Chapter Text
When did something as tedious as grocery shopping become a luxury?
It was baffling. Every one else in this store probably didn’t think twice about their presence here. Just another weekday for them, another tick off the routine, right alongside getting the kids from school and running the airspeeder through the wash.
You, on the other hand, were ecstatic. You could hardly remember the last time you’d gone to an actual grocery store. Even the lower end ones such as this were expensive, and your budget hadn’t allowed for it in weeks.
You weren’t necessarily bad with your money. In fact, you were extremely frugal with it. And you worked hard for what you had. Living on Coruscant was just so kriffing expensive.
Even in the less glamorous sector where you lived, rent was astronomical. The public Skytram chipped away at your credits every time you wanted to leave your apartment. Food that was halfway recognizable cost a fortune. Sometimes you were shocked they didn’t charge you to breathe in this city.
You looked into moving once. The cost of a chain code transfer alone was enough to make you chuck that idea out the window.
For the past several months, your budget had you scraping by. Rent paid, passage to work secured, belly just full enough, but scraping. So when your paycheck finally came through and you realized you had a bit extra for the first time in weeks, the first place you went was the grocery store.
You were thrilled, but cautious. Your budget didn’t allow for much, and you had to choose carefully.
Vegetables. They were pricey, so only a few found a place in your basket, but they were fresh. A package of dried noodles. Reasonable. Salt. Maker knew when the last time you actually had a full shaker of salt was. Frozen meat. Bantha, nothing fancy. And just one small package of cookies. You deserved it.
Each item was a far, delicious cry from the dirt-cheap street food you’d been surviving on for a month. You only hoped you could make it last. You weren’t sure your digestive system could handle another mystery meat on a stick.
Selections complete, tummy already rumbling, you made your way to the check out. The cashier at the front smiled brightly as you set your items on the gravity belt. Most stores on Coruscant splurged for human employees in favor of droids. Great for the job market. Not so great for the cost of living.
Your handful of merchandise ambled towards her and she began snatching them up to scan one by one.
“How are you today?” She asked as you came up to the register, watching the total tick up with every scan.
“Tired,” you answered.
She grimaced sympathetically. “I hear ya.”
She scanned your salt, then the meat, setting them carefully into a bag on the other side of the counter. The final beep of your cookies rang out and the girl tapped a few buttons on the register display, bringing up your final total in sharp neon numbers.
“157,” she announced.
Yeesh. In budget, but barely.
You pulled out your worn, rust colored credit chip. The same one you’d had since first opening your account, faded into gray at the edges. Even new credit chips were expensive on this planet.
You swiped it. The screen flashed with a spinning wheel, processing. After a few seconds, the cashier grimaced.
“Um, it didn’t take it,” she said quietly. “Wanna try again?”
Your heart fell in panic. There was no way. No way. You just checked your account before coming in here. You shook your head slightly to clear it. It had to be the machine. It had to be. You nodded at her and swiped it again.
Another few seconds of spinning wheel, the heaviest and most heart wrenching of your life. Another hesitant grimaced from the well meaning cashier.
“I’m sorry, it declined again,” she whispered.
You could feel your neck heating with the presence of other customers behind you.
“Do you have another form of payment maybe or…?”
You shook your head with a sigh, shoulders drooping. “No, sorry. Uh…” You glanced at the paper bag on the other side of the counter, stuffed with your precious, now unattainable groceries. “Maybe I can try taking a few things off?”
The cashier nodded sympathetically and reached for the bag.
Just then a deep, unfamiliar voice chimed in behind you.
“I’ve got it.”
You turned around to see a tall, helmeted man in line. He stood relaxed, hands buried in his suit pockets, a single bottle of cold caf on the belt next to him. You recognized his helmet as Mandalorian and your heart kicked up another notch.
“Oh no that’s ok, really. Thank you though,” you said hurriedly, turning back to the now hesitant cashier, who was glancing to the man in question.
The Mandalorian took a sure step forward, setting his caf bottle next to the scanner and pulling a hand from his pocket. “I insist.”
You took a step back as he advanced, if only out of intimidation. He nodded to the cashier and she scanned his bottle, tossing you an apologetic smile, just as surprised and boxed in as you were.
“No, please, I can’t ask you to do this,” you argued, trying to sound firm. But he was already pulling a heavy silver credit chip from his wallet and dragging it through the slider.
