#I for once as a person who has been asking for a fob x tswift collab for years am gonna have so much fun

[daeluin]

y'all fob girlies (gender neutral) getting actually pissed at the collab with tswift like growp up!!!! they've always been a pop band and taken every opportunity to do collabs!!!! specially with really popular pop artists at the moment!!! do you forgot about the demi lovato collab??? like girl please have fun!!!!! let the guys have fun and collect those extra dollars thanks to taylor

[double-daredevil]

folklore ; chapter one

din djarin x reader (no y/n)

words: 6.2k

rating: T for swearing i guess. its a slow burn there isnt anything sexii yet lol

themes: slow burn (like y’all its so SLOW lol), eventual angst, no Y/N, eventual smut, eventual EVERYTHING this is like the establishing shot of a movie its gonna be a FIC lmfao. dont get attached the end is already planned.

notes: set before the tv series. canon doesn’t exist anymore. i make the rules here pals. yes it is named after the tswift album so that gives you some fuckin HINTS 

--

Accident.

Pretty much everything that happened to you happened by accident, but you weren't one to complain. Without much control over your life for your adolescent years, seeing as you were raised as an Imperial trooper and just followed orders, you happily let yourself float along in life whichever way the forces led you. 

That doesn't mean you don't have, say, a moral guideline.

It's difficult to explain to people once they get to know you better and eventually squeeze out of you that yes, you were trained Imperial. Details are not awarded to most people, in fact— you’re not sure anyone except one of your commanding officers in the rebellion knew that you were a clone. 

You have spent countless hours trying to transition from regret to simply shame. After all, how is it your fault you did what you were told? If you didn’t, you would have been executed. Tossed to the trash like a faulty toy. The greatest decision in your life was the first decision you, personally, got to make— to run. It took you a few years to plan the scheme, but you defected successfully. Your moral issues were simply too strong to subvert, and you had to leave. So you did. That's all. You don't like to talk about it much.

After you mustered up some vengeance by joining the rebellion, you had to find a living once the major fighting died down for a while. With your particular skills— too deadly to be a simple security guard, or any occupation that doesn't involve tactical warfare, you settled on hoarding money through bounties. Not quite professed in the field of bounty hunting, you would latch on to more experienced hunters and offer to split rewards 20-80 for your help. The meager money filled your pocket enough for food and lodging while you learned the ways of the trade and, subsequently, your new way of life.

That's how you met your first Mandalorian. 

A mutual acquaintance from the Guild had a heavy quarry, a difficult one that he had trouble passing off. Too complex and detailed for just you, your acquaintance told you that when he found a suitable hunter to take the lead, he'd hail you to tag along. A week after the quarry was first put on the table, a renowned bounty hunter— this Mandalorian, rolled into town to collect the tracking fob. Part of the agreement was to take you along. The Mandalorian agreed. A brief encounter mediated by your mutual acquaintance and you were following the beskar-clad hunter to his ship, which you’ve come to know as the Razor Crest. A dingy, huge hunk of metal that could use a good list of upgrades, but you quickly grew accustomed to the flying garbage can. 

And somehow, after that singular bounty hunt, where you actually got to assist in the capture and the shoving of the unruly quarry into the carbonite, Mando offered you constant refuge aboard his ship in return for some pay and help on his harder bounties. That conversation, so far, has been the longest exchange of words between you and him, and it only lasted maybe five minutes. That’s all. You’re not one that aches for human interaction, having been commanded all your life by others, so you almost welcome the silence.

Almost.

—

Officially, you have been a part of Mando’s crew for nearing six months.

You hear metal clanging against metal, and you glance over your shoulder to see him climbing down from the cockpit. “Are we headed to the next quarry?” You ask.

“Yes,” comes through the vocoder. “Carajam.”

“Oh lovely,” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm as you focus on polishing the trigger of the blaster in your hands. “Another desert planet in the Outer Rim.”

“Our favorite,” Mando deadpans as he walks over, sitting across from you at the janky table. 

Once you were an official employee of his, you spent your first few payday collections on your own blasters. In all honesty, weapons never made you nervous, as you grew up in a space station that was literally just a giant weapon, but owning your own seemed… different. Blasters are weapons made just to kill, and you are allowed to have that power again. But, anyway, most of your money goes to savings so you can buy a house to retire to one day. One day. 

