Cataclysm ─── The Mandalorian. ¹

xvi. bloodstained hands and an iron will

"No, no," he says. "You wanted me to teach you how to shoot a rifle. I'm gonna teach you how to shoot a rifle."

"But I—"

His head tilts as he looks down at her, standing there in that fucking blue tunic with those fucking black pants that fit her just a little too well. He doesn't say a word, but dominance and what feels like him daring her to object radiates from him as if it's scrawled in big, scarlet letters across his chest.

Her jaw stiffens. "Fine."

Mando lifts a rifle from the case and considers her for a moment, watching the wary way she stares at the large weapon. "Ready?" His eyes scan her face.

"Ready for everyone to watch me embarrass myself?" Zoya asks, still eyeing the large gun. "Sure."

"You won't embarrass yourself," he chides. "Don't be pessimistic."

"That's what I'm here for."

Mando shakes his head and starts to walk away, refusing to dignify her comment with a response. When he realizes Zoya's not following, he turns and raises one of his hands towards her, shifting the rifle so he can use two fingers to beckon her forward. Arms crossed against her chest, one eyebrow cocked, Zoya looks like cynicism incarnate, but she listens to him nonetheless, walking forward, feet coming to a stop right beside his.

He holds the gun out. "Take it."

"Yes sir," Zoya grumbles, placing one hand on the barrel and the other on the grip. When Mando releases the weight fully, she nearly drops it. He almost succeeds in muffling a snort—almost. "What was that?"

"Nothing." At her flat look, he shakes his head. "Nothing."

"Right. So how do I hold this?"

"First, stance. Feet shoulder width apart. You should know this already from shooting other blasters."

"Don't talk to me like I'm five."

"Then don't act like you're five." The comeback falls naturally from his lips after her complaint, and he pauses for a brief moment. He's never bantered with a woman like this before; it's never come as easily as it does with Zoya, which is more perplexing than it should be, especially as he needs to be focusing on other things.

"Ha, ha," she drones. "So funny."

"Now, put the foot of the rifle into your shoulder, and lean into it." After the Mandalorian's direction, Zoya tries to comply, but her back remains stiff. Without thinking, he places a hand between her shoulder blades, applying slight pressure until Zoya curves into the weapon. "Head straight up," he adds, finger tilting her chin upwards. Zoya grips onto her steadily waning focus, trying to ignore the way his touch is making her feel. "Hand here, stand steady." Mando adjusts her hand placement slightly, then steps back. "Good form. Relax into it."

"Like this?" she says, voice softer than she means it to be.

He nods. "Just like that." She adjusts marginally, and he starts to move forward, but stops. "Keep your hips straight, one foot slightly twisted. Gives you support." Zoya overcorrects, and he steps forward, shaking his head. "No—not like that, more like—" He pauses, unsure, hands frozen in the air between them, then asks, unable to voice the full question through the knot in his chest, "Can I?"

Zoya's breath trembles out from between her lips as she dips her chin. As tentative as a Mandalorian can be, Mando steps up behind her and reaches forward, gloved hands brushing against the outer frame of her body, settling onto her hips.