“You didn’t ask me to do anything,” he corrected, voice rich through the distortion of his helmet.
You stood in dumbfounded silence as the register chimed happily, transaction complete. The cashier handed him his caf, and he reached for your grocery bag, holding it out to you with a nod of his head.
Eyes wide, you took it slowly, hands numb.
“I…I don’t even know what to say,” you said with a shy, uncertain smile. You looked down into the sack, then back up at him. “Thank you. Very much.”
“Don’t mention it.”
The cashier bid you both a good day and you smiled at her. She was sweet. The Mandalorian walked with you to the door.
“That’s uh, really embarrassing,” you laughed, and he pressed the button for you that sent the glass panes sliding open.
“Don’t worry about it. Happens to all of us,” he assured you.
You tossed him an incredulous look but didn’t voice your suspicion that it certainly never happened to him.
“I can pay you-“
“No.” He cut you off quickly but there was nothing other than kindness in his voice.
Outside the store, you stood amongst a thin crowd, shoppers and commuters bustling through the artificial streets, airspeeds slicing through the air in all directions. You paused in front of him, feeling indebted and grateful and inadequate.
“Surely there must be something I can do,” you tried. It didn’t sit right with you, accepting such a big gesture from a total stranger and doing nothing in return.
The Mandalorian, however, shook his head. “Not a thing.”
You looked down, cheeks reddening as you smiled. “Well…thank you. Again.”
He nodded. You each looked up at each other one last time, then went your separate ways. Him towards his speeder parked across the street, and you towards a waiting public tram.
You had taken half a dozen steps toward the Skytram when you realized your heart was still trying to escape your chest. First humiliation, then fear, and finally being utterly flustered. You’d gone through enough turmoil in five minutes to last you the whole week.
Not to mention everything you thought you knew about Mandalorians had just been turned on its head. You had never seen one before, but everyone in the galaxy seemed under the assumption they were cruel and icy. Knowing no better, you’d assumed the same. But this one had only been gentle, kind, and well mannered. You realized with a prick of guilt that you needed to address your uneducated prejudices.
You stepped up to the platform and swiped your tram card, the doors of the packed cabin sliding open. A Rodian took a half step aside to make room for you, and you squeezed into the mass of bodies, turning to face the glass doors in hopes of making it just a little less claustrophobic.
As you looked up through the window, your eyes landed on a figure across the busy street, leaning up against a black airspeeder. The Mandalorian hadn’t gone far. He was still watching you. The thin black gaze of his visor never wavered, even when you made eye contact and he had to know you saw him.
The last thing you caught was his helmet tilting to follow you as the tram lurched forward, leaving the city in a blur.
~
You were not passionate about formal outerwear.
You were good at it. The fruit of your mother’s labor. I can’t give you much darling, she’d always say, needle in the corner of her mouth, fabric twisting in her deft hands, but I can teach you this. It’s gotten me through life, and I hope it can help you get wherever you want to be.
Where you wanted to be wasn’t a question these days. Only where you needed to be, and at what time.
The answer was usually Crix Suit Shop, 8 am.
It wasn’t the worst job. You’d rather be hemming tuxedos and restocking shelves of off brand bow ties than hustling death sticks on the lower levels. Still, the pay left much to be desired.
You would have made a bigger fuss over it if your boss wasn’t the kindest old man in the galaxy, just trying to get by himself. Crix was not a luxury store, and for its location on the mid-level, it was lucky to still be in business. You knew he paid you the maximum he could truly afford, which happened to be the minimum required by Coruscant law.
As much as the wage pained you, his smiling face each morning nearly made up for it.
“Morning dear!” Your boss, Mr. Kerg, greeted happily on yet another rushed morning.
You huffed out a greeting as you flew through the door, two minutes late. You had decided to walk that morning, after finding out a Skytram auto renewal had been the cause of your embarrassing grocery store mishap last week.
“Hey, sorry I’m late!” You called out, tossing your bag over its hook and doffing your sweater.
“No worries,” he assured you with a wave of his hand. He was at his desk in the back office, the room where stacks of discarded textiles - which would definitely come in handy one day - went to gather mites. You stepped around rolls and piles of fabric as you made your way over to him.
“Did that shipment ever come in?” You asked as you reached his desk, leaning against it.
Kerg nodded, holding up a large box with a smile. “Twenty silk bow ties, crisp and ready to go.”