The Mandalorian rolls his shoulders back to adjust his cape out of the way of his hands as he starts to dismantle the blaster that’s usually holstered at his hip. Piece by piece, he sets his blaster on the table like a new jigsaw puzzle, and you’ve just finished polishing the little blaster you’ve decided to keep stashed in your boot.

“How long until we arrive?” You ask.

His visor is focused downwards, at the metal pieces on the table, his right gloved hand hovering over the pieces like an excited child in a candy shop trying to pick his favorite one. “Not long,” he replies, picking up the barrel and beginning to wipe it clean with a cloth. “We will arrive once it becomes night on the planet. Cooler temps.”

You nod, letting out an appreciative sigh. That meant you had a night’s rest before the hunt began. As he finished up with the barrel of his blaster, you removed your longer, daily use blaster and began dismantling. You two stay like that, at a dimly lit table cleaning the blasters, until the ship notified that it was about to drop out of hyperdrive. 

Mando quickly reassembled his blaster, slipping the completed gun back into its holster as he stood and hustles over to the cockpit. Following suit, you dusted off any last specs of dirt on yours and planted your feet firmly against the floor, as the ship dropped out of its easy glide through the stars and into the gravity pull of Carajam. The Razor Crest isn’t the smoothest rig, but you’re still very appreciative. And, you like to think you have good balance, so it’s not a hard task to stay stable.

You want to say that Mando is a good pilot, and you really think he is, but you can’t help but miss the sheer amount of credits that the Empire was able to spend on simple luxuries to make their lives easier, like enhanced stabilization in and out of hyperdrive, cleaner hyperdrives, even, and— 

The Razor Crest lands and you shake those dark thoughts out of your head, reassembling your blaster but with clearly less finesse than Mando. Stars, are weapons actually part of his religion, or was that a joke as well? It’s quite the challenge to pick up on the subtleties of somebody who wears intense armor literally every waking moment, but you’ve grown accustomed (more or less) to the separate circles of things that Mando talks about. Those circles are: one, things he says and means, two, things he says as a joke, and three, the gray, shadowy area where those two circles meet and you’re still deciphering what brief conversations and quick remarks belong there. 

As the ship starts to rest, expelling various airs and sighs itself as the sheer weight settles on the landing gear, you clear off the table and slip your smaller blaster back into your boot, and your other into your holster that’s banded to your right thigh. The Mandalorian comes down the cockpit ladder soon enough and goes to stand at the main ship door. You hop up from your seat and stand next to him, as he punches something into the control pad on the archway and the large door hisses and starts to lower. The first glimpse of the planet you get is the peak of the spectacular night sky, and eventually the ramp meets the sand on the ground and you see it all. Mando struts down the ramp to go and meet the landing dock manager and pay for the spot here in this spaceport Danan Karr, but you wait aboard still, leaning against the open doorway and gazing out into the night. Planets are always easier for you at night, as they were calmer— at least, those that don’t have an avid nightlife. A few that you and Mando have stopped at have been busier in the dark hours than the light, but it was always fitting. 

The breeze of the desert planet comes sifting around you, caressing your cheeks with warm air and particles of sand, but you don’t mind. Raised in space, you have an affinity for the ground and real, non-recycled air. Although it’s never any trouble for you to stay inside a ship for however long, there is always something alluring about fresh air. Plus, this planet in the Outer Rim isn’t exactly prime vacationing, so there is nearly no light pollution. It was almost hard to wrench your eyes away from the bright stars speckling the dark blanket of the sky. 

You almost don’t notice when Mando comes walking back up the ramp, too busy basking in the breeze to notice the beskar-clad hunter. He stands at the top of the ramp, slightly in front of you, for a good few seconds as you look straight over his head.

“Hey,” he calls for your attention, and you look down at his face. Or, well, the specific area in the T of his visor where you’re pretty sure his eyes are. He tilts his helmet to the side and you know he’s begun to worry about you.

So you flash him a smile. “I just love the air here,” you say, and turn around to step back inside the ship. Mando walks the rest of the way up the ramp and inside, pressing a button to raise the ramp.

“Rest tonight,” he starts. “Tomorrow we go on the hunt.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply, going back to sit at the janky table to clean one more blaster before retreating to your bunk.

