❝ 𝘳.𝘦.𝘮. ❞ [ Pedro Pascal characters x reader ]

a gentle soul | fluff

prompt: Mando isn't exactly familiar with acts of kindness

warning: mentions of a knife wound

word count: 1071

pronouns: gender-neutral

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second-person point of view. . .

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Kindness was not something The Mandalorian knew very well. He knew loyalty, but that was born from debt or oath. Kindness was unprompted. It came from a strange place deep within someone's soul, a natural inclination or an instinct trained for years.

Bounty hunting was not exactly known for being a career for... compassionate individuals. It was a complicated profession, one that required a rather inactive moral compass, which meant any empathy had to be snuffed out. The Mandalorian did not exactly consider himself to be an unkind person, just indifferent.

You, on the other hand, were undoubtedly kind. More than that, you were gentle. You were especially gentle with him. Mando had never been able to understand it before he met you. In a galaxy full of self-interested parties, you seemed more concerned about his well-being than yours.

"Why did that take you so long?" You cried as you rushed over to where he stood. "You should've just shot 'em from the jump!"

"I didn't want to kill them unless I had to," Mando's voice was so calm and steady.

The bounty hunter was not particularly affected by his most recent encounter with death. He was less than alarmed to be caught in a standoff with the bounty he was after this week. The bounty had been rather stubborn, and cocky, which was precisely why he had been shot during that standoff and Mando walked away unscathed and unfrightened.

But that fearlessness did not extend to you, his poor travel companion who had to wait on the sidelines and watch from a few meters away. When the matter was all said and done, the bounty was on the ground, and relief washed over you.

"Well, you nearly killed me," you admitted, though more metaphorically.

Once he was within arm's length, you extended those arms to grab onto his shoulders. The adrenaline that melded together with the sudden alleviation was rushing through your veins. It clouded your judgment somewhat, which led to the hasty decision to hug him.

Your arms wrapped around his metal-clad shoulders, pulling him flat against your smaller body. The plates of armor were a bit cold, which was refreshing against your warm skin. Your embrace was tight, revealing in the fact that he lived through the standoff. You were thankful above all else.

The embrace was warm like a ray of sun brushing against his rarely uncovered skin. Odd to think how such a gentle contact could spawn such ease. It was difficult for the bounty hunter not to melt into your touch and succumb to all the affectionate feelings that it brought. But he managed to maintain some aspect of his composure. Somewhat awkwardly, a gloved hand pat your back.

It was odd. Sometimes The Mandalorian thought you might have forgotten that he has blood on his hands. Did he deserve such kindness? After the acts of violence, he has been paid to commit? Surely not. Nevertheless, you continued to treat him in a way that was foreign.

His boots hit the metal floor of the Razor Crest, heavy but staggered. You heard them from all the way inside the cockpit. They did not alarm you, in fact, they were somewhat relieving. The sound of his footsteps echoing throughout the ship meant he had made it back alive from yet another dangerous bounty.

You met him halfway with the objective to ask how the hunt went. You never got that far, however. That train of thought was distracted when you noticed the way he gripped his shoulder. He was in pain, you could tell without even seeing his face.

"What's wrong?" Your voice was laced with worry, a thing not often directed at him. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"It's nothing," Mando insisted through grit teeth. "A lucky shot is all."

"You got shot?" How distraught you appeared made him almost guilty for causing it. 

"No, it was a knife," he clarified, though the distinction did not make your stress any better.

You carefully grabbed his upper arm to inspect the injury. The bounty must have noticed the patches of fabric between his solid Beskar plates and taken advantage of the gaps in his armor. The cut did not look deep, but it did look painful.

"Sit down, this will need stitches."

You did not ask if he desired help in patching the injury. Perhaps if you gave him a choice, he would have been too stubborn to accept the assistance. Reluctantly, Mando sat atop a sturdy enough cargo crate as you fetched the first aid kit.

After cracking the kit open, you helped him remove the metal plate that covered his shoulder. It was placed on the floor with a shallow clink. About three inches below his shoulder was where the knife-wound started. You tactfully cut open his undershirt sleeve.

The needle tugged at his already irritated skin. It was a numbing sensation that crept down his arm, but it was one he was used to. He allowed you to work in silence. With a slight tilt of his helmet, he watched your attentive stare as your nimble fingers sewed the gash closed.

Those fingers lingered, however, gently pressing against his olive-toned skin as you scrape away the dried blood. From the pressure you had to apply you could tell his arm was firm, but his skin was soft and warm. Stitching his wound was the first time you had ever seen him.

The Mandalorian watched a smile crawl onto your face.

"I had a hunch we were the same species," you chuckled.

"Hmm," Mando simply hummed and continued to observe you.

He wondered what gave you that impression, but his mind could hardly focus on forming a coherent follow-up question. The pain of being cut and then getting stitches without anesthetics was blaring and intense. What was even more distracting, though, was the feeling of the pads of your fingers against his biceps.

When was the last time someone had touched his skin? Decades, at least. An even better question: when was the last time someone had treated him so softly? He could not remember. He must have been a child when his parents embraced him for the last time.

How he treasured your kindness. It was assuring to know there was someone who cared whether he lived or die. To have someone expecting--hoping--that you return safely was... motivating. There was someone who wanted him to come home at the end of the day.

"Thank you," The Mandalorian said once you were finished tending to his wound.

"Don't worry about it."