You took the box and opened it, revealing a multicolored set of ties set in a bed of soft black fabric. They were nice. Off brand, as with everything in the store, but still nice.
“Awesome!” You said with a smile. “I bet these will sell well.”
He nodded his agreement. Then, face uncertain, “Do you mind to set them out for me? Lor called out today…” His voice was hesitant at the mention of your coworker, and you gave him a reassuring smile.
Recently you had moved away from the role of restock-er and cashier, your talent in alterations making you a head tailor of sorts. Only on a team of three, but still. It was nice to be recognized for a skill you worked hard at, even if it came with no tangible perks. You’d never voice it, but you hoped that maybe one day, if business picked up, your specific skill set may just earn you a pay raise.
With your added responsibilities, Kerg had been assigning Lor - who’s sole talents consisted of counting inventory and making a nuisance of himself - the majority of the busy work. But that didn’t mean you weren’t willing to help out on occasion.
“Sure,” you told him. “No problem.”
You took the box and stepped out of the cluttered office into the store’s front showroom. Out here was a sharp contrast to the mess Kerg accumulated out of the public eye. The store was far from chic, the slight discoloration of its metal walls speaking to its age, but it was clean and well organized.
Crix didn’t get much foot traffic. The majority of its revenue came from stable, long time customers. So the tall racks of suit jackets and shelves of accessories went largely untouched, leaving no glaringly ideal place for a set of twenty brand new items. You spent several long minutes examining the shelves that dotted the showroom floor, trying to decide what could be rearranged or even put away.
You finally managed to find a spot on the round three tiered display that stood in the center, housing a few of the shop’s nicer watches and tie pins. After pushing aside a few cufflink boxes, there was a space just big enough for the bowties. You set the box down and lifted the fabric out, carefully laying it on the meticulously clean surface.
You began arranging the ties into neat little rows, humming softly to yourself, when someone spoke from behind you.
“Hello again.”
A tie jolted from your grasp as you jumped, spinning around with a hand to your chest, eyes wide.
The spike of fear subsided as you recognized a Beskar helmet and pair of hands shoved into black suit pockets. You smiled, flustered and surprised.
“Hey, grocery guy!”
Grocery guy? Stupid. Stupid.
The Mandalorian chuckled.
“Funny seeing you again,” you remarked, hoping to keep talking and bury the memory of that idiotic opener.
“Indeed. Sorry for startling you.”
You had forgotten how interesting his voice was. It had caught you off guard on your first meeting and managed to do the same now. The metallic distortion of his helmet’s vocoder did little to hide its rich timbre.
“Oh no worries, you didn’t,” you lied in jest, waving your hand.
He cocked his head. “Looked I did.”
“I always turn around like that.”
He stared at you, dead silent. You waited a tick before breaking into a grin. “I’m kidding. You scared the hell out of me.”
“Ah,” he mumbled, and you could hear your smile reflected in his voice. “Well, apologies.”
You waved another dismissive hand. “Don’t mention it.” Then, changing the subject, “So what brings you to Crix?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his visor settled squarely on your eyes as he looked at you. It felt intense. Very quickly. The sensation made your skin crawl in a way that was not entirely unpleasant, so much so that you forgot to question the delay in his answer. At length, he looked around the store, as if noticing its contents for the first time.
“Looking for a suit, actually.”
You brightened up. This, you could do.
“You’ve certainly come to the right place.” You held your arms out in presentation, gesturing to the many racks surrounding you. “Anything in particular?”
~
Turns out, the Mandalorian was picky.
Which surprised you, for some reason. You had next to no information on the man, each thing you learned about him was brand new, so you had no reason to be surprised. Still, when he turned down a perfectly nice jacket on the grounds of an oddly angled chest pocket, and a pair of pants for a stitch a little too far to the left, you couldn’t help but laugh. Weren’t his people supposed to be hardened warriors, not fashion critics?
“What’s so funny?” He asked, and it was then you realized that laugh had actually slipped from your mouth.
“Nothing,” you said innocently, wide eyed as you replaced the rejected pants on their hangar. “Just…” you shrugged, “I didn’t peg you as the picky type, that’s all.”
He hummed. “And what did you peg me as?”
You looked at him. You wished you could see if he was smiling or not, just giving you a hard time. “I don’t know, uh…” You lip curled nervously. “I guess the type who…isn’t…picky…”
You were just quite the linguist today, huh?
He chuckled, and your body nearly sagged with relief. “I know what I like.”
