FOURTEEN.
jealousy's grip!
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Zoya and the Mandalorian are directed towards the village's barn. As they walk, the child tottering along at their heels, boxes of belongings in hand, a quiet, star-filled serenity blankets them, emanating from the peacefulness of the village and its inhabitants. Behind the two, the child stares up at them with dark eyes, taking in every glance one directs toward the other when they aren't looking, every accidental graze of their arms. The air smells of fresh pines and clear water, and every time Zoya inhales, she does so deeply, filling her lungs with as much of the clean, forest breeze as she can.
Mando glances down at her with a warm, gentle smile spreading across his petal-soft lips. The expression is so quietly beautiful as it pulls across his features that it's a shame the helmet conceals it. "You like it here?"
Her eyelids flutter closed as they continue to walk forward, and she spins in a circle. "Yes. I love it. I love it so fucking much. The trees. The ponds. The grass. No sand anywhere in sight. It's like heaven."
With her eyes still shut, Zoya trips over a branch laying across the path, engraved with carvings that were perhaps done by one of the young kids living in the village. She lets out a shrill yelp as she nearly plummets to the ground, but before she can fall on her face, Mando drops his box to the grass with a crash to swiftly reach out and catch her.
Her box tumbles out of her hands as his arms close around her waist, yanking her back to her feet using too much of his strength—so much that she bangs right into his chest, hands catching onto his shoulders, fingers hooking onto the edges of the metal. Mando's own gloved hands fall as if by instinct onto the small of Zoya's back, steadying her against him. For a moment, both are too flustered to move. Then she catches her reflection in the onyx sheen on a slice of his helmet, seeing how windblown and fluttery she looks.
"Um," Zoya stutters, sounding breathless, taking a step out of the enclosure of his strong arms, "sorry."
To avoid looking at him, she turns and crouches to pick up the box. Mando does the same, muttering back a response that Zoya doesn't catch as a burn ripples across her face, spreading down her neck. She wants to believe it's embarrassment at nearly falling, but there's a twinge at the back of her mind that tells her that isn't the case.
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They reach the hut a couple short, quiet minutes after that. A woman is inside preparing it for their arrival, opening the windows to let some light tumble across the floor, tying the string attached to the blinds around a supportive beam stuck into the ground. When they reach the door, lingering awkwardly, she notices them.
"Please, come in." She steps aside to make room for the two.
Zoya's not one to miss anything: not the lingering way the woman's eyes remain on the Mandalorian or the way her hands nearly fumble in her work or the pang of something green eyed and sinister that burrows itself deep into her stomach. She steps further inside, angling herself between the woman and Mando as if on accident.
The woman blinks, then says kindly, "I hope this is comfortable for you. Sorry that all we have is the barn."
Mando doesn't turn around from where he stands at the cot. "This will do fine."
As the woman hesitates, Zoya steps forward, holding out a hand, forcing the corners of her mouth to turn up instead of pull into a frown. "Thank you." The woman takes her hand, and she adds, "I'm Zoya."
"Omera." She smiles carefully as they shake once. "I stacked some blankets over here," she says, gesturing to a corner of the barn.
Mando unslings the rifle from where it had been hung on his back. "Thank you. That's . . . very kind." The words stick in his throat, as if he's hesitant to say them, but Omera doesn't catch it, merely nodding in response.
Zoya approaches Mando's side, one hand grazing against the broad plane of his back as she stops beside him. "You okay?" she asks quietly.
He glances down at her through the visor of his helmet, eyes searching her features, which are twisted into something that looks like worry. Brushing it off, as the brave, beautiful, self-assured Zoya has no reason to be concerned for him, Mando nods. "Fine."
Her hand drops from the curve of his back. "Okay." She places the box of things they'd brought from the Razor Crest onto the pallet, suddenly realizing that there's only one for the two of them, and that that's going to be a problem. "O—" she begins, but a sudden noise coming from behind them has Mando pivoting with a viper's swiftness and corralling her behind him with one arm as his other hand falls upon the hilt of his blaster. The lethal speed with which he moves reminds her of just how dangerous the Mandalorian really is.
Zoya jumps, hands latching onto his forearm as she stares at what had startled him. It's merely a small girl, eyes now widened with fear as she darts back behind the wall. Omera moves forward, long, dark hair swinging, and pulls the child back into view. The young girl wraps her arms around Omera and tucks her face into the woman's chest.
