#heheeheheheheheh whoops

[whirlybirbs]

CYAR’IKA – iii

summary: the issue of conflict. rating: t for some emotions, m next ;) pairing: the mandalorian x reader a/n: read part one, and part two. part four will be smut.

the razor crest is no large ship.

it’s small enough to breed an immense amount of discomfort between the two souls avoiding one another like asteroids whizzing by far off moons. in fact, the size of the ship nurtures it -- it nurses this horrible, wretched little feeling and waters it and watches it grow to a size bigger than it can hold.

you try your best to beat back the heart-ache; you try and trim the vines that are strangling you slowly, but dyn... 

kriff, you could kill him. 

it’s been nearly a whole week, tracking bounties and anchored in the cool hum of space, since the incident. 

and, maybe at best, a shared ten words between the two of you.

you hadn’t meant it -- when you’d said “i wish i could see you” -- the way he’d taken it. to him, it had been a blow of guilt; a reminder of these irrational thoughts of inadequacy he holds. to you, it’d been a merely expression of hope for the future. someday, maybe, you’ll be able to pull your eyes open and marvel at the man before you. now, simply put, isn’t the time.

and every single time you open your damn mouth to try and explain that, dyn jarren just... walks away. slips past you, moves into another part of the ship, and dodges your orbit.

it’s the third time today that you try and corner him. this time, as he’s hauling open his armory and grabbing a blaster pistol to strap to his hip. 

“dyn --”

“i’ll be back soon.”

he explains curtly that he’s going out on a bounty. tracked the poor soul to a cantina on the west side of tatooine. easy prey. quick catch. 

“i’ll come,” you supply readily, tone a bit bitter.

dyn spares you one look; his dark visor provides little to no emotion.

“no.”

you really could kill him. 

“you can’t keep walking away --”

the bay-door to the razor crest hisses shut on your words and so you’re stuck, alone, in the ship for the time being. promptly, you throttle your boot through the paneling by the door. the dent is hardly enough to explain your frustrations. 

dyn is trying to be an utreekov. he isn’t. he just... every time he tries to talk about this whole thing, a lump worms it’s way up his throat and leaves him choking on his words. talking isn’t his thing. it’s never been. 

you are his thing. his everything, if he’s being honest with himself.

sun, moon, stars. everything. 

he can hear you kick the inside of the ship as he stalks away from the space depot. 

you’re mad at him. he knows that -- he knows you’ve been trying to sort this out, and he is, too. just... differently. inwardly. and... it’s not as easy as just... talking. i mean, what if he lets you see his face? then, he has no one -- he’s not a mandalorian. and... what if he’s not your everything? what if cycles down the road, you realize he’s nothing but an insufferable, cranky bastard? 

(you already know that. that’s why you love him.)

... -- oh.

you do, don’t you?

you love him. 

you love dyn jarren. 

love. 

hm. 

you sit in his chair in the cabin, knee jumping up and down and up and down, and you stare at the ceiling for so long, you’ve counted every bolt (all 147 of the poly-magnate 55mm screws -- there’s three missing on the right back panel) six times over. this realization has been a long time coming. cycles worth of time spent by his side. and all this... 

the sun is setting when he finally arrives back at the ship, sporting a new char mark on his beskar cuirass and a squirming bounty -- a young twi’lek with green skin who’s more terrified than anything. a sandstorm has started to kick up, sending buffs of sand along the outside of the ship and leaving a cloud of dust in dyn’s wake. 

the twi’lek coughs and waves his hands. his wrists are cuffed. 

“c’mon, up,” dyn grits, shoving the bounty inside the ship as he punches the doors shut.

“ -- dyn.”

the mandalorian blinks. you’re there, scaling down the ladder into the gut of the ship to greet him; your face is set in an emotion he hasn’t seen before. 

... fear?

or... confusion? 

you’re out of it. distant. you pay no mind to to the bounty in dyn’s grip when you speak. in fact, you don’t look at the twi’lek once. 

“i need to tell you something.”

anger. yep. that’s one emotion he can pin down, at least.

dyn moves through the ship anyways, ignoring the churning of emotions in his gut, and shoves the bounty down along the bench across from the weapon’s stall. “sit.”