You nodded. “Of course. Nothing wrong with that. Sorry.”
“No need.”
You were about to apologize for apologizing and earn strike three on your idiot score for the day, when his next words saved you from it.
“Can you do customs?”
Your brows went up. “Uh, ya…ya definitely!”
The shop hadn’t had a custom order in awhile. They meant good money, if someone was actually willing to pay.
The Mandalorian nodded. “Let’s do that then. Probably best…since I’m picky,” he added lightly
You hesitated at his words, eyes stretched, lips open. Then he chuckled again, low and breathy, and you broke into a nervous smile.
“Uh…” You turned, thoroughly flustered with each passing second spent in his company. “If you just wanna, come in here…” you stepped to the side, gesturing to a curtained off room between two tall shelves of folded dress shirts. “I’ll get your measurements and we can talk options.”
The Mandalorian nodded and followed your outstretched hand, stepping behind the curtain. You went to follow him just as Kerg poked his head from the office, calling your name.
“Hey, do you care to help me unload this new box of belts?” He asked.
“Just a second Kerg,” you responded, “With a customer.”
He raised a brow and glanced around the empty showroom. You smiled eagerly and pointed to the curtain, bringing a hand to your mouth as you silently whispered- custom. Kerg’s brows shot up in surprise.
“Ah, well, never mind then.”
He disappeared back into the office. You shook your head with a laugh and followed the Mandalorian into your fitting room.
You were proud of the space, even if it was small. It had become your own office of sorts, the place you measured and cut and crafted the many alterations and occasional custom orders that came your way. Your work table and rack of progress pieces sat near the back, while a mannequin adorned in one of the nicer suits your shop could afford to offer stood in the front.
The Mandalorian was perusing the little sections of fabric samples framed along the wall. He looked up when you entered.
“Ok!” You said brightly, snatching your measuring tape from its hook on the wall and your data pad from the table. “Do you usually get you suits custom?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been fitted before?”
“No.”
You cocked your head and approached him, placing your hands on his broad shoulders to angle him in front of you. “Alright. So I have to measure…” You mentally ran down the list and decided it was much too long to articulate. “Pretty much everything, ok?”
He held his hands up in a helpless, “at your mercy” gesture. You pointed to his current suit jacket, a trim, all black piece who’s quality you could spot a parsec away.
“Can you take this off for me?”
He obliged, slipping it down his arms to fully reveal the thin dress shirt he wore underneath, also black. You took the article from him and hung it carefully on a nearby rack.
“Ok,” you said as you came up behind him, once again placing your hands on his shoulders, “Sit up nice and straight for me please.”
His shoulders rolled back, expanding slightly beneath your touch. His muscles rippled beneath the fabric of his shirt and you swallowed, trying not to notice the sensation on your fingertips. You took your hands off him and stretched the measuring tape across the length of his shoulder blades.
“This suit fits you well,” you remarked, tapping his measurement into the data pad. “You really didn’t get it tailored?”
“Nope,” he assured you. “Off the shelf.”
“Huh.”
Next you aligned the tape below the back of his neck and brought it downward to get his back measurement. It had to go just past his rear, and you found yourself once again trying not to notice his body. This time it was the excellent way his pants accentuated him. You shook your head, tapped another entry on the pad, and stepped around to face him.
“Alright, I need to get your neck,” you said uncertainly, eyeing the way his collar came up to the edge of his helmet. With the gloves he wore, you realized not a single inch of his skin was showing. Was that some sort of Mandalorian requirement?
Without a word, he reached up and undid a few buttons, tugging his collar down to reveal his thick neck. Apparently not.
You reached up and behind to wrap it around him, bringing the ends together just below his Adams apple. Your fingers wanted to tremble but you forced them to stay firm. This was your profession for kriff sake. A man’s shoulders and ass and neck were nothing you hadn’t seen and touched before. Granted, you may not have seen a neck quite so elegantly defined, with such thick cords of muscle beneath smooth, gold skin-
It shouldn’t have taken this long to get the measurement. You blinked and focused, zoning in on the number before quickly removing the tape from his neck. His visor stayed on you as he reached up to replace the buttons.
You measured his arms, biceps, wrists, and stomach. The measuring of his hips you found yourself enjoying a little too much as your fingers found an excuse to casually brush his well shaped behind. You felt like a perv.