"This is my daughter, Winta," she says. "We don't get a lot of visitors around here." She brushes a hand across the back of the girl's head. "She's not used to strangers." Omera dips her chin to look at her daughter as Mando drops his arm from where it bars across Zoya's torso. "This man is going to help protect us from the bad ones."
Winta looks towards the Mandalorian and Zoya with big eyes and mumbles, "Thank you."
Mando acknowledges the sentiment with a barely perceptible dip of his head, hand falling from the blaster's hilt.
"Come on, Winta," Omera says. "Let's give our guests some room." She takes her daughters hand as they walk out, throwing one last look at Mando, still standing in front of Zoya, almost protectively.
"Didn't realize I'd ever see you so rattled by a little girl," Zoya jests, to throw a crack into the tension still radiating from his body.
He turns, and Zoya realizes with a sharp inhale how close he'd gotten to her in his blur of movement. She has to tilt her head back to lock her eyes onto his helmet as he tips his head down a fraction. "Just being careful."
"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.
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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?"
"Because you're still here."
Her eyes flick across the black of his visor. "It was either you or death, so . . . I didn't really have an option."
The Mandalorian snorts, and a flicker of triumph sparks through Zoya. "At least I'm preferable to death."
Disregarding her fear of coming across too strong and chancing the possibility of his antipathy, Zoya says, "I think you're preferable over most—"
A knock at the door abruptly interrupts whatever she had been about to tell him. The child stands up curiously, hooking its tiny fingers around the rails of the crib. Mando hesitates, almost wanting to yell at whoever it is to go away, just so he can hear what Zoya was going to tell him. Something about the way her voice had changed and softened as she'd begun had set off a barrage of crimson-hued alerts within his mind.
"Come in," he calls instead.
Zoya takes a step away from him as Omera returns holding a platter, her daughter Winta at her heels. She places the food down near the window, then her and Winta look down at the child with warm eyes. After a beat, the young girl glances up at Mando.
"Can I feed him?" she asks tentatively.
Mando glances at Zoya, and when she nods, he says, "Sure."
Winta moves towards the child with a soft smile on her face, kneeling beside the crib. She holds out a little nut towards him. "Are you hungry?" Her giggle tinkles through the room as the child takes it from her fingers, crunching it between his teeth. "Can I play with him?" Winta says, hopeful and bright-eyed.
One of Zoya's shoulders lifts as Mando checks with her again, and he sighs reluctantly, moving towards the crib. "Sure." He lifts the child and places him on the ground.
"Come on!" Winta exclaims, darting off. The child gurgles, beginning to follow her, setting off alarm bells in Zoya's head.
Before she can move, the Mandalorian jumps forward. "I don't think—"
Omera stops him. "They'll be fine."
"I don't—"
"They'll be fine," she repeats, giving him a gentle smile.
Zoya moves forward. "Is there going to be anyone watching them?" Her brows knit. "I don't want him to get—"
"There's people everywhere," Omera replies. "Don't worry."
"Right," Zoya mutters, not mentioning that it's hard not to worry when the whole reason they're there is because of an attack on this village that didn't happen too long ago.
Turning her eyes back to Mando, like iron to a magnet, Omera moves towards where she'd set down the tray of food when they'd arrived. "I brought you some food," she says to him. "I noticed you didn't eat out there." Zoya nearly bristles without meaning to, wanting to say something that would sound pettier than she thinks she feels. I noticed, too. You're not the only one. "I'll leave it here for when I go."
"That's very thoughtful of you." The Mandalorian says it softly, and Zoya bites the inside of her cheek.
"Do you mind if I ask you something?" Omera steps towards him after he turns away, and Zoya pivots to face the child's empty cradle, pretending to fiddle with the blankets piled there for something to do. Discomfort wraps brittle fingers around her body, squeezing her muscles into stillness.
"Go ahead," Mando says.
"How long has it been since you've taken that off?" It's clear what she's talking about.
"Yesterday." He fiddles with the pronged tip of the Amban rifle as Zoya wracks her brain, trying to guess when he might've done it.
"I mean, in front of someone else."
