Cataclysm ─── The Mandalorian. ¹

xiv. jealousy's grip

            "I think she scared you."

            The way he angles his head slightly sideways, looking down at her, feels predatory and suspends every moving part of her body into stillness, but it's not in a way that scares Zoya. She has to fight the impulse to step even closer to the metal armor concealing his chest, moving up and down in time with his respirations.

            "She doesn't scare me," Mando says lowly, and after another beat of eye contact through his visor, he turns back to the cot.

            Zoya watches him quietly, observing the precision of his hands as he pulls apart the Amban rifle, checking the parts and the chamber where shots are loaded. Even with gloves on, Mando's movements remain deft and calculating, fingers lean and nimble where they touch the long rifle's barrel.

            There's a certain type of burn in her chest when she looks at him, a burn that tastes of roses and flames and blades breaking in two and something sweet on your tongue that stings on the way down.

            And just as she does with everything she cannot control, Zoya pushes it to the back of her mind and ignores it, knowing there will come a day when what looks like sunshine is overshadowed by dark, angry gray clouds filled with a rumble of menacing thunder.

｡･:*:･ﾟ✧ ｡･:*:･ﾟ

When twilight's gray begins to seep through the sky with shadowy fingers, pulling the sun towards the horizon, Mando and Zoya remain in the hut, the child cuddled up in a small, wooden crib near one of the walls, swaddled in its brown clothing. The villagers had given them a soft, woolen blanket dyed a beautiful blue color that Zoya had promptly elected to let the child use, folding it up carefully in the crib before setting the creature gently inside.

            The ex-convict stands beside where the child lays, waving her fingers around above his nose as he stretches up his small, three-fingered hands, trying to catch her with little gurgles and giggles of happiness. Mando stands firm across the barn, now cleaning his rifle with an oily cloth. He's almost finished and will soon begin to put the weapon back together.

            As the child's eyes begin to flutter, Zoya backs away from him as to not interrupt his slumbering, crossing over to the Mandalorian on soft, quiet feet. When she appears at his side, he feels her presence and doesn't startle.

            "Can you teach me how to shoot that?" she asks.

            "This?"

             "Yeah." She looks at the double pronged end of the sniper rifle, reaching out a cautious finger to touch the metal. "I've shot rifles before, but nothing this heavy."

            Mando turns subtly to watch her meddle with the end of the weapon. Her hair is pulled over one shoulder, the dark strands longer than they were when they'd met for the second time. It exposes the enticing curve of her neck, skin glowing and soft. He can't help but feel tempted. "You want me to teach you?"

            "There's no one else I'd rather learn from," says Zoya, pulling her hand away. "You're not the worst shot in the galaxy."

            "No," he agrees. "That would be you."

            Her jaw drops, and she pushes him lightly in the shoulder. "Fuck you, Mando," she says, but she's laughing. "I should've left you for dead when the Guild had you pinned."

            Underneath the helmet, he grins. "You don't mean that."

            "No?" She lifts her chin, restraining a smile that's still evident at the corners of her mouth. "Why not?"