Last was his inseam. Easy. You’d measured hundreds, if not thousand of inseams. You were a professional. Easy.
“Ok, one more,” you said coolly as you knelt before him, and stars the action sent your stomach turning. He didn’t really answer, just hummed in acknowledgement and watched you sink to the floor. Watched you, as in you could sense that visor on your face the entire time.
Ok. Tape measure on the hem of his pants. Up. Up.
You’re a professional. This is your job. Don’t look.
Up, up, up-
Don’t look don’t look don’t don’t look-
Failure. Catastrophic failure.
Maker.
His pants were not immodest enough to leave no guesswork. They fit well, but could never be described as tight. Still, it wasn’t all that difficult to piece together-
Get the number. Get the kriffing number and stand up.
Your fingers flew across the data pad and you leapt to your feet.
“Ok, that should be it,” you said, clearing your throat with a casual air. “Do you uh…know what style of fit you’d like?”
His helmet was tilted as he looked at you. “Whatever you think.”
You glanced up at him, surprise across your features. “You don’t have a preference?”
He shrugged.
You chewed your lip thoughtfully and took a step back, examining him. He was tall. Broad, which you already knew from the numbers in your data pad, but it was different to truly see him all together. With his collar buttoned he was once again covered from head to toe, a solid wall of black. You considered his sturdy frame, long legs, and narrow waist.
“I think a slim fit would look good on you,” you finally said.
He nodded. “Sounds good.”
You entered it on your pad. “Colors?”
Another shrug. “You pick.”
You laughed, brow creased in confusion. “I thought you were picky?”
“I can be,” he said, turning to retrieve his coat from the rack and donning it, “but I trust your judgement.”
“That’s a lot of trust to put in someone you just met.”
He turned back around and stepped toward you. Stopped just shy of personal space. Tugged the sleeves of his jacket. “Perhaps. I still trust you.”
You swallowed hard. This faceless man was turning your cheeks pink and it made you angry at yourself.
“O-ok then,” you said quietly, looking back down to your pad and making a few adjustments. “It’ll take about two weeks. I can call you when it’s done.”
“Thank you,” he said with a nod.
Then he was taking another half step toward you, helmet cocked. His voice went down a notch, gentler, when he asked, “What’s your name?”
Oh. Had you really not reached that basis yet? For some reason you felt like you were quickly becoming well acquainted this stranger. You told him your name with a smile.
He hummed and repeated it, the sound warm off his invisible lips.
“And yours?” You asked.
He hesitated, shoulders tensing, which surprised you. He would let you call all the shots on an expensive piece of clothing but seemed unsure about providing the most basic piece of information about himself?
You were about to take it back, apologize for apparently making a severe breach of privacy, but he answered you.
“Din.”
You smiled fondly. It fit him.
“Well Din, thank you. I’ll be in touch with you soon.”
He nodded again and reached into his pocket, producing the thick black wallet you recognized from the great grocery debacle of last week. From it he pulled two hundred credit bills and held them out to you.
“Oh, you don’t have to pay yet,” you assured him quickly, waving your hand. “You don’t have to pay until you get the suit.”
“I know.” He continued to hold the bills out. “This is for you.”
Your face dropped and you looked down at the money, then back to him. “W…what?”
He inclined his head and held the money closer to you. “For your help today. I appreciate it.”
Your eyes slowly narrowed, suspicion and a touch of offense creeping in. “Look uh, if this is about what happened before…I appreciate your concern, but I’m not a charity case. It was just a bad week-“
“No,” he interrupted, taking yet another step into your space. “This has nothing to do with that. Where I come from, if someone does something for you, you owe them it’s worth.” He moved his wrist, once again encouraging you to accept his offering. “And it’s considered very offensive for payment to be rejected,” he added.
Your eyes were still narrow, but now a good humored smile accompanied it. You hesitantly took the money from his grasp. “Well, I think you’re overpaying but…thank you.”
He hummed, satisfied, and slipped his wallet back into his pocket.
The Mandalorian bid you goodbye, repeating your name alongside it, and then he was gone.
Kerg looked up happily when you rejoined him in the office. “Well well, did our mystery customer order?” He asked hopefully. “I caught a peek of him as he was leaving. Looks like he could afford just about anything, what with that pricey bucket of his.”
“He did,” you confirmed, holding up the data pad. You briefly considered correcting his statement, as you were pretty sure Mandalorians didn’t so much buy their helmets as they did earn them. You decided against it, knowing Kerg had little attention capacity for topics beyond textiles and money.