Zoya stills. While she'd once jested with the bounty hunter about taking off the helmet for a moment so she could see his face, it had been in the midst of her anger and overwhelming frustration at being caught, and she'd regretted it later on, knowing it was a part of his people's culture. Though she is curious about what the Mandalorian's answer will be, unprovoked irritation at the unassuming woman for asking the question still spills across her shoulders. It's uncalled for, but she feels it nonetheless.
Mando turns and steps to the window, where children play in the dirt, tumbling around and laughing, full of happiness so palpable that it seems to radiate from them. "I wasn't much older than they are," he says, gesturing towards them.
Omera looks at him with wide eyes. "You haven't shown your face to anyone since you were a kid?"
"No. I was happy that they took me in. My parents were killed, and the Mandalorians took care of me."
Zoya looks around in time to see the woman's gaze flicker across the surface of his helmet. "I'm sorry," Omera tells him quietly.
"This is the Way."
The woman looks at him for a beat, and when she finally speaks again, a thread of tension uncoils in Zoya's body. "Let us know if there's anything you need."
"Thank you," he says.
With a final nod, Omera leaves the barn, long hair swinging across her back. As she departs, Zoya realizes her fingernails are digging into her palms, and she relaxes her hands, leaving crescent moon-shaped cavities in her skin. There's a thick silence between them, heavy enough that she's afraid to break it.
Making a decision, Zoya inches forward towards him, catching his gaze. "I didn't know about your parents."
The Mandalorian moves fully to face her, the wide set of his shoulders outlined against the dying sky. "I didn't tell you."
Her brows knit. "I don't know what to say," she mutters. "I've always been shit at being there for people." The only thing she can think of is I'm sorry, but it doesn't seem like enough, especially not now.
"You don't have to say anything."
Zoya's jaw clicks as she feels a tug in her chest. She shifts forward onto the tips of her toes, taking the tiniest of steps forward, then she rocks back onto her heels, unsure. Her hands come together in front of the apex of her ribs, fingers lacing together uncertainly. The Mandalorian remains utterly still, watching her quietly, as if they're in a standoff, waiting for the other to make the first move.
And—finally—she does.
Without another thought towards what if it turns him away or what if he doesn't react or any of the other what ifs running on an unrelenting film reel through her brain, eliciting insecurities and self-consciousnesses that she pushes aside, Zoya lurches towards him, stumbling forward across the barn floor as her boots catch at the floorboards.
"Z—" he begins, but he can't finish.
She reaches him and lifts herself up on her toes in a continuous movement, wrapping her arms around his neck. It's sudden and abrupt, and Mando doesn't know how to react, so at first, he doesn't, taking a step back from her momentum to steady both of them. It's been so long since someone's embraced him in this way that it takes him a second to recover, but when he does, he pulls an arm around her waist and the other across the middle of her back, lowering his head into the crook of her neck and shoulder, the visor of his helmet brushing the fabric of her shirt.
And there, in her arms, his soul breathes.
When Zoya feels him relax into her, body leaning down to arch around hers, she tightens her grip, letting out a fluttery breath as his fingers curl into her shirt. There's something about being within the Mandalorian's arms that radiates safety and hope and everything Zoya's always thought was just out of reach. Within the walls he builds around her body, the future seems to be warmer, brighter, and not as engulfed in shadow as she'd believed.
But all too soon, she's forcing herself to drop back down, and his arms are falling away, and a thin barricade of cool air cascades back in between them.
"Zoya, I . . ." The swell of emotion that had risen in his chest when she'd touched him causes his voice to crack, and he wishes he could remove the helmet, if only to dash away the singular tear clinging to his eyelashes, coerced by the painful memories rising in his mind.
When it becomes clear to her that he won't continue his sentence, Zoya draws back further, throat bobbing as she swallows. "I should go," she says quietly. "To let you eat." His chin dips towards his chest, wishing that he could hold her once more. "I'm going to go see if Omera has any extra clothes that I can wear. Having only one sleeve is getting annoying." She forces a smile as she waves her bare arm around, trying to lighten the mood.
"Okay," Mando says.
She turns to go.
"Zoya."
Her feet waver, and she looks back. "Mando?"
"Thank you."
The corner of her mouth raises. "You don't have to thank me." And with that, before he has time to reply, she's gone.
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i already said this on my message board but thank u all for 10k! it means so much 🖤