#reader will reflect on this and be highkey-lowkey mortified

[jaegerjackoff]

The Doctor | Part 5 | The Mandalorian

< PART 4 | Part 6 >

SUMMARY: The Mandalorian makes his departure. The Doctor has visitors.

PAIRING: slow burn Din Djarin x afab!reader

(no physical descriptions or y/n; has vague relatives, a surname, and backstory/personality)

WARNINGS: canon-typical violence, implied needles

WC: 1.6k+

A/N: I'm so excited to share this lil bit! 😌 I haven't written any action-y stuff in a while so I hope this is up to par. Also, kinda rawdogging this - I just finished, slapped it into grammarly to catch my big mistakes, and decided it's time to post. Enjoy!

-

Sure enough, the Mandalorian kept true to his word. 

You saw him and the Child off around dusk, padding through damp grass to where the Razor Crest first touched down outside of town. By some shred of grace, you were allowed to carry the baby, whose little hands touching your face in a gentle goodbye nearly brought tears to your eyes. You would miss him and mourn the ambiguous could be of his guardian.

The Mandalorian didn’t seem mad but locked down in what little he let on. You regret speaking impulsively – you should have just rattled on about something mundane, like the plants you were harvesting or the weather. Anything else, rather than asking questions that are none of your business, especially with a bounty hunter. You wipe a hand down your face, realizing how lucky you are. Though (vaguely) familiar, you don’t know the Mandalorian. For all you know, you were toeing a fine line in asking.

When the light of the thrusters fades into the distant blue-grey atmosphere, you trudge back through the treeline into town to pick up something to eat, as much a treat as it is to placate for the severe misstep. You find yourself entwined in an unwilling conversation while waiting for Yvret to finish your order, dismissing what questions that come your way about “Mando” with a shrug and crooked smile. 

Where is he going? (I don’t know.) 

Why did he leave so quickly? (I don’t know.) 

Will he be back? (I don’t know.) 

He was nice. (I know.)

Opening your mouth last time earned you knowledge of someone tantalizingly new and adventurous: a wounded, russet-armored man who took a chance on a sparsely populated moon that a stranger suggested he visit for his poor healing. That Mandalorian provided you the tiniest, secondhand morsel of a life you would pursue the remainder of your university stint. 

The bounty hunting part frightened you at the time, though the rest satisfied a deep itch you’d always had. Of wandering. Adventure. Freedom. Your formative years were spent mostly on rebel bases, so you craved it. But you couldn’t – shouldn’t – participate in the alliance. It was too dangerous. In the name of the education your parents so kindly sponsored, you placated yourself with field schools on far-off, less habitable planets to study robust and sometimes dangerous plant life.

When your second field school wrapped up, you traveled home from university one last time before the destruction of Alderaan. When an invitation to transfer to Naboo was extended, you were already assimilated into a role with your father. Resigned yourself to the moon, studying its flora in your free time, back to restlessness. (You couldn’t bear to tell your father.) Now, look at you.

So — you’re blissfully unaware as far as the townsfolk are concerned. Not ignorant and torn up over crossing an easily-assumed boundary. Hopefully, you can keep it going; otherwise, you might never hear the end of “running off that nice fellow, Mando,” were they privy to your last few tense hours.

Once home, you soak. Eat in the tub. Pull yourself out sluggishly. The toll of the day is weighing on you now, manifested in the dull ache of your lower back and the fuzz around the edges of your consciousness. You consider calling your mother to seek comfort from a loved one parsecs away, but disappointedly put a pin in that when 2-1B pipes up that it’s definitely too early on Yavin 4. Instead, he urges you to go to bed, sweetening the deal by offering to settle in your room for the night. You can’t complain.

With 2-1B sat in the worn armchair opposite the bedside table, the gentle whirring of parts dissolves into a white noise that lulls you into easy slumber.

-

You wake to persistent knocking at your front door. Blearily – foolishly – you half-hope that the Mandalorian will be there, green baby tucked under an arm. You’ve run to the clinic in slippers enough times that you pull on a pair of boots and a soft coat on your trudge to the door. 2-1B follows behind, in case you’re needed.

The door slides open, and you pull the zip high on your coat, covering your throat from the bite of morning air. Two men stand on the stoop, expressions pleasant despite their grizzled appearance. You look between them, and they look at you. For a long moment. They don’t look hurt, and you definitely don’t recognize them. They glance at one another briefly. You try to keep an open posture.

