantry warrior with disdain.

After working fifteen hour days--sometimes longer--every single day for the last three weeks, you find that your grueling job is catching up to you and you wonder if he had somehow sensed your extreme fatigue from wherever he had been working, though you don’t entertain the silly thought. 

He had informed you that his main priority upon leaving the enclave had been to provide for his tribe; you had been nothing more than a lingering thought scratching at the back of his mind. Either way, you’re grateful that he had waited for your shift to end, knowing that tonight was probably the most you had ever been exhausted in your life. You can’t even see clearly or think about anything other than your uncomfortable bed and you’re certain that you’re in no condition to be walking home alone at such a dark hour where only the cruel emerged from their hiding places to prey on the innocent.

“I wanted to make sure those lowlife criminals didn’t steal medical supplies,” He insistently repeats, though something about the terseness laced in his deep, softer baritone makes you think he’s lying, “Besides, you don’t make for bad company, saviin’ika. Probably the only one I’ve met in this village that I don’t want to kill.”

The way he rushes through the last sentence has you grinning tiredly up at him, his visor barely glancing at your soft features before taking in your surroundings and scanning for any threats that linger in the sparsely populated village “So you were thinking about me, Mandalorian.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, little nurse,” He scoffs and you try to imagine the huge man underneath all the metal blushing or sweating from nerves, though you highly doubt there’s much that gets under his armor, let alone his skin, “Like I said, I already had business to take care of and happened to be in the area. Wanted to make sure you haven’t gotten yourself killed or accidentally stabbed yourself with my vibroblade.”

You roll your eyes, “If I recall correctly, you were the one that got stabbed, not once, but twice, in the same day. Besides, even if I was a fool that managed to stab herself, at least I have the mental capacity to fix my own wounds.”

He shakes his helm at the sass that suddenly fills your quiet voice, “For someone your size, you’re a ballsy little thing.”

“Only around people I know won’t hurt me over it,” You murmur, brows furrowing a little when you process his words a little more thoroughly, wondering if you’re starting to cross the line with him, “You did not strike me as the kind of man who would mind it.”

“I don’t,” He confirms your suspicions and squashes your worries, then for good measure, adds in another sentiment, “I am glad you do not fear me anymore, saviin’ika.”

You wince as a smile pulls at your split bottom lip, though you find it’s well worth the pain, “Me too, Mandalorian.” 

He grunts and you wonder if all Mandalorians are bad at expressing their emotions with words, though you don’t think you mind as he urges you a little closer against his side when a cold breeze has you shivering. Perhaps he prefers speaking through little gestures and you think you prefer that over useless words and promises that can easily be broken.

You decide to stop teasing him then, not wanting him to grow uncomfortable around you and despite your better judgment, you can’t stop yourself from pressing your cheek tiredly against the small pad of dark brown leather that peeks out from underneath his pauldron. The cold sensation from the leather and metal feels good against your bruised cheek and you hope he doesn’t push you away, though you suspect he would have done so already if he was uncomfortable by your close proximity. Perhaps he senses that you need some sort of close contact with another human being where it won’t leave you feeling broken and absolutely terrified and for whatever reason, he’s willing to entertain your pathetic request. 

You wonder if he enjoys the intimacy of someone who isn’t covered from head to toe in thick armor, if he ever craves skin on skin contact after spending an entire life surrounded by cold metal. Briefly, you remember the way he had tensed and how his chest had heaved a little the first time you touched his hot skin when you had been stitching up his stab wound and rubbing that bacta salve into bruised skin; you wonder how long it had been since he felt someone else’s skin against his own. 

Does he ever crave it? The warmth of another human being? Does he ever long for a tender embrace after an unbearably long day of carrying the weight of heavy blue armor and massive weapons?

You aren’t even covered in metal, yet you often find yourself craving such intimate touches whenever you find yourself falling asleep at the end of the day, all alone and cold without the comfort of another. It isn’t necessarily something sexual that you yearn for, but something deeper where you can bare your soul and scars to another human without fearing their judgment. You aren’t sure if it’s love or companionship you wish for--perhaps it’s both--and you wonder if you would ever find someone who would accept you for everything you are and all of the hardships that came with loving someone like yourself.

“Keep your eyes open, saviin’ika.”

