NINE.
stardust!
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Long after they've left the bolt-ridden town behind, the graze on Zoya's upper arm begins to burn. It hadn't bothered her at first, as the numbing adrenaline zipping through her veins during the fight and escape had concealed the pain. Wincing, she touches a few careful fingers to the hole singed in her loose, tan colored sleeve. Her skin underneath is slightly charred from the blaster shot and stained a hot, angry red. The pad of her thumb barely brushes the area, and she sucks in a pained breath, yanking her hand away.
"Shit," she hisses.
Not one to miss anything, Mando's seat turns slightly, and he looks away from the child, who stares at all the controls, its fingers stretching forward to play with one of the buttons. "What happened?" he asks, trying to sound nonchalant.
"Nothing," Zoya says, but her teeth are clenched together. "Just a little graze from the shootout back there."
Before she's done talking, the bounty hunter is already standing up, pushing himself out of his seat. The cloak hanging from his shoulders is asymmetrical; one side drapes across his left shoulder, concealing the top of his armor, whilst the other side is tucked neatly behind the broad expanse of his upper back. Her muscles coil tighter as he approaches, falling into a careful crouch before her. Her eyes flick to the child by the controls, keeping an eye on him to guarantee he doesn't press anything.
"Where?" he says.
Zoya shakes her head. "It's nothing."
"Where are you hurt?" Mando insists, but before she can deny him again, his helmet tilts to the side, and she knows he's seen the burned fabric on her upper arm. He reaches up, but his fingers stall in the air. "May I?" His voice is quieter than she's ever heard it before; something softens in the deep tones.
She swallows. "Yes."
Carefully, as she twists her arm towards him, he spreads the damaged fabric away from the wound. Zoya winces as a couple threads that have become stuck in the drying blood pull free. His movements slow when he sees the flash of pain, and beneath the helmet, his eyes flicker up to her face. She glances down, picking up the slight movement of his head.
"I'm fine," Zoya reassures him. "Just stung a little."
Mando keeps his eyes on her as he peels the rest of the fabric away, noting every twitch of her brows and every clench of her jaw that she involuntarily does as the tender skin is exposed even more to the cold air inside the Razor Crest. The tips of his gloved fingers touch the area around the bloody, inflamed skin. She exhales shakily.
"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.
She watches him quietly, skin tingling. "Oh," she manages, uncertain of what else to say.
Taking a dampened cloth, Mando gently touches it to the wound, taking off particles of dust and sand that had become stuck to her raw skin. She refrains from making any noise, but he can tell from the tense lines in her arms that it hurts; she just doesn't want to show it. Dropping the cloth onto the ground, Mando picks up the cannister of ointment, unscrewing the top deftly. He almost considers removing a glove to dip into the pot and smear the medicine on her arm with a bare finger to make the application easier but dismisses it as nonsensical.
"This might sting," the bounty hunter warns, dipping his finger.
"I'm a tough bitch," Zoya says, in true Zoya fashion.
He snorts. "Right."
Without further ado, he spreads the blueish cream across the blaster burn, taking care to cover all the edges of the wound. He pretends not to notice when she sinks her teeth into her lower lip as it starts taking effect, probably stinging. When he's satisfied with the coating, he reaches for the bandages.
"Hold this part here," he says, fingers pressing the end of the bandage to the tender skin on the underside of her arm. Zoya complies without a word, which is uncharacteristic. Her fingertips brush his, and at the jolt of contact, Mando yanks his hand back abruptly, eliminating the connection between them.
Zoya doesn't miss how quickly he pulls away.
As he wraps the cloth securely around her arm, tightly enough that they won't slip right away, Zoya lifts and lowers and twists her arm to help him. While she does this, he notices something on her inner forearm, black numerals with thickly printed stems that stand out against her skin. Mando's movements stall, and Zoya takes notice.
When she realizes what he's staring at, she twists her arm away, turning those strong hazel eyes on him. "What?" she asks tightly.
It's his cue to say nothing and move on, but he doesn't. "Is that your tattoo?" At the way her stare bores into his, Mando shifts in his crouch. "The Jawas were calling you 'Tattoo' when they had you captive," he clarifies, telling her how he'd already known about it.
"Yes." Zoya looks down and, after a beat, carefully turns her forearm so he can see the pattern of numbers. "This is what they gave me after . . . after I was sentenced." She carefully avoids what she'd been about to say: that it was after he turned her in that she was given the tattoo. He notices all the same but just keeps his eyes on the numbers.
073942
It doesn't seem like Zoya can be defined by the short list; she's too bright, too loud, too sarcastic and quick-witted, too foul-mouthed. The tattoo minimizes her spirit, turns her into just a number on a page.
"I'm sorry," the Mandalorian says.
Zoya looks towards the child, reaching for the controls again as silence envelops them with its cool embrace. "It's not your fault," she admits aloud for the first time, voice quiet and timid, as if she's afraid.
"But—"
"It's your job," Zoya interrupts. "I'm an asshole for using that against you."
Without thinking about it, the Mandalorian reaches forward and runs a gloved finger along the bar of the 7. The curve of her neck is illuminated by starlight, and her throat bobs, but she doesn't pull away.
"You're right," he says, dropping his hand to his knee.
Zoya rolls her eyes, brushing off the moment as he does the same. "You were supposed to say that I'm not, dumbass."
"I don't lie."
"Sure."
He finishes tying off the bandage and stands, turning to see the child pressing a button, now standing on the control panel. "You were supposed to be watching him," he directs at Zoya, stepping towards the baby.
"You didn't tell me to," she objects.
He presses a couple buttons, but the little green-skinned creature pokes at something else. "Stop touching things," he commands. It just stares at him, then leans back and pushes a switch. The entire ship rattles, and Mando reaches out to pick him up. "Take him."
"You could ask politely," Zoya mutters, but she stands up anyway, moving forward to take the child from the Mandalorian's outstretched arms.
"It's time to figure out where to go," he says neutrally, all business once more.
Zoya rocks the child. "Well, figure it out."
It sounds like he sighs in annoyance, which brings a muted grin to Zoya's lips. He studies a screen. "Let's see," he muses. "Sorgan." The name is unfamiliar. "Looks like there's no star port, no industrial centers, no population density." Zoya leans over his shoulder to get a look at the diagram he reads. "Real backwater skug hole."
"That's. . . nice."
"We're not looking for nice," Mando says. "This is perfect." He turns a little in the pilot seat and reaches for the child. Zoya hands him over, and the Mandalorian tucks him into the crook of his arm. "Ready to lay low and stretch your legs for a couple of months, you little womp rat? Nobody's gonna find us here."
Zoya frowns and folds her arms across her chest, wincing as the skin on her injured shoulder pulls, watching the child look at him with its luminous round eyes. "You're nicer to him than you are to me."
"I don't call you a womp rat."
"You said I was an asshole."
"After you said it first," Mando points out.
"Asshole is worse than womp rat."
Beneath the helmet, the bounty hunter rolls his eyes. "I can call you a womp rat if you want me to."
Zoya wrinkles her nose at him. "Don't."
"Then I don't know what you're complaining about."
She huffs and marches away from the pilot's chair to settle back into her own seat, crossing her legs. "I hate you."
"I know."
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not as much rlly happened in this chapter and i'm sorry but,,,,,
fluff (ﾉ◕ ◡ ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