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

your head on his shoulder | fluff

Reunited with his precious firearms, Mando stood several paces away, lowering the blaster into its respective holster at his side. You let out a heavy sigh of relief, knowing the battle had been won. You took a moment to catch your breath and collect your bearings.

When you were ready, The Mandalorian lowered a hand to you. You took it strongly and he hauled you onto your sore feet with little effort. His hand was much bigger than your own, probably calloused and worn to the bone by years of ship operation and combat. All the same, they were comforting. You were reluctant to release him from your hold, but eventually, let go and let your hand fall to your side.

"I had that covered," you pointed out with a small smirk.

"It certainly looked like it," he remarked sarcastically.

Very briefly, his head tilted. You recognized the motion and identified it as his gaze scanning over your body.

"Are you hurt?" He asked, now concerned.

"No, I'm okay," you told him with another exhale. "Just a little bruised is all. We should get back to the town before it gets dark, though."

In the rain forests of this tropical planet, the thugs' bodies would get disposed of soon--whether by mudslides or nocturnal indigenous beasts. In order to avoid the same fate, you limped your way to the nearest cluster of civilization; a small town on the outskirts of the jungle. The settlement had been where your most recent job originated. Not much substantial payment was offered, merely the chance to do something morally good instead of gray for a change. The natives had been exploited and extorted by a foreign gang, but they would not need to worry any longer.

You stumbled up the steps of a small cantina. You nearly collapsed into a booth near the door. Its cushioning was withered and old, but it took the weight off your feet so there was not much to complain about. Your head tilted back to rest against the wall and your eyes drifted closed. If it was quiet enough, you might have fallen asleep.

Soon, you felt someone sit directly to your left. Your eyes wandered open and glance at your companion. His head was turned toward you, the Beskar exhibiting what you could only guess was an expression of sympathy.

"That fight really took it out of ya, huh?" Mando wondered aloud.

"A little bit, yeah," you bitterly chuckled as you let your eyes slip closed again. "I think I'm gettin' old."

"Everything's sorted out with the locals," he assured you vaguely. "We can leave tonight, or tomorrow morning--whatever you'd like."

"We can leave tonight," you told him with exhaustion lacing your voice. "Just not now. I don't think I can walk back to the ship."

He did not respond. He studied your face as it cast upward to the ceiling of the bar: the roundness of your cheeks, the curve of your nose, the small curl of your eyelashes, the effortless frown your lips defaulted to, the dark circles below your eyes that screamed of fatigue, and the small patches of dirt that stained your skin from the fight earlier. It was pleasing to observe, especially when he knew you could not see the way he looked at you. That soft gaze would be too vulnerable to display so openly.

Your neck began to strain in the position. With a small wince, you moved your head to the left for some relief. The motion was soothing so you followed it as far as it would go until your temple met the refreshing cool of metal. You let out yet another sigh, this one of contentment. You allowed your head to rest on his Beskar-plated shoulder. Beneath that armor, however, you did not notice the way his body stiffened slightly.

He was perplexed.

"What are you doing?" He asked gently.

"Putting my head on your shoulder," you muttered.

"Why?" He inquired curiously.

"Because I like you," you said in a hushed tone, not bothered enough to raise your volume.

He paused to comprehend your intent. He could not help but think what an odd thing it was to say and believe. There was not much to like about The Mandalorian, according to his own assessments, because there was not much of him. He kept his cards close to his chest and rarely expressed himself outside a dry comment. Resting your head upon someone else was a sign of affection, was it not? What could I have possibly done to warrant affection? He wondered internally.

"That's a... strange judgment," he mumbled, his words barely being registered by the helmet's modulator.

"It's not strange, there's a lot to like," you countered quickly. "You know I care about you deeply, we've had this conversation before."

He thought it was strange you liked him--you; the person who agreed to travel the galaxy with him and fight alongside him. Was it not obvious that you at least liked him? Let alone desired him in ways you had never thought possible. It sometimes seemed his skull was thicked than his armor. But his words hinted at a deeper insecurity he harbored and hid away.

"Why would you think it's strange?" You wondered carefully.

"No one's ever... " he thought about his words, suddenly finding it difficult to piece together anything of sense. "I suppose that... I've never had a partner before. The trust is new. The affection is new. The friendship is new to me. So it feels... strange."

"A good strange?" You asked.

"I think so."

You grew comfortably silent. The noise of the small cantina drifted away into the back of your mind. You instead listened to the sounds of his quiet breathing, and the faint rustling of his clothes when his chest rose and fell.

The Beskar shoulder plate was not the most relaxing, but it was not what you were resting upon that brought the comfort, it was who. With every deep breath, you inched closer and closer to the precipice of sleep that threatened to drown your consciousness. Even if you wanted to, you doubted you could force your eyelids to open.

Mando sat upright and still rigid. His hands sat casually on his lap, but he felt the fingers of his right-hand twitch. You had scooted closer to him during your short exchange. Your knee gingerly brushed up against his. He wondered how you could be so calm while so close to him. He undoubtedly could not keep his cool when you invaded his personal space in the best ways possible.

I should return the advance, he rationalized. So, slowly, his right hand drift closer to your relaxed and slumped body. The fingertips of his gloves softly met your clothed knee. Ever so carefully, he eased the rest of his hand onto your leg. He tested warily what you would allow, and it seemed you were alright with his reserved actions.

His palm laid above your knee and his fingers rested on the joint itself. He kept his gaze looking forward to prevent himself from becoming too inattentive. Gently, his fingers began to move back and forth, creating a soothing rhythm against your clothed skin. Though only half awake, you felt his touch and smiled. Maybe you would wait until tomorrow to leave.