His deep baritone jolts you awake and you didn’t even realize you had stopped walking, your eyes closing as you sag against him and Maker… how long had it been since you slept more than one or two hours a night? Your eyes feel drier than the Tatooine deserts and your feet ache from all the blisters that had formed on your soles and the back of your heels after walking in ill-fitting boots nonstop for weeks. 

Your back and neck both throb in pain from the position you constantly have to sit in whenever you’re patching up a patient or filing paperwork and your fingers feel horrifically stiff as they curl tightly into the blue Mandalorian’s elbow. There’s a horrible pin and needles sensation prickling painfully in each of your shoulder blades and you think you must have pinched nerves there--just another check mark on your seemingly never-ending list of afflictions. 

You try to ground yourself before responding to your unlikely companion, willing yourself to not slur your words as you quietly speak up and ignore the fog that clouds your mind and makes it hard to think straight.

“S-Sorry,” You murmur even though his tone hadn’t been admonishing in the slightest, but more concerned than anything, “Just a little tired.”

“A little?” He scoffs again and for a moment, you fear he’s going to inform you that you are a fool for not taking care of yourself properly, “You look like you haven’t slept more than a few hours since the last time I saw you and… you look thinner--almost malnourished. Have you not been eating? Your body needs nourishment, saviin’ika.”

“I--” Your cheeks flush when he turns his helmet down to look at you and you sheepishly avoid the expressionless gaze of his shiny visor, “Credits have been a little sparse lately but uh, I’m fine, really! I’ll have a ration bar or something when I get home.”

You’ve always been a terrible liar and you’re certain he easily detects the slightly higher pitch of your tone and the way you gnaw on your bottom lip as you avoid his intense gaze. His visor is still pointed at the way your cheek is pressed half against his dull blue pauldron and half against the leather padding that pokes out from the metal and you wonder what he must think of you clinging so desperately to his arm, though you barely know him. Despite his huge, intimidating stature and his reputation as a fearless Mandalorian, you think that there must be something so soft and warm that lingers somewhere deep inside of him--far beneath the cracks of his metal armor--that he doesn’t get to display often. 

Perhaps he’s just like you, having grown so accustomed and desensitized towards the cruelty and violence of others that he’s willing to take any soft touch and sweet, intimate moment that the Maker will allow him to have. It’s a peculiar thought--that you could have possibly anything in common with the massive warrior--but as he supports the majority of your weight against his side, you feel like you’ve never related to anyone more than the blue Mandalorian, despite your stark differences.

“I could…” He lets out a strange sound that sounds distorted and garbled as it gets stuck in his modulator; it sounds like a groan of frustration, though you think it’s directed more towards himself, rather than you, “I can carry you the rest of the way home, that way you can get some rest. You look like you’ve been on your feet all day.”

The sweet offer knocks the breath out of your lungs and while you’re utterly touched by his kindness, it also fills you with guilt that he would feel the need to go out of his way just to give you a tiny amount of reprieve, “Y-You really don’t have to do that. I just--I can walk--I’ll try to be faster, I-I promise! Besides, I’m sure you already have enough weight to carry around, what with all that armor and your weapons; I wouldn’t want to weigh you down anymore.”

“I’m used to the armor and weapons,” He insists, visor pointed at your pale face as he drops his tone into something gentler, though the deepness of it warms your cold cheeks, “You haven’t been eating or sleeping and you can barely stand up. Just… let me carry you home, saviin’ika. I don’t mind.”

“But--”

Before you can weakly argue with him, he easily slips his elbow out of the gentle grip of your hands and he’s bending down at the waist to slide a thick arm underneath the backs of your bare knees, efficiently knocking you backwards into the safety of his other arm. A graceless squeak escapes your mouth and your arms scramble to find purchase around his shoulders and neck as he effortlessly scoops you up into his arms, suspending you high above the ground and you think this is the most awake you’ve felt in the last month as you peer down at the rocky terrain beneath his big boots. Your stiff fingers painfully curl against the cloth that’s bunched up at his nape as he hikes you up a little higher up his chest so you can comfortably rest your head between his pauldron and the lip of his helmet.

