SIXTEEN.
bloodstained hands and an iron will!
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Carrying one of the Mandalorian's cases of blasters and rifles is harder than Zoya had expected it to be. She grunts, trying to heft it higher, but her arms won't bend; the weapons weigh it down. As she approaches the small group gathered by a swath of reeds, she overhears Mando ask the farmers if anyone knows how to shoot.
Only one person raises their hand: Omera.
Curiosity plucks at her ribs, but Zoya ignores it for the time being, lugging the case past him with a pointed grunt. Noticing her struggle, Mando takes a few quick steps to catch up with her, taking the handle from her gently.
"Don't hurt yourself," he says.
"What the hell do you have in there?" Zoya asks, ignoring him mostly because she doesn't know whether he's being sarcastic or actually concerned for her well-being—and she doesn't know which she'd prefer. "Fucking boulders?"
He actually laughs at that, sending a burst of warmth exploding in Zoya's chest. She has to fight to quell her smile, wondering when she became such a gentle, happy softie. "Ammunition. Rifles. They weigh a lot."
"You're telling me."
Beneath the helmet, he smirks as he sets the case down upon one of the makeshift tables constructed near the group. Some of the other villagers had helped bring over the other cases from the barn, and they lay them out around in the same area. He flips open the clasps, hyper-aware of Zoya approaching behind him, peering over his shoulder to look at all the weapons inside, and lifts the lid up, revealing three blasters and a few rifles.
"How many guns does one bounty hunter need?" Zoya mutters.
"Enough to bring a goddamned planet down," Mando replies, and she can't decide whether he's serious or not.
He begins to pull the rifles and shorter blasters out of the cases, passing them off to both Cara Dune and the villagers observing. One particularly heavy rifle he passes to Omera, who takes it confidently with no hesitation. Zoya observes the way she handles the weapon with pure ease, and she wonders where and how she'd gotten her experience.
Zoya begins to reach for one of the smaller blasters, not wanting to embarrass herself by attempting to shoot one of the heftier guns in front of all the villagers, but Mando's gloved fingers touch her wrist, halting her mid-movement.
"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.
"Move forward, but only slightly," he says lowly through the helmet. A rippling chill runs down the ridges of Zoya's spine, elicited by both the husky, rough tone his voice takes on while he speaks and the closeness of his body behind hers, fingers touching the curves of her figure in a way that takes her mind down a treacherous path. "You want to be ready for the recoil." She nods, leaning back into him slightly. He senses the movement and digs his fingers unintentionally into her hips. "Like that."
Then, all too soon, he's pulling away.
"Perfect," Mando tells her, throat tight. "I'm gonna . . . go. Go check—go help the others." Before he can embarrass himself further, he pivots on his heel and strides more confidently than he feels towards the group of villagers trying to figure out the other blasters and weapons of his with Cara's help.
Zoya watches him go, feeling the ghost of his touch linger upon her body with burning, searching fingers. "Fuck," she mutters. "I need to get a grip."
Organization comes an hour into the training. Cara takes a line of villagers working with spears, teaching them how to thrust the sharp end forward properly and directly. The Mandalorian presides over another group, shooting at targets—which are merely pots and pans hung from a long stick. Some of the shots ricochet off the metal, and others glance into the grass backdrop or simply spiral straight into the ground.
Zoya stands with them, practicing her hold and stance with the long, heavy rifle that she still isn't used to, even after lugging it around for so long. She's squeezed off a few shots, missing all but one, and she isn't getting any better.
Gritting her teeth, she tosses a glance down the line, hoping that the Mandalorian isn't paying attention to how absolutely shit she is with his gun. She catches how he comes up behind Omera, observing carefully. The widow, with perfect form, shoots at the furthest pot, too many times to count. Every bolt lands with a loud, metallic sound.