The Mandalorian sits at the table as well, after having taken his ambam rifle out of storage for a quick clean. In silence you two work on your respective blasters, caring for them as they are just as important to the job as the tracking fob. Perhaps an hour or so went by, and as you were putting your blaster back together piece by piece, the comfortable silence was broken. But this time— not by you.

“What did you say about the air?”

You look up from your blaster and see that Mando isn’t looking at you, but still at his rifle. The fact that he’s trying to start casual conversation accidentally makes a smile appear on your face. You quickly look back down at your blaster, but your smile still remains.

“I said that I loved it,” you reply. “Because the air here is very fresh. Even though there’s like, no trees, there’s almost no people. No pollution.”

He hums in understanding and continues cleaning. 

Back to the comfortable silence. 

—

The Razor Crest looks large from the outside, but it’s pretty cramped inside. The majority of its bulk is for it’s engines and practical components— hyperdrive, fuel tanks, cooling systems and whatnot. It was once a gunship, and that fact does put you on edge. Ships like this used to transport troops and drop them in combat. So, there is a large portion of the ship’s cargo bay that remains unused, as Mando doesn’t usually transport large quarries. The living space, or at least that’s what you’ve called it in your head, consists of an open area with a small but sturdy table, a few stools to sit on, and various crates that contain meal rations and tools and various trinkets. You’re almost one hundred percent sure that this ship was never meant to be lived in. You estimate that maybe four or five people could stay on the ship before everyone felt claustrophobic. 

There used to be only one cot hidden in the walls, you’d knocked against one of the panels and the door would swoosh away, revealing a simple bed and just enough room to roll around to attempt to be comfortable. The night after the first bounty you helped Mando with, he let you sleep some in the hidden nook as he piloted you two back to Nevarro. While you were standing outside the ramp and helping unload bounties, the Mandalorian inquired whether or not you would want to join him on future bounties. With an assurance that you would get your own cot, you obliged. 

—

The bounty that you two are hunting on Carajam, the lovely desert planet, is hiding somewhere in the caves and cliffs a few klicks east of the space port that you are staying in. From the info you’ve picked up talking with a few locals, the quarry likes to hide in the sand caves because he has no friends. Well, actually it’s because he’s murdered about a person per household out of everyone who still lives on the desert planet. You thank the locals for their information with a few credits and a jug of desirable water.

You make your way to the only cantina on the planet, and by cantina you mean what is quite literally a bar top and six stools outside the shop of a local mechanic. The Mandalorian is sitting, waiting, on the last stool, facing the expanse of the desert that is a mere fifty feet from the edge of the little star port. You swiftly occupy the stool next to him.

“So,” you start, and he swivels in his stool to face you. You brace your elbows on the table. “About seven klicks east towards the main expanse of cliffs, and then about two more klicks north to the caves. One of the caves will look obviously occupied, trash and debris and whatnot. That’s what I’ve gathered.”

“Good work,” comes through the vocoder. “Are you ready to head out?”

“Yes, sir,” you smile, adjusting the straps of the small backpack you have. “After your lead.”

He swivels again and hops off his stool, and waits a moment until he hears you following him before beelining to the edge of town. You follow, obedient, as he weaves through the sparse crowd to another shop, lined with speederbikes and a few larger landcrafts. The Mandalorian walks up to the shop owner and exchanges a few words, and a few credits, and then moves to two of the speederbikes. 

“You know how to ride?” He asks you, as you stand beside one and he the other. 

“Yes, actually,” you say, always having a soft spot for fast land vehicles. You briefly wonder that, if you had said no, would he have made you sit behind him on one bike? The thought makes you smile, bashful, and you wait until he mounts his bike before climbing onto yours.

“Seven klicks east,” Mando says, repeating your earlier words and firing up his bike.

You turn yours on as well, and grab a pair of goggles from your backpack. You pull up the bandana you keep around your neck to cover your mouth, and then put on the goggles. You give a thumbs up to Mando, who was glancing over his shoulder to wait for your cue.

And then he zooms off. And you diligently follow.