“A-Are you sure about this? I don’t want to tire you out and--”

He huffs out an amused noise and you think you feel his chest rumbling a little, though it’s hard to tell with his cuirass in the way, “Do you think I would be doing this if I wasn’t sure? You don’t weigh anymore than my armor or weapons, little nurse.”

“‘M not little,” You mumble tiredly, giving in and nestling your face into a more comfortable position against his neck so his armor isn’t digging into the black and blue skin that’s covering nearly half of your face; your eyes grow unbearably heavy when you inhale his clean, spicy scent, “You’re just a big brute.”

He barks out a laugh then, making you pout a little against his neck, though you decide quickly that you like the unfamiliar warmth of his laughter, “You're not little? Sure, saviin'ika, and the sky isn't blue, water isn't wet, I'm not a Mandalorian, you're not a--"

"Okay, okay," You huff, trying your hardest to sound annoyed, though his sarcasm has you smiling against the soft material of his tunic, "Hush, Mandalorian, I am trying to get the rest you were so hellbent on me having in the first place.”

“Fine,” He grunts and you think he’s done antagonizing you for the rest of the small journey, but then he speaks your name softly and you think it’s the first time he’s ever used your real name, rather than some sort of nickname, “One more question and I’ll leave you alone.”

You make an inquisitive humming noise, barely paying attention, though his following question has your heart plummeting into the pit of your stomach, making you feel sick and nauseous.

“The bruise on your cheek and your lip… was that him? Your father?”

You’re actually kind of surprised it’s taken this long for the Mandalorian to say something, especially with how quickly he had called your father out on his deplorable actions during your initial meeting. For a moment, you contemplate just closing your eyes and pretending like you’ve already fallen asleep, but something tells you that the warrior is far smarter than most would think and you know he would be able to easily detect your facade. 

You remain silent for a few seconds, thinking of the circumstances surrounding your painful punishment and you remember how you had initially told the Mandalorian that the bruises inflicted on you were for your own benefit, so you could be better. You think of how angry your father had grown at you two nights ago for no rational reason other than coming home high off of spice and already in a bad mood after a long day of work. Your eyes fill with tears and your chest heaves when you remember the weight of his palm colliding with your cheek and how hard you had hit the ground from the heavy blow; it had completely thrown off your equilibrium and the only reason you had stood up right away was because you had been forcefully yanked up by your bicep.

You remember forcing yourself not to scream later that night as you forced your aching shoulder back into its socket, not wanting him to wake up after he’d finally pass out.

“Saviin’ika…”

His voice is a low growl, but you swear you hear a soft twinge from somewhere beneath his helmet and something about it has tears burning your dry eyes.

Perhaps it’s just your imagination or wishful thinking.

“Does it matter, Mandalorian? It’s done and over with.”

“You say that, yet you know it’s only going to get worse,” He mutters and you feel the way his leather-clad fingers curl lightly against the inside of your knee, as if he’s trying to ground himself, “It may just be bruises and split lips now, but how long before it turns into broken bones and concussions? What will you do then?”

“Same as always,” You whisper, eyelids growing impossibly heavy as your body finally starts to give into exhaustion; you decide not to tell him you’ve suffered plenty of broken bones in the past and you’re more than capable of patching yourself up after a particularly painful punishment,  “Survive… it’s the only thing I know how to do, next to helping others.”

“It is not what you deserve though,” He insists just as quietly and you think you hear the natural baritone of his voice from where your ear is pressed just underneath the lip of his helmet, “You would let him break your spirit so easily? Let him hurt you so badly without putting up a fight?”

“I think my spirit was broken long ago, Mandalorian.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever confessed such a thing and it leaves you feeling exposed like a livewire, terrified of anyone getting too close because you don’t want anyone to suffer because of your own trauma and emotional baggage. Something tells you that the blue warrior is all too aware of the atrocities that one can experience in a lifetime and you think it wouldn’t weigh down on him if you explained to him everything you’ve been through and everything you fear. You would like to think he would remain unwaveringly sympathetic and kind if you recounted the horrible torture your father had put you through since your mother’s death, but a tiny part of you fears that the powerful warrior would believe you to be weak--at least weaker than he already sees you as.

“I think you are wrong,” He argues quietly, sounding as calm and soothing as ever, “I don’t think you are broken, saviin’ika. Maybe a little lost and confused, but not broken.”

