Cataclysm ─── The Mandalorian. ¹

ix. stardust

            "It's not bad," she says. "Right?"

            "It needs bandaging and cleaning," the Mandalorian replies. He stands, stepping away. "I'll be back."

            He disappears down the corridor of the ship, boots soundless on the panels. Zoya releases a breath she hadn't meant to hold, standing up for a moment and crossing to the child, lifting him away from the controls and wrapping him in her arms, putting the majority of his weight on her uninjured side.

            "What are you up to?" she coos to him, rocking the baby back and forth. "You shouldn't be playing around with those control thingys, you could kill us all." She says this in a baby voice, and he gurgles a little in response, reaching up with a tiny hand to touch her face with a careful finger. She wrinkles her nose at him, making a funny expression that urges another gurgle from the wide-eyed child.

            As she sways with him, Mando returns to the cockpit, bandages and ointment in his hands. He stops in the doorway to observe the sight, watching how carefully Zoya cradles the child and the quiet, gentle voice she uses when talking to him. He feels a pang of something strike in his chest, but he can't quite pinpoint what it might be—longing, remorse, happiness? The Mandalorian isn't sure, exactly, but it's warm and encompassing and fills his heart to the brim.

            After a moment of watching her act very motherly with the child, he realizes she must not have heard him return, so he clears his throat and acts like he just walked in, holding the medical supplies in clear view. She turns immediately, but the caring, soft expression doesn't vanish from her face, not yet. His body stills when Zoya looks at him in that way, and for a moment, Mando forgets what he was going to do.

            "Bandages?" she says hesitantly, noticing the way he hovers.

            Slightly awkward, Mando nods. Zoya lowers the child down to sit in the pilot's seat, and it coos, looking up at her with loving eyes. She gives it a little smile that he's not meant to see and moves towards him.

            "Where should I sit?"

            "There is fine," he says, still unsure why'd he frozen, gesturing to the seat she'd been sitting in when he left. She does as he says, turning so that her uninjured arm faces the wall. He crouches beside her again, placing the bandages and the ointment on the floor to grab a knife from the sheath on his boot. "I have to cut your sleeve off."

            Zoya's eyes land upon his. It seems to be an unearthly talent of hers, to always make eye contact with him through his helmet. "Okay."

            Carefully, Mando holds her just above her elbow to anchor her in place and pushes the knife up through the fabric at the seam, ripping it around the circumference of her shoulder. When it's torn through, Zoya shakes away the loose fabric, and it slides off her fingertips to reveal the rest of her arm, puddling on the floor in a mound of tedious beige.

            "It was stupid of you to throw yourself into that fight," he mutters, eyes running over the angry scarlet wound.

            The child wriggles around in the pilot seat behind Mando. "Would you have preferred it if I had just run away then?" Zoya says lightheartedly, using her other hand to pull her dark waves of hair over her other shoulder as she throws a glance at the troublesome creature.

            "No," he says too quickly. Pressing his lips together, he regrets his swift answer. "No. I'm . . . no," Mando finishes brusquely, unsure of how to put it into words that he wouldn't have even wanted to leave without her if she'd been gone when he returned to the Razor Crest.