— 

You two reach the caves in a quick hour, specifically saving some hours of daylight just in case this job takes a turn. The two of you park your speederbikes about half a klick downwind of the cave, just in case. You keep your goggles on and bandana over your mouth, as the wind out here doesn’t seem to want to settle. Dust and sand weave around your feet like a clingy pet as you scale the short cliffside after your Mandalorian, following him quickly toward the cave. 

You hover around the mouth of the cave as Mando stalks in, somehow still quiet despite his sturdy boots against the rock. To see down inside was near impossible, even as you took off your goggles. You hear some sort of scuffle, a few clatters, and then Mando is shoving a handcuffed quarry your direction. You reach up and steady the quarry, your hands on the man’s shoulders. Stars, he was a large man, so you assume that Mando only managed to shackle him due to surprise. 

“Let go of me, you kriffing bitch,” the quarry seethes at you and aggressively shrugs his shoulders to loosen your grip. Mando takes a step towards him, you imagine he’s reacting to the derogatory term thrown your way, but you beat him to it— 

You release your grip on the quarry, and while he’s stunned for a moment from it, you kick his foot out from underneath him. He falls hard on his ass and plops to the side, unable to stifle his fall due to being cuffed. With a slight smile, you watch him struggle on the ground.

“F-fuckin’ bitch,” he groans out, trying to roll over to a kneeling position. Once he manages that, Mando comes and grips the man’s shirt— lifting him inches off of the ground towards his helmet. 

“Watch your mouth.”

And then Mando drops him. 

The quarry gasps at the contact back on the ground and groans, almost falling over again. You go up behind him and grab the cuffs, wrenching him upwards and forcing him to stand. You grip the cuffs tightly in your left hand, and hold your blaster to the quarry’s back with your right.

“Let’s go, then,” you say. 

The Mandalorian leads the way back towards the speeders.

—

After tying up the quarry to transport him on the back of Mando’s speederbike, you settle nicely back inside the Razor Crest. Mando already froze the quarry after he wouldn’t stop blubbering about how sorry he was for mindlessly murdering the people in port— he couldn’t help himself, apparently. 

“Nobody is born a killer,” the Mandalorian tells the quarry before freezing him.

You avert your gaze away from him once the carbonite process is finished, allowing him to believe he had privacy with the quarry during their discussion. You had tucked yourself around a corner to avoid letting him know you like listening to the Mandalorian’s stern and assertive remarks to unruly quarries. You take mental notes on the way he talks, mostly to figure out what he believes in. A Mandalorian follows a creed, and your Mandalorian hasn’t mentioned a single thing about it since you’ve met him. By now, after half a cycle, you’ve figured out the basics. And the bottom line is that Mando is generally a good guy— a moral guy, you guess. Kind of like a vigilante who upholds his own justice, but a good guy nonetheless. If Mandalorians picked sides besides their own people, you think he would’ve joined the rebellion. 

“I’ve set us on course back to Nevarro,” you offer as Mando walks back through to the main area of the ship and raises the ramp. You lean against the metal wall in one corner, watching him fulfil his routine.

“Good,” he says, appreciative in his own way that you know that he likes to be constantly on the move. “What’s the ETA?”

“Only a few hours,” you say, pushing yourself off of the wall and going to the ladder to the cockpit. The ramp closes as you grab the rungs, looking back to Mando as he shadows you at the ladder. “You should get some rest before we arrive,” you offer.

He’s silent a moment while you face back to the ladder and start ascending. You hear him mutter a ‘okay, thank you,’ through his helmet before you climb your way fully into the cockpit. Once you’ve ascended, you don’t hesitate to go and sit in the pilot’s chair. Although you’re not the best pilot, favoring studying combat and languages instead of flight and mechanics, you manage. 

You settle in the seat and grab the flight controls, and hear Mando stepping onto the floor of the cockpit. You flick up a few switches and start the ship, letting her rumble to life while you look back over your shoulder at your Mandalorian.

“Sleep well,” you say with a hint of a smile.

He gives you a nod, hesitates, and then opens the door on the wall behind the cockpit, leading to the captain’s quarters. Once you hear his door swoosh close after his retreating footsteps, you let out a breath and encourage yourself, grabbing tightly onto the handles. 

Just get it into the sky, and the autopilot gets you there, you tell yourself, forcing the Razor Crest into the air. She succeeds in ascending, and you raise the landing gear and disarm any land security protocols. Following a mental list, you do exactly as you’ve seen Mando, and get the ship into space in no time. A little shaky, sure, but you don’t think it was enough to stir the captain out of bed.