“dyn.”

“-- right now?”

the twi’lek blinks up between the two of you. 

you approach him quickly, jaw set, as dyn unloads the blaster from his hip and hangs it up in the locker. he slings his rifle over his shoulder, unclipping the strap, and does the same. 

“yes,” you grit, “can you listen to me?”

“can this wait,” dyn barks, facing you and tilting his helmet, “until i’ve sorted out our guest?”

... oh, the guest who’s making a move for the DH-447 mounted to the left of him?

your own matte black DL-44 whines alive, pulled from your thigh holster in a blink -- and again, you don’t even bother to spare the twi’lek a second glance. the bounty freezes, squeaking, and raises his hands. 

dyn whirls around.

“can you,” you snap suddenly, glare pinning the bounty in place as he suddenly realizes he’s the subject of your apparent molten anger, “please, move away from the blaster? because, right now? i’m trying to tell the man i love that i love him and you’re making it a little difficult --”

“o-of course --”

“what --”

you raise a finger, jaw set tight. dyn’s mouth snaps shut.

his -- he... did you -- you...

he must have misheard.

“when you’re done,” you bite at dyn, gesturing to the bounty, “you’re going to come up deck, and then, we are going to have a conversation. do you understand?”

dyn’s heart is hammering.

yes ma’am.

he clears his throat. he nods. and you slide an icy glare to both the men in the cabin. 

he’s never put a bounty on ice faster. 

kriff -- he’s sweating when he gets to the cabin and you’re there, knee still bouncing and arms crossed and counting. your eyes are moving along the ceiling and you don’t even acknowledge him when he freezes in the doorway. 

there’s a moment of silence. 

then, you exhale.

"are you done?”

he makes a strained sound.

you sit up quick, eyes narrowed as you stand and approach him. he feels a bit like he’s being stalked, about to be gutted and strung up for you to feed -- the way you move through the cabin reminds him of a nexu on a hunt. 

terrifying. 

“ -- because i --” you raise a finger, “have been trying to talk to you for --”

“a week.”

“a week, dyn!”

“i know.”

“do you?” you hiss, a moment of irritation bubbling over and blinding you, “because -- because i -- i feel like an idiot. an idiot, dyn!”

his helmet drops. his hands move to his hips. silence runs like a river between you both. 

you exhale. you take a step back, and you try to cool down.

“... can you look at me, please?”

beneath his visor, his eyes shut for a second. he sighs, nodding weakly. he -- he should be looking at you. he can’t avoid this. it’s not... it’s not fair. not to you. 

“i’m sorry,” he says quietly, words shaking a bit, “for not being... good at this. at talking or...”

he waves his hands.

“-- all of it,” dyn gives a ragged sigh, “and for being afraid of change. and -- and for being so... unsure --”

when he looks at you, your face is soft. you can see the anxiety bubbling into the bouncing of the finger drumming on his waist. it’s a micro-movement. but you know him. you know he’s trying. he’s trying to breathe and stay calm and not walk away.

“i love you.”

... or maybe he hadn’t misheard you earlier.

the drumming stops.

he nearly rips his helmet off, then -- throttles it across the razor crest and never looks back. 

the words are sweet like honey coming from your lips. the words sound like home; whole and full of the warmest emotion in the galaxy. and you smile, then, so small and timid -- and his heart sings. 

he doesn’t know what to do.

but, you’re quicker than him. 

you dig out a single strip of cloth from your pocket -- inky black and opaque. 

“i’m going to tie this around my eyes,” you speak matter-of-factly, raising it and draping it across your eyes, “and you’re gonna take your helmet off and i’m gonna kiss you. because i don’t need to see you. because i love you. and -- and that helmet is your life. and i understand that.”

you’ve barely got a single knot tied when his hands meet your waist and he crushes his lips against your own.

it steals your breathe away.

and, when dyn jarren is done peppering your face with kisses, he speaks slowly.

“ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, cyar'ika.”

he loves you. and you love him. and you don’t have to see him to know he’s happy.