A tear trickles from your eye and you pray to the Maker that he doesn’t feel it soak through his thick cowl, though you know better and the Mandalorian is far more perceptive than most give him credit for, “Do you remember when you were walking me home the first time and you said I should fight for a better life? Do you truly believe there is any way I could possibly feel happy and safe on a planet like this, Mandalorian?” Your voice cracks a little and you tighten your arms around his muscular shoulders, thinking that even though you’ve only met this dark blue warrior twice, he’s been the only good thing to happen to you since long before your mother’s death, “I have come to terms with my fate long ago and I no longer feel sorrow or pity for myself, nor do I want you to feel it for me.”

“It is not pity.”

He’s repeating the same words you had spoken to him when you gave him that jar of salve, knowing he had nothing to give you in return and you nearly sob into the crook of his neck at the realization that he seems to remember everything from your initial run-in with him.

Most people forgot about you as soon as they left the infirmary.

“Then what is it?”

“I… I don’t know,” He answers honestly and you’re grateful he doesn’t come up with a lie to make you feel better; you didn’t take the big blue warrior for a dishonest man, “I just know I don’t like the way he treats you--the way he looked at you like you were nothing more than a burden than to him. Has he always treated you that way?”

You hum a little and bury your face further into the slope of his neck, “Please don’t make me talk about this, not when I already live with it every single day, Mandalorian.”

“Ni ceta.”

You don’t know what it means, but you take it as an apology by the regretful tone in his modulated voice.

Tears form at your waterline and you don’t have the strength to force them away when he lightly strokes your kneecap with a leather thumb. You don’t sob or make a show of your sadness and exhaustion, but you let his warm cowl soak your tears as they fall from your eyes on their own accord. It’s been a while since someone has held you while you cried--at least over a decade--and something about the way he comfortingly caresses your knee or says something in his sacred language every now and then brings you an overwhelming sense of catharsis that you have never felt in your life.

He’s murmuring something to you in that low baritone, but you find yourself being pushed under a massive wave of exhaustion after such a long day and it’s suddenly difficult to focus on his what he’s saying when all you long for is some rest and peace of mind. The taut slope where his shoulder meets the bottom of his neck is surprisingly comfortable and even though you had never been much of a drinker, his warm, comforting scent leaves you feeling delightfully intoxicated. 

There’s a soft pressure rubbing circles against your ribs and he’s still murmuring, but everything is so hazy and his warm body isn’t doing anything to keep you awake or coherent of your surroundings and you realize just how much trust you’re putting into this man that you’ve only met twice. He could easily take you to some unknown location and take advantage of you, but you have no fears of him doing so and find yourself growing completely limp against his broad chest, your fingers unfurling from the bunched up material at his nape. 

You’re trapped in a strange limbo between wanting to fall asleep completely and wanting to savor his warmth and deep baritone, but every now and then, you feel the Mandalorian curl his big arms tighter around you or you hear a deep murmur from underneath his helmet--always something in his native tongue.

If you ever see him again after tonight, you promise yourself that you’ll ask him what all of these words mean--what he’s calling you when he refers to you as ‘saviin’ika’--and you pray that you see the big blue Mandalorian again. You never thought that you would find solace in the massive warrior’s company or that he would have surprisingly gentle hands whenever he touched you, especially after all the stories you had listened to as a child. Since meeting him, you no longer fear the Beskar-clad warriors that live underground, but more so those who live above and torment and prey on innocent people for no reason other than to satisfy their own sick desires.

You childishly wonder what the Mandalorian thinks about you--what he feels for you.

Perhaps you’re just acting like a fool who has a crush on someone you don’t even know, someone whose face can’t even see, though you’ve never cared too much about physical appearances, especially when someone has a kind heart. You think that despite his cold disposition, the Mandalorian has a warm soul buried underneath all those weapons and armor and you wonder if he only displays it when he’s surrounded by his tribe and others he deems worthy.

Does he deem you worthy of exposing such vulnerability, despite only knowing you so little? Is there something different he sees in you that he’s never felt with anyone else in the village? Does he see something familiar and comforting whenever he looks into your eyes through the safety of his expressionless visor?

You wonder if you’ll ever find out the real reason as to why he sought out your company tonight, if he truly wanted to check up on you or if he genuinely enjoys your company.