—

One cycle.

You two take a brief break. There aren’t any bounties worthy of your time, anyway.

The smoke crawls up your wrist, wrapping around your forearm before dissipating into the air. You hold the ornate stem of the smoking pipe to your lips, inhaling shallowly, and let your arm drop as you try to breathe the smoke in deeper. A heavy sigh and the smoke passes back out of your lungs, past your lips, forming a cloud in front of your face. You wait, still holding the pipe, and look expectantly at your hosts.

Upon landing on this planet, at what seems to be the only one semi-decent town, the Razor Crest was surrounded by the inhabitants. Seemingly human-esque, you and the Mandalorian walked out of the ship with no weapons in your hands, ready to barter for some fuel and lodging for the night. The people of the planet, through an interpreter, were more than happy to allow you to stay.

Under one condition; uphold their welcoming traditions and take a huge hit off of the pipe the dude who seemed to be the chief was eagerly thrusting towards you two. 

Startled at the proposition, and more so by the growing ruckus of the onlooking crowd the longer Mando tried to deny the offer, you grabbed the pipe. The chief smiled widely and the crowd calmed, but Mando whipped his head towards you.

“Don’t smoke that,” he said. “You have no idea what it is.”

The interpreter tried to reassure you that it was safe, it was fine, a common plant that everyone on the planet enjoys. The longer you held the pipe without smoking it, the smaller the smile of the chief was and the more and more the rest of the people stirred. Eventually, it did devolve into a shouting match between Mando, the interpreter, the chief, and a few people in the crowd who were brandishing weapons. 

So you smoked it.

You’ve smoked a few things before in your experience, not a lot. Drinking was always more your thing, knowing that once the liquid passes through you it will be gone from your system. Inhalants? You could never be sure. But you would be a bad sidekick to the Mandalorian if you didn’t sacrifice your lungs for ease of service.

After the first inhale, the chief smiled again, and gestured for you to smoke some more. Ignoring the verbal protest of Mando, you brought the pipe back up to your mouth and puffed again. A bit bigger of a hit this time.

Well, much bigger, judging by the size of the cloud you just breathed out. Surprised, you let out a chuckle, but the irritation in your throat causes your laugh to turn into a hearty cough.

And the crowd cheered.

The chief took the pipe from you and draped his arm over your shoulders, guiding you and Mando behind you into the town. It’s a little town tucked into a small clearing beside a freshwater river and a thick grove of forest, tall and green trees that seem to tower over everything— perhaps the tallest trees you think you have ever seen. On this planet, there are three suns, and they are constantly setting in succession. So, it’s never really nighttime. 

And it seems like these people take advantage of that.

As the chief leads you and your Mandalorian through the stone streets lined with dark, muddy brick houses, your head starts to get light. Like, the tension in your neck loosens and your shoulders go slack. It’s nice— well, it would be, if you didn’t quickly associate it with whatever the chief insisted you smoke. The chief’s arm was still draped over your shoulders and he excitedly explained, in his native tongue, what you assume to be a detailed history of the town. All you could do was feign a smile, probably looking a bit dumb considered you don’t know if your cheeks are numb or just used to your wide grin by now, and nod in fake understanding. The Mandalorian is exactly three and a half paces behind you.

The interpreter is walking beside Mando, re-explaining everything the chief is saying. You aren’t able to listen to both the chief and the interpreter, somehow lacking the mental capacity to focus back and forth between the two, now. The crowd of people disappeared once you smoked from the fancy pipe, save for a handful that you assume are the chief’s servants, so the little troop led by you and the chief eventually hits the end of the main street. 

The chief removes his arm from your shoulders and gives you a nice, hard slap on the back. He says something, while gesturing to a small cottage that bookends the houses lining the road. You’re too busy staring off in the distance, past the green grass that traces the treeline and river. One of the suns is setting, casting a mesmerizing red haze over the tips of the trees, painting the freshwater of the river golden. 

You hear the Mandalorian call your name, and turn to face him.

And he’s standing there, at the door of the cottage the chief is letting you two use for the night, practically glowing with how the setting sun is glinting off of his beskar. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, a second time, but you didn’t hear the first.