When Zoya sees the appreciative arc of the Mandalorian's body language as he watches Omera shoot, she clenches her hands tighter around the rifle and lifts it sharply to her shoulder, aiming carefully, not letting the weight of the muzzle affect her this time. After a beat, Zoya fires four rapid shots bang, bang, bang, bang, into the target. Though they don't all strike dead center, each one hits the pot she'd been aiming at, and satisfaction floods through her.
The Mandalorian's eyes fly to her, at the sudden outburst in the quiet lull after Omera's shots, but she's already turning away from the targets.
Zoya hands the rifle off to a villager observing the line of marksmen in the making and moves off, trying to find a task further away to help with. As she walks, she curses herself, because what else is this roiling, burning feeling in her stomach if not evil, green-eyed jealousy? Zoya digs her nails into her palms, reprimanding herself for being envious of a woman who is probably one of the kindest people on her planet, perhaps even the entire fucking galaxy.
Her thoughts go to Mando, the man she'd once wanted to harm. Now, she can't see him without feeling something tug at the corners of her mouth and the vessels winding within her darkened heart, something as soft and gentle as butterfly's wings with all the fervor and reckless abandon of a tidal wave crashing into a sandy beach.
An ache begins in her arms from holding the heavy weapon up for so long, but she joins the villagers in digging nonetheless, deepening the trenches until they're big enough to stop an AT-ST in its tracks. Before long, the sun begins to fall from the sky, a breath of distant hope and light, smothered by the blackness of midnight crawling up from the horizon.
Sitting in the soft, waving grass, Zoya stretches her arms above her head, then behind her, wincing at the soreness in her muscles. She leans back against one of the huts, eyes falling upon the barn where Mando is. Omera is with him, and while she cannot make out what they're saying, something about the closeness with which the widow and the bounty hunter stand reignites the fuse of jealousy that had burned out during her exhausting labor with the farmers, and its sparks fizzle into her chest.
She takes a swig of cool water from the wooden cup at her side, trying to quench both her thirst and the angry scorch at her sternum. Cara approaches the barn while she watches, and soon her and Mando are walking Zoya's way, and she knows it's time for the real fight to begin. As she gets off the ground, she glances over at the farmers getting ready. She hopes they've learned enough to withstand what the enemy will hail down upon them.
"Zoya," Cara calls as they come closer. "We're heading out."
She nods. "I figured." Although she tries to keep her eyes from falling on the Mandalorian, she cannot help it. "Be careful, okay?" she says, quieter this time, locking her gaze onto the black visor.
A dip of his helmet is all the answer he provides. Cara glances between them and subtly steps away, pretending to check her blaster whilst waiting for him to join her.
The Mandalorian looks at Zoya, the woman who has stood by his side, the woman he doesn't want to admit to himself he cares for. He moves closer until he's standing right above her, looking down into her hazel eyes, so wide and more emerald green than russet brown beneath the hues of the forest surrounding the village.
His hand rises to her cheek, pressing against her defined, angry jawline, which turns soft beneath his touch. Before Mando can tell himself to walk away, his thumb brushes against her lower lip, carefully tracing the full curve he's been studying for days. A shaky breath shudders out of Zoya, and she lifts her own hand, catching onto his wrist. He expects her to pull him away, but she doesn't. Then, in a movement so fast that the Mandalorian isn't sure if he imagines it or not, Zoya presses her mouth into his palm quickly, turning her head into his touch.
It's over before he has a chance to react.
"Prepare for the battle," he says quietly, voice smoky and deep, and his fingers drop from her face.
Her teeth catch at her lip, and she nods. "We'll be ready."
The Mandalorian moves past her without another word, catching up to Cara. Slowly, Zoya turns to watch them disappear into the forest, crossing her arms over her ribs, feeling the wildness of her heartbeat.
"Come back," she whispers.
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While they're gone, the villagers and Zoya get into position, standing protected at the barricades they'd built behind the pits. The kids are safely hidden away in the furthest hut from where the fighting will be taking place, the child nestled in with them. Before grabbing herself a weapon and getting into position, Zoya had checked on them, making sure they were hunkered down and ready to wait. The child had gurgled happily upon seeing her, and she'd taken a minute to hold him and relax.