His voice barely trespasses the fogginess that’s clouded your mind and you’re more than half asleep when you feel yourself slowly being lowered, dizziness washing over you as he attempts to remain utterly gentle. Realizing that you have been restlessly sleeping in his arms the entire way home, you turn on your stiff mattress until you’re curled on your side, the uninjured side of your face pressed into your flat pillow as you slowly convince yourself to give into exhaustion.

The Mandalorian, however, isn’t finished taking care of you and you barely hear him shuffling around as he pulls something from one of the pouches attached to his utility belt.

You think you’re dreaming when you feel something cold and tingly rubbing against your flushed, bruised cheek, though it’s not enough to cause any excess pain. You can feel rough calluses covering his thick fingertips and they promptly freeze on the apple of your cheek when they graze a particularly tender spot, causing a small whimper to expel from between your chapped lips. 

The Mandalorian’s modulated voice is gently shushing you and you know you’re having some sort of sweet dream when you realize his hand is bare, simultaneously coarse and soft and so deliciously warm as it caresses your cold cheek and soothes the intense pain there. Eventually, the pain gives way a warm, numbing feeling and your breath catches in your throat when you feel that coarse skin glide along the bottom of your lip, stroking gently along the thin gash in the center.

A soft cry pierces through your lips, louder and sharper than the previous one, and you don’t know whether it’s from the dull, throbbing pain or from how tender the warm pressure is against the tender wound. Another hush has you slowly turning on your back and you force your eyelids open, realizing that you’re definitely not alone in your little bedroom. The blue Mandalorian is slightly hunched over you as he tentatively swipes a slippery thumb along your injured lip, though you feel the rough digit lightly graze your upper lip once or twice, despite it being completely unscathed.

You realize he’s using the salve you had given over a month ago for his ribs and when your eyes flicker to the jar that he’s holding in his gloved palm, you’re surprised to find that it’s barely been used, maybe only a quarter of it missing. The bright moonlight that pierces through your window emphasizes the bright blue gel and hesitantly, you let your eyes wander back up to the hollows of his cheeks and you find that the color is almost similar to the healing ointment in the glass jar he holds so gently.

He must not realize you’re awake because his helmet jolts a little when you speak in a breathy whisper, lips barely moving so you don’t ruin his skilled fingers that are tending to the minor wound.

“That salve was for your ribs, Mandalorian.”

“The pain in my ribs was annoying, but not unbearable,” His thumb continues to lightly rub the healing ointment against your plush bottom lip until it’s fully absorbed into the tiny gash and you can already feel the immense relief that follows in the wake of his rough digit, “There were others in the tribe who could have used it more than me.”

You smile sadly when he lightly strokes the apple of your cheek, inspecting the severe bruising there, “Yet you waste it on the nurse that gave it to you in the first place. My pain is not unbearable either, silly man.”

“It is not a waste,” He says in a cool, deep rasp and your eyelids slip shut when he strokes the tail of your brow soothingly, “Besides, it will be good for it to heal faster.”

“Mm,” You’re mind is growing hazy as he moves to the end of the bed to untie the laces of your worn boots and gently tugs them off, as well as your socks, “Why’s that?”

“The faster it heals, the less tempted I’ll be to leave the same marks on your father--or kill him,” The gruffness of his deep voice nearly makes you chuckle, but then you hear him utter something in his native tongue and he promptly speaks up again, “Your feet are covered in bruises and blisters; how long have you had these boots? The soles are completely worn out.”

“I’ve been living off of ration bars,” You tiredly remind him, gracelessly flopping onto your stomach and lightly kicking his hand away when you feel his thumb graze an intense blister on the back of your heel, “New shoes aren’t exactly high up on my list of necessities.”

He grunts his displeasure and you hear him shifting around a little before you feel his hand between your shoulder blades, followed by his deep voice; you think you hear something nervous brewing in his usually calm tone “Do you want me to take out your braids so your hair doesn’t get tangled?”

You pray to the Maker that he doesn’t notice the way you shudder a little at just the thought of more close contact with your unlikely companion, though you’re certain he hears the shakiness in your voice when you quietly speak, “S-Sure, if you don’t mind.”