“He gave me a lot of creative freedom too,” you added.
“That’s nice!”
“Sort of…” you said with a shrug. “Kind of a little nerve racking to be honest. He wouldn’t even pick a color. What if he hates what I do?”
Kerg laughed. “He didn’t look like a flashy fellow. Just picking something on the black to gray spectrum and I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
You echoed his laugh, then remembered the two bills sitting heavy in your pocket. Guilt pricked in your conscience as you looked at your boss. You didn’t understand why. He gave the money to you. You were the one who had done the work.
And yet, Kerg’s kind face only reminded you of the countless favors he extended. How he worked so hard to keep jobs for you and Lor.
Din had said it would be offensive to reject his payment. You couldn’t imagine giving it away was any better. But perhaps a compromise would be acceptable. Besides, it wasn’t like he’d ever know…
You pulled the money from your pocket, showing it to Kerg. “He uh…he gave me this. As like a tip, I guess-“ Kerg’s eyes widened at the credits in your hand. “I was thinking I could at least split it with the store…” You held one of the bills out to him.
Kerg immediately raised his palm and shook his head. “No no dear, absolutely not. You did the work. He gave it to you. You keep it.”
“Oh come on,” you insisted. “It’s only fair.”
“No it’s not,” he said firmly, his stern expression leaving zero room for argument. “You’re going to keep that.”
Your shoulders drooped, another good humored smile gracing your lips as you slipped it back into your pocket. “You’re too difficult, old man,” you teased, and Kerg tossed a piece of scrap fabric at you with a laugh.
~
That night, you found yourself thinking constantly about Din.
Warm and cozy in your slightly too small bed, thoughts of faceless Beskar and impressive dimensions plagued your mind. You really had looked a little too long when measuring his inseam, and you prayed he didn’t notice.
You wondered what he looked like under there. Where he got money to toss away at low end tailors. Why he didn’t seem to be like other Mandalorians.
Or maybe he was, for all you really knew about them.
You tried to force your thoughts elsewhere, sensing that yours were headed down a dangerous path. You may have met him under different, slightly embarrassing circumstances, but now he was a customer. He just wanted to buy a suit, and you had a job to do.
It wouldn’t be too bad. You’d see him once more in two weeks when he came to pick up his suit, then never again. Hopefully whatever odd, stirring thoughts were currently clinging to your brain will have dissipated by then.
You repeated the comfort to yourself over and over. Once more in two weeks, never again. Once more in two weeks….never again.
~
You saw him exactly one week later.
Lor poked his head into your fitting room, where you were cutting away at a roll of black silk with your - well, the shop’s - new laser cutter. The nicest piece of equipment Kerg had been able to afford in a long time, and it made your job a million times easier. You looked up when Lor said your name.
“A customer needs your help,” he said.
You frowned at him and gestured to your work. “Uh, can’t you help them? I’m a little busy.”
Lor shook his head. “He asked for you.”
You turned, face scrunched in confusion. “What? Asked for me?”
He nodded. “Yup. Better hurry, he seems grumpy.”
You sighed and turned the cutter off, setting it on your work table. Lor disappeared behind the curtain and you followed him into the showroom.
There, in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets, staring at nothing in particular, stood the Mandalorian. Your brows went up and you put on a smile as you approached him.
“Hello again,” you said lightly, echoing his greeting from the last time you met. Then, biting your lip hesitantly, “I’m afraid it’s not quite ready yet…”
You had told him two weeks, right? Yes, you were sure of it. Did that big metal hat impair his hearing?
“I know,” he said calmly. Almost gently, as though trying to reassure you he wasn’t being impatient. “Just looking for a belt.”
You cocked your head. “A belt?”
“Mhm. Need one that will match the new suit. Since I’m not sure what it’ll look like-“ he gestured to you.
“Ahh,” you said slyly, smile on your lips. “Trying to sneak a spoiler, huh?”
He let out a single breath, the closest thing to a laugh he seemed capable of producing. “Perhaps.”
You chuckled. “Well, far be it from me to deny you.”
You turned and gestured for him to follow. On your way to the belt rack, you noticed Kerg and Lor standing in the door to the office, eyeing you and whispering to each other. You threw them a confused and suspicious glare, then turned your attention back to your customer.