It hadn't been long before she'd run back out, selecting a rifle from the Mandalorian's weapons, and settled in beside Omera at the blockades, midnight's blackened shadows falling down upon their shoulders and draping themselves across the ground, concealing the line of farmers from the enemies.
"You ready?" the widow asks, holding a rifle of her own.
Zoya nods. "I think so. You?"
"Yeah."
Her mind goes back to Mando's hand on her jaw, and how she'd started remembering the prison guards and what they'd done to her. But it had been Mando, not them, and he'd touched her so carefully, so softly, as if she was made of glass and could shatter into a million glimmering, luminous fragments if he moved the wrong way.
"He'll make it back," Omera says, misinterpreting the way her brows knit, "both of them will."
"I know," Zoya says. "I know. They're both strong."
Omera looks at her for a moment, considering. "You two are good together."
Zoya's eyes flick to the other woman. "What do you mean?"
"You and Mando."
"Oh."
The widow adjusts the barrel of her rifle where it rests upon the barricade's edge. "He cares for you a lot." The breeze blows a cool breath upon the back of Zoya's neck.
"I—um. I don't know about that," she mutters, shaking her head.
Omera watches her. "No? I've seen the way he cares for you and that child. You're family to him. You know that, right?"
Zoya's lips part a hairsbreadth as she tries to reply, but nothing comes out. At that moment, Cara and the Mandalorian appear from the tree line through the thick layer of unearthly fog, sprinting towards them between the water-filled trenches. Zoya hefts her weapon and sets it against her shoulder in the way Mando showed her, scanning the pines behind them for a glimpse of the enemy, but the haze of thick gray is too thick: nothing's visible. Yet.
"Get ready," Zoya calls lowly as they reach the barricade, sliding underneath in one quick, continuous movement.
"This is it!" Cara yells. "Once that thing steps into the pond, it's goin' down!"
The farmers tense, blasters clicking. Mando crouches beside Zoya, staring towards the pines as they begin to creak and groan, marking the AT-ST's approach. "How'd it go?" she says to him.
"Fine," he replies. Both pretend like the moment they'd shared before he left with Cara hadn't happened. "That fucking thing is huge."
"I would expect so," she says.
Crashes emanate from the forest, growing closer.
"Weapons ready!" Cara barks.
Almost in unison, the people raise their blasters and rifles, aiming towards the booming sounds. Two red, glowing lights appear behind the frontmost line of trees, sending a chill down Zoya's spine.
"Let's fucking go." She grits her teeth.
Another beat later, and the enormous AT-ST appears, sending pines plummeting to the ground before it, thick trunks snapping in two with cacophonous, splintering cracks. It moves forward, but the jumble of people behind the barricades remains quiet, holding their breath as it lessens the distance between its feet and the trenches.
"Just a few more steps," Mando says lowly, glancing at Zoya.
With a creak of metal, the AT-ST begins to take another step forward, the step that will land it in the water. Then its flat foot pauses in midair, joints screeching to a halt. It wavers, then pulls back, stopping just in front of the trench. Zoya curses explicitly, hands tightening on the grip of the rifle.
"It stopped," Cara hisses.
There's a pause where nothing can be heard except the metal of the giant weapon breathing as it moves. "Mando—" Zoya begins to say under her breath, but then the AT-ST projects a bright beam of light forward, illuminating the barrier, and she shuts up promptly.
"Get down! Get down!" the Mandalorian snaps, and everyone drops out of view, pressing themselves low. The bounty hunter keeps his rifle aimed at the AT-ST as it scans the village slowly with its blazing spotlight, coming to a halt on the far end of the barricade. "Fuck," Mando breathes. "Fuck."
"What?" Zoya whispers. "What is it?"
Then the AT-ST fires.
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tell me y these are so accurate