You cannot help the unabashed grin that swallows your face, and stumble over to the door. “Never better. Everything is great. You should’ve smoked that shit, too.”

You hear him sigh and he opens the door for you, stepping back so you can walk in first. So you meander in, hand lightly following the wall because you’re suddenly doubting your balance. You find a seat at the small table that’s placed in the middle of the room, and you still can’t stop yourself from smiling. 

The Mandalorian drops a bag at the foot of one of the cots that he must’ve gone back to the Crest to get, but you don’t remember him doing that. And then he drops your night bag at the foot of the other cot, and you wonder when he went and got your bag.

“Thanks,” you croak out, still smiley, and brace your elbows on the table. “D’you have any idea what I smoked?”

“No,” he admits, voice monotone as usual through the vocoder. He pulls out the second chair and sits across from you. The cottage, small but spacious enough for two people to not knock elbows, was alight with soft sunshine filtering in through the numerous windows. Who needs light on a planet that is constantly day?

“How do you feel?” He asks, visor intent on staring you down. 

“Spectacular,” you reply, staring back at the visor. You used to wear a gaudy helmet when you were a trooper, so you’re pretty damn sure you know exactly where his eyes are behind that mask. 

“You look drunk.”

Your smile, instead of faltering, is drawn a little wider and your elbows slip forward on the table until your chest is pressed up against the wood, your chin almost touching the tabletop but your cheeks are squished by your hands, keeping your head up. “I feel like it, too. But, different at the same time, y’know?” 

“No, I don’t know,” the Mandalorian says as he leans back in his chair. His hands are flat against his thighs, and you’re 99% sure he is simply watching you. Out of worry or annoyance, of course you can’t tell, but you’re leaning towards annoyance.

So you tilt your head to the side, staring back, trying your fucking hardest to stifle the stupid smile on your face but you just can’t. “Want me to tell you what you’re missin’?”

Surprisingly, the Mandalorian tilts his head as well, mimicking you. “Enlighten me.”

“Have y’ever got so drunk that you just had to sit there and wait ‘til the booze gets filtered out of your system?” You start, letting your head— so heavy— fall further to the side and land on the table, a nice foundation to ground you. You’re so slumped in your chair your legs are straight, sticking out of the sides underneath the table as you stretch your arms to dangle off of the table. “And yet it’s like, the best part of bein’ sloshed is comin’ up so you don’t want to sober up and y’just— just— sit there, stewing.” 

He lets out a hum, letting you know he’s still politely listening to your ramblings.

Any thoughts in your head blur, images and words swishing around behind your eyes as you try to focus on what you were saying. “And nothin’ hurts or aches and you get to forget ‘bout everything bad you did that day and just look at the stars. Y’get to look at them, and for the first time you see them, see the life they hold and foster and you feel special knowin’ you’re a part of it all.”

There is a moment of silence, or— you think so, but your breathing is a little heavier than usual. The moment draws out, longer, and you’re beginning to wonder if you actually said that stuff out loud or if you simply thought it.

You bolt upright in your chair, cheeks red with embarrassment— but the fucking smile is still on your stupid face. 

“I don’t know what’s up with me right now,” you admit, eyes focused on one of the windowsills off near the door, so you don’t have to look at that helmet and feel the stare behind it. “The chief said that they smoke this stuff all the time and don’t sleep a wink, but I feel super tired.”

In your peripheral vision you see the dreaded helmet glint in the sunlight. He’s looking at you, quizzically. “What do you mean?” He asks. “The interpreter didn’t say that.”

“No,” you agree, looking back at him. You try to focus where you know a face is behind the helmet, but you can’t get the image to clear in your head. It’s all a little blurry at the edges, and your Mandalorian is all edges. “I said the chief said that.” 

“He didn’t speak any Galactic Basic. When did you hear him say that?”

The edges blur some more. “He said it when we were all walking, I dunno. He just said it.”

The Mandalorian looks toward the door, thinking. 

“It must be the ganja,” you offer.

He looks back. “The what?”

“The offering. That’s what the chief called it. But, well, I dunno if that’s what it’s actually named or what they call it,” you say, unable to look at the sharpness and crisp lines that make up the beskar armor. What’s going on with you? You weren’t concerned until now, reaching a hand up to trace your bottom lip and finding that you have control over your face again. No more creepy smiling. “I feel fine, though. From smoking.”