“How can I help you?” You ask finally, uncertainty curving your brow.

“Have you seen our friend, Mando?” One asks, proffering a puck from his pocket. Sure enough, it fizzles alight with the Mandalorian’s likeness, helm shimmering in its image. You want to roll your eyes but resist the urge – whatever Maker is out there really won’t give you a break right now, will they?

You look at his hologram closely, knitting your brow. “That could be anybody with a helmet on. Got a holo without it? Or a name?”

“’S all we got, miss.”

“Then I’m afraid not. I’ve read about Mandalorians but never met one,” you sigh wistfully. You think you’re selling it. “I’ve heard they’re rare.”

“That’s funny ’cause we know you have.”

Hopefully, the chill that ripples down your spine isn’t too noticeable. “And how would you ‘know’ this if it were true? This is a small moon, a small town. Locals don’t take kindly to strangers.”

They share an amused look, one bouncing their brows at the other, before their steely gazes return to you. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure.” One says, and has he taken a step closer? You take one back, hand resting on the doorframe.

“I dunno. It was pretty simple.” The other sighs, clicking his tongue in faux disappointment. Slowly, they begin their advance. “This is a town of old scuds, sweetheart. A lil’ strongarming and a few folks mentioned our buddy stayed here, in your place. You have history.”

You blink, having to stifle the pang of hurt. Fear. You care so kriffing much, and it’s inevitable they can glean as much from the wild look in your eyes. Their smug expressions, like they’ve won, make your skin tingle and tears prickle the corners of your eyes.

“If by history, you mean the one time we met ten years ago, sure.” You scoff automatically, cheeks feeling hot now. You aren’t sure what you expect, keeping up this crumbling farce for someone you really have no clue about, but you’ll feel lucky with your life and all four limbs. At least you’ve got a med droid. (If they don’t disassemble him for parts). “He’s got shitty red plate armor and a shiny helmet. That’s all I’ve got.”

It’s a stretch – you don’t know how long he’s looked like he does – but the dated description is enough for their eyes to meet briefly, providing you with an adequate enough window to retreat and slap the door closed. It’s so unbelievably stupid, but now that adrenaline propels you forward, it feels almost thrilling, like what you once chased. Almost because, this time, you’re dealing with bounty hunters sent for a Mandalorian instead of a carnivorous plant or two.

“Come, quickly!” You hiss at the droid, bounding down the hall and opening every door, hoping to slow them down. They pound on the door behind you, shouting indiscernibly.

“What is the plan?” 2-1B asks, looming protectively as you slide the blaster rifle out of its case, now laid out on the bed. Transparisteel shatters distantly as they probably crash through the most accessible route: the great window in the living room.

“I’m going to stun them when they come in. Then I need you to sedate them.” You whisper shakily. “Maker, we should have a real plan for this.” His eyes flicker as you check the gas canister and rise, fingers flipping a small switch near the trigger. There’s no time for affirmation or reflection because you can hear one fast approaching, the tread of his boots sloppy compared to the light-footed Mandalorian.

2-1B flanks you at the ready as you brace the rifle at your shoulder, finger hovering. The rush is making your face numb, and fingers tremble somehow harder. The mere moments drag into hours, and you focus on the corner where they should emerge.

At the first lick of dark fabric, your body pulls tight, and you take the shot. It’s the one who held the puck – he collapses in a heap, blaster skittering away by sheer force. 2-1B pivots the tiniest bit, and you nod. He pulls the man out of sight from the door.

You wait some time before the other comes around – or, it feels like a while, the roaring staccato of your heart practically drowning out any noise from the rest of the house as he rifles through things. Calls his partner’s name once, which you immediately forget. 

When he’s down the hall, you speak, “F-fine, I’ll tell you where he’s going! Please, just don’t hurt me.” The sob that forces its way from your chest is genuine, tears flowing freely. The man to your left makes a low sound, wide eyes staring at you, and his partner sounds to pick up the pace. You almost don’t get him in time, firing simultaneously. He drops hard. The bolt he fires is hot, melting the fibers of your jacket to your shoulder, where it grazes past and burns into the wall behind you. You’re sure it hurts, but you can’t feel it yet.

You finally let out a long breath, shoulders sinking. The rifle drops to your side, held by its sling.

< PART 4 | Part 6 >

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