“Soooo, in your size I have…” you began flipping through the belts, metal sliders clinking together as you pushed them aside. “This one,” you plucked one from the rack, “And this one,” you said, picking another. You briefly considered grabbing one of the obnoxious multicolored options just to mess with him, but settled for laughing quietly to yourself at the hypothetical joke.
You turned and held them both up for him to see. One was all black with a hollowed silver square for the buckle. The other was a dull silver, its buckle a bit larger but more delicately framed.
Din cocked his head at them. “Which one do you think?”
You smiled in surprise. The value of your opinion had apparently gone up recently.
“Both will match perfectly,” you said with a wink.
There was no way to know, but you were pretty sure that made him smile.
“You choose,” he insisted.
With a roll of your eyes you turned the belts to examine them yourself. Lips pursed, you scanned the lengths of them, then looked at his waistline.
“Will you try them on?” You asked.
He nodded and held out a gloved hand. You gave him the silver one first. He slipped it through the loops of his pants, his jacket lifting as he reached around to slide it through the back. Your gaze drifted over his newly exposed torso and it was pathetic how little you tried to stop it.
When he was finished, you eyed it critically, trying to imagine the colors of your suit against it, mostly noting the way it fit him. Eyes on the belt. Eyes on the belt. Eyes on the belt.
“Ok,” you said after a minute, “Now this one.”
He slid out of the silver one and put on the black, arms reaching and torso stretching in that same tantalizing motion. Once it was on, you scanned it with narrowed eyes. You stepped closer to him and held up the silver one to compare, bringing it just above his waistline, resisting the urge to tug him closer by his belt loops-
“That’s the one,” you said quickly, nodding to the black.
“Alright then,” he said easily, slipping his thumbs into the new accessory. “Might as well keep it on then.”
You giggled and shrugged in agreement. “Sure. Come over here and I’ll ring you up,” you waved him forward as you headed to the register at the front of the store.
You slipped behind the counter and he stood in front of you, gloved hands resting casually a top the smooth surface. The store’s register was outdated and slow. It took forever to accept your input of the belt’s code, and even longer to generate a total. As it worked, you found yourself unable to keep your eyes downward, constantly glancing up at your armored patron. His own gaze appeared to be set on you, making your face heat.
Finally, the register decided to do its job and displayed his total.
“120,” you told him.
He paid with his credit chip and the machine also took its sweet time to accept the transaction. When it finally did, you looked up with a smile, intending to bid him goodbye and remind him it’d be another week on his suit.
Instead you rolled your eyes when you found him holding another 200 credits out to you.
“You have to quit doing that,” you argued, making no move for the money.
“No I don’t,” he said simply. “And I thought we went over this?”
He paused. Leaned forward. Then, voice strikingly low, “You’re not trying to offend me, are you sweetheart?”
You held onto your easy smile even though your heart lurched. He seemed very much aware of the power his voice held.
With a dramatic sigh and another eye roll for good measure, you took the money. “Of course not sir.”
He hummed, pleased. His visor stayed on you a moment longer. Just long enough for your skin to heat again, not quite long enough for you to acknowledge it.
“Have a good day, sweetheart,” he said in that smooth honey voice. Then he was out the door, gone in a slow blur of black and silver.
By the time the door slammed shut you still hadn’t moved. Your eyes stayed on the last place you had seen him, your blood pumping hot in your veins. Sweetheart. Sweetheart. Twice.
Why weren’t you angry? You were always angry when men took it upon themselves to call you by little pet names. You should be angry.
But you were just very, very hot.
“What the kriff, did you see that?” Lor’s voice cut through your dumbfounded stupor. “He gave her 200 credits!”
You looked up to where the boys were still watching you from the office door. Kerg merely shrugged in response to Lor’s outburst.
“He has every right too. She did help him.”
“That was more than the belt cost!” He crossed his arms and tilted his hips, frowning at you. “Ya’ know, it’s only fair for you to split it with me. I did try to help him first.”
You laughed sharply, raising your credits to wave at him. “Not a chance!”
He scrunched his nose at you. You turned to Kerg.
“But, I will split it with the store, if you’re so inclined boss.”
Kerg once again raised a palm, shaking his head. “Nope. That’s yours hun.”
You shrugged and slipped it into your pocket, knowing it was pointless to argue.
Lor, apparently, was not quite finished. “I’d probably get more tips too if I flirted with customers like that.”