You steal a glance at him and find that he is still, predictably, staring at you. Your cheeks grow hot again, suddenly feeling like a burden to your employer. He is not a babysitter, and you don’t want him to feel like he has to watch over you as you ride this high.

“Really,” you add. “I feel fine. Things look weird, right now, and my head is fuzzy, but it feels good.”

He stares, and you bitterly wonder if that’s all he’s good for.

So you stand up, eyes scanning the room and you notice the heavy curtains tied neatly above each window. “Guess we should sleep,” you say, stepping towards one of the windows to let the curtains down to block out the never-ending sunlight.

But, your ankles feel a little weak, and your balance falters. 

Before your hazy head even registers that you’ve lost your footing, the Mandalorian is at your side, his right arm tucked behind your back, his right hand firmly on your right hip. His left hand is grasping your left upper arm tight enough to bruise, but without his strong grip, you would have crumbled to the floor like a tossed blanket. 

“Are you okay?” He asks immediately, and holds you tighter and hauls you up back onto your unsteady feet. Once the words finally registered in your brain, you briefly thought that he really did sound concerned— masked voice a little higher in pitch than usual.

Your fuzzy head decides the best thing to do in response is laugh as you stood up back on your own. “I’m okay,” you assure, a hint of laughter still in your voice, and you raise your hand to lightly shove him away, not needing his support anymore.

But, since he’s solid as a fucking rock, your hand just brushes against the beskar chestplate uselessly. That causes you to laugh a little more, and he lets go of you once he’s sure you can stand solidly on your own.

“Are you sure?” He asks, still with that higher pitch that the vocoder almost hides. He’s hovering close to your side, ready to catch you again if he has to. 

Curious, you raise your hand and tap your knuckles against his chestplate, and the resounding thud thud makes you smile. “Fuckin’ hardcore, Mando. I’m so jealous of your armor.”

“Yeah, you’re not okay,” he says, but you swear you hear a lilt in his voice, as though he finds you amusing. “You should try to sleep it off.”

He gestures towards one of the beds but you don’t look over to it. Instead, you tap your knuckles against one of his pauldrons. Tink tink. 

“Really,” he insists, and you for sure hear the smile on his face in that one word. “You need some sleep.” He grabs your shoulders and turns you around, slowly, so that you’re facing the bed. 

“Would you close the blinds?” You ask, stumbling forward to the bed. You flounce on top of the blanket, as this planet is quite comfortably warm— or are you just warm? — and let out a heavy sigh. A real bed.

“Of course,” Mando replies, strutting to each of the five windows in this small, quaint cottage and letting down each of the curtains. In the back of your hazy mind, you know he can see in the dark with the HUD in his helmet. The thought makes you slightly jealous, and you wonder if, as you turn to lay on your back in the blackness, if he may be looking at you. You blame the ganja for the fuzziness that overtakes you at the thought.

“Thank you,” you call into the darkness.

You hear his friendly hum somewhere in the room, and hear him sit down at the table again. Truly, the inhabitants of this planet know how to utilize the sun, and how to hide from it, as you open your eyes to stare at the ceiling and see nothing. It is completely pitch black, and you’re impressed.

The feeling of the mattress underneath you is almost too soft. You can’t remember the last time you were able to sleep on a real bed— if you ever had the pleasure. It reminds you of floating in deep salt water, the effort of staying afloat taken away from you as you just let it happen. Currently, you’re not sure if your eyes are open or closed, as it makes no difference. Your breathing is stable, and the haze in your head is tolerable. You must be coming down from the peak, and it’s making you tired.

Quietly, you hear the Mandalorian’s gloved hands grasp metal, but you’re not sure what. You hear something slightly heavy placed on the table.

He calls your name, softly, and unfiltered. 

“Yes?” You reply, breathless. Did he take his helmet off?

“Go to sleep,” he says. His usually gruff voice sounds gentle without the vocoder.

“Okay,” you say, and you do indeed need to close your eyes. The blackness behind your eyelids seems almost darker than the darkness of the room. Unbeknownst to you, you must’ve been extremely tired, because you pass out almost immediately.