He doesn’t say anything and you hear a bit of shuffling before the mattress next to you dips and creaks underneath his weight; it nearly makes you giggle at how massive he must look sitting on your little bed. The Mandalorian is endearingly gentle as he unclasps the tiny silver cuffs that hold your two thick Dutch braids in place, setting them aside on the nightstand next to your little vase that contains your beloved violets. You don’t have many belongings nor are you materialistic by any means, but your plants and your mother’s hair beads are items that you cherish and value over anything else that you own.

After plucking the wildflowers from the weaves in your braids and carefully dropping them next to your mother’s hair beads, his hands deftly unwind one of your long braids, slowly and carefully, as if he’s worried of tangling your thick waves. The feeling of his fingers gently carding through your unruly mane has you closing your eyes in bliss and you shiver a little when you feel his blunt fingernails lightly scraping against your scalp to undo the braiding at your crown. You’re grateful that the bacta salve you concocted seems to be healing your split lip, because you can’t stop yourself from smiling so softly when he unweaves your second braid and combs his bare, thick fingers through your long hair.

“Pel,” He breathes, his vocoder barely picking it up as he strokes down the length of your hair before picking up a lock of it and bringing it up to his visor, inspecting it with seemingly great interest, like he’s not used to handling longer hair. 

It’s deathly quiet for a few moments and you think he’s going to simply stand up and leave, but then you feel the rough pad of his index finger gliding up along your bruised cheekbone, though his touch is so achingly soft that you don’t even feel an inkling of pain in his wake. Your eyelids squeeze together tightly as you try to commit the sensation of his skilled fingers to your memory, though you fear you won’t even be able to remember it even in the sweetest of dreams that the Maker would kindly bless you with.

A shaky exhale wracks your body when his index finger continues it’s sweet ascent up to the cartilage tip of your ear before he rotates his hand a little so he can run all of his fingers through your hairline, coming to a blunt stop at the base of your skull to affectionately stroke your scalp. After having your hair in braids for such a long amount of time, the relief that his fingers rub into your tender skin nearly lulls you to sleep and you have no idea how long he sits there, merely massaging your scalp and stroking your long waves.

As if realizing what he’s doing is wrong or selfish, the blue Mandalorian is quick to drop a thick, wavy lock of hair that he had been inspecting and awkwardly clears his throat a little. The mattress rises when he stands tall in your little room and even though you’re sleepy and drowsy as hell, you dread the thought of him leaving you in solitude until your father arrives later in the morning right before you leave for work.

“Mandalorian.”

You’re surprised he hears your muffled voice as he slowly makes his way to the curtain that separates your room from the rest of the hut, turning to you before leaving, “Saviin’ika.”

You smile softly at the nickname, despite not knowing what it means, and you turn your head so he can hear you more clearly, “Will I see you again?”

“Are you always going to ask that whenever we part ways?”

“Depends.”

His helmet cocks to the side inquisitively as you turn back onto your side and curl your knees up to your chest, peering at his dark silhouette with soft eyes and shivering when his strong baritone pierces through the silence of your little bedroom.

“On what?”

You wonder if his visor somehow allows him to see the smile tugging at your lips that are still slick with salve, along with the pink tinging your warm cheeks.

“If we’ll keep finding our way back to one another.”

You see the outline of his broad shoulders and how they seem to deflate from the vulnerability in your bashful voice.

“Goodnight, saviin’ika,” His voice is raspy and you wonder what it must sound like without the old modulator in his blue helmet, “I’ll see you sooner than you could wish for.”

Somehow, you doubt his words, but it’s the first time you can remember falling asleep with a smile stretched across your face.

Saviin’ika=Little violet

Ni ceta=Sorry (lit: I kneel)

Pel=Soft

Author’s Note: I wanted to put this at the end of the chapter, since it’s kind of long, but I sincerely want to thank you all for your kind words; it’s really encouraged me to write more. You guys are all a bunch of sweethearts and I really appreciate it! 

I honestly wasn’t expecting to get such positive feedback on the first chapter, especially since Paz doesn’t play a super huge role in the Mandalorian, but I’m glad we’re all still thirsting over our big blue grouchy boi and I’m so excited to continue with this story!

Taglist: @parabatai-winchester​ @auty-ren​ @theocatkov​ @oloreaa​