Din Djarin/Mando/The Mandalorian: One Shots, Imagines, etc.

Wouldn't Have Done Anything Else

A/N: requested by sadstrarwarsfan14 (hi ilysm i never know if I do your requests well enough so i hope this is ok)

ALSO I KNOW YALL LIKE MANDO  SO PLEAAASE GO CHECK OUT THE MANDO BOOK I POSTED OK PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE I KNOW THIS IS SHAMELESS PLUGGING BUT IT WONT TAKE MORE THAN TEN MINUTES

Warnings: self harm, sadness

Word count: 1076

The burn scars scatter your arms like the markings on a loth cat's patterned hide. Eyes glued to the discoloured patches of your skin, you watch, fascinated, as they seem to tremble with the tears in your eyes. You remember the first time your shaking fingers closed around that lighter, the burning pain shooting through you as you held the dancing flame to your skin. You stopped a few years ago, but now it all just hurts. You don't know who you are without those scars, the reminder of that pain.

And you need it again.

You need the white hot pain lapping at your flesh, you need the flicker of the flame eating away at you, freeing you at least momentarily from the hurt inside. You need to use the fire to drag you back off the cliff you're slowly falling off, to save you from the insubstantial ground crumbling away beneath your feet.

Huddling into yourself, you squeeze your eyes shut. The need and the knowledge that it's bad for you war inside you, but the need is always stronger. Gasping for air, you stand on shaking legs and stumble over to Mando's weapons cupboard, fingers scrabbling to open it and rummage around for one of his heavy duty lighters. You recall liking them better, their hotter flame, the way they were a little too large in your fingers. You recall liking them because they were Mando's, and he's the only other thing in your life apart from the burns that is solid.

Your fingers close around a lighter and you flick it on, entranced by the way the flame flutters and quivers in the air, tempting you. Blinking, you switch it off again, slipping it into your pocket and walking to the 'fresher, the familiar weight of the lighter reassuring you somehow, strengthening your legs. Mando will be back from the market soon, and you don't want him to see you, not with the fire pressed to your skin and tears tracking down your face.

Shivering, you sit down on the cold metal floor of the 'fresher, locking the door behind you, turning the knob and pushing to check it's secure. And then you flick the lighter back on, the flame springing up, eager to burn.

The pain is freeing, at first. It always happens that way, the scorching red hot agony, then the smell of burnt flesh burning in your nostrils and you have to stop, gasping, tears in your eyes. And then you do it again, this time for longer, because you're addicted, and you don't think there's anyone you want to burden with the task of protecting you from yourself.

You aren't quite sure how long later, but there are more than fifteen fresh burns on your arms by the time you hear the cargo ramp hiss open and closed, signalling Mando's return. Shrinking away from the 'fresher door, you clutch the lighter to your chest. You weren't expecting him back so soon, and you're not ready to go outside and face him. So you curl up in a ball in the corner of the small room, hand cupped around the yellow flame as you watch it dance.

There's a clatter from outside as Mando starts packing away his newly bought supplies, and then a louder crash as he opens his weapons cupboard. Pause. And then footsteps approach the 'fresher.

'Y/N,' he murmurs softly. 'I know you're in there.'

'I - I'll be out soon.' It's a weak excuse, but it's the only thing that comes to mind.

'I thought you had stopped, Y/N. I... I was so proud.'

You freeze. 'Stop what? I never told you... I - '

'I notice when my lighters go missing, Y/N. I - I've seen the scars on your arms. Please, let me in.'

'N - no.'

'Y/N.'

You turn your face away from the door, shakily taking a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. You've heard him use that stern tone before, the one that he uses just before he stops asking nicely. Swiping the tears off your cheeks, you scramble to your feet and pull your sleeves down over your forearms, wincing as the fabric brushes against the tender flesh. Slowly, you unlock the door, holding the lighter out to him. He takes it and chucks it behind him, and the sound of its landing echoes around the hull. Unable to speak around the lump in your throat, you stare at your feet.

'Let me see,' he murmurs.

Wordlessly, you pull your sleeves up, still not able to look up at him. Gently, he cups your wrist in his gloved hands, the only sound in the air being his sharp intake of breath as he turns your arm this way and that, inspecting your burns.

'Oh, Y/N,' he whispers, cupping your face. Water wells up in your eyes at the softness in his voice, the way he carefully wipes away a hot tear that falls free. Your lower lip trembles, and the overwhelming shame that floods through you makes you wish you had ended yourself long ago.

'I... I...' you sob, trying to explain yourself.

'Shh,' he says, scooping you up as if you weigh nothing. 'I'll get some bacta for you, sweet girl.'

You lean your head against his chest as he carries you over to a crate and sets you down, rummaging around the med pack to find some bacta spray. Once he finds it, he kneels before you, removing his gloves. You wince as the fine mist of bacta hits your skin, and he rests a reassuring hand on your knee, murmuring to you as if you're a frightened blurrg which needs calming down.

'Okay,' he says. 'Bacta done. It should kick in soon.'

You hang your head, wishing he wasn't so gentle, so caring. Somehow, it makes it all so much worse. A tear drips down your nose and falls onto the floor, and you stay sitting on the crate, trying to think of something to say, some way to thank him.

'M - Mando, I... Thank y - you for doing that... I- '

He doesn't answer yet, just kneels down in front of you again and loops his arms around you. Resting your cheek on the warm fabric of his cloak, you breathe in his scent, closing your eyes as he strokes your hair.

'It's okay, cyar'ika,' he whispers in your ear. 'I wouldn't have done anything else.'