You rounded on him, mouth dropped, immediately wanting to sink your fist into the smug grin on his face. “I was not flirting with him!”
“Were too!” He insisted. “Looking at him all smiley and doe eyed.”
You turned to Kerg. “Kerg, was I flirting with that guy?”
The boss took a step back, eyes big as he glanced between his bickering employees. “Uh…I’m staying out of this one…”
“Kerg!”
“Com’s beeping,” he said quickly, and disappeared into the office.
You glared at his retreating back before turning to Lor. The boy grinned at you and it made your stomach sick.
“Oh just shut up,” you snapped. He barked out a laugh and you stomped away, trying your best to ignore him.
Even as the denials had tumbled from your lips, your aching cheeks spoke the unfortunate truth of Lor’s accusation. You tried to lie to yourself as much as you’d lied to him, but your wandering eyes, flitting to the window in hopes of one last glimpse of Beskar, wouldn’t allow it.
~
Making decisions on the suit wasn’t as difficult as you thought it’d be. Kerg was right, anything from black to gray seemed to fit him perfectly. Still, you didn’t want it to be boring. Everything you’d seen him in so far was solid black. Black suit, dress shirt, gloves, even his shoes. He might hate it, but you decided he could use just a tiny splash of color.
You hung the suit up on your display rack the day he was supposed to pick it up, and right on cue, a million new potential flaws presented themselves. You looked nervously to Kerg and Lor beside you.
“What do you guys think? Think he’ll like it?”
Lor opened his mouth to suck in a huge breath and you instantly regretted involving him in the conversation.
“It’s excellent,” Kerg interjected, throwing Lor a glare. The boy shut his mouth and grumbled. Sometimes he was more like an annoying little brother than a coworker.
You smiled appreciatively at Kerg and reexamined your work for a time you’d lost count of. It looked good, there was no question about that. You were too good at what you did for the quality to be anything less than exceptional. Your only worry was if he would like it.
The pants were solid black, easy enough. The jacket was mostly black aside from a strip of silver adorning the lip of its chest pocket. You’d decided to include a waistcoat, despite not having seen him wear one. It too was black up until the neckline, where you added another splash of silver in a sort of criss crossed cravat that would sit high on his chest.
He said he trusted your judgement, right? It wasn’t too crazy. A touch more formal. A speck of color that happened to match his only constant accessory.
Lor rolled his eyes at Kerg’s praise and turned for the curtain with a dramatic flourish. “It okay I guess, but I’ll be surprised if he actually-“ he stopped short as he pushed it open. “Ah, speak of the Rancor.”
Your head snapped up, eyes wide. “He’s here?”
“Yup!” And he disappeared behind the curtain.
You turned to Kerg with a nervous grin, shifting back and forth on your feet. The older man gave you a smile and a comforting pat on the shoulder before following Lor out of the fitting room. You sucked in a breath, steadied your heart, and pulled back the curtain.
He was standing directly across from you. Hands in his pockets as usual, posture relaxed. Your calming work took flight and you hit him with the biggest, most nerve-filled grin of your life.
“Hello,” you greeted.
“Hello.”
You stepped back, pulling the curtain a little wider in invitation. “Right this way.”
He accepted, stepping forward, and your heart thundered.
“I hope you like it,” you said meekly as you followed him, and instantly felt like a child. “I mean, it’s alright if you don’t, and I can still change anything you want…”
He walked up to the display in the center of the room and you stepped with him to stand beside the results of your hard work. You clasped your hands together and stood light on your toes, looking at him, then turning to the suit, biting your lip hesitantly.
At first, he didn’t say anything. Din stood in front of it like a statue, helmet tilting slowly down and back up. You held onto a heavy breath, blood pounding faster with every second he let drip by.
The silence wasn’t actually that long. But it was too long for your nerves to handle, so you were the first to break it. “If you don’t…uh, I mean if you-“
“It’s perfect.”
Your face dropped in surprise. “What?”
“It’s perfect,” he repeated, taking a step forward the feel the hem of the jacket between his fingers. “I love it.”
The words were so thoroughly unexpected, your brain took a moment to accept them. They bounced emptily around your skull as you stared, eyes blank. It wasn’t until he turned to look at you that they finally managed to cling onto your comprehension.
“Really?” Your voice spiked on the last syllable and your cheeks flushed, embarrassed. You cleared your throat and tried again. “I mean, g-good, I’m glad.”
Your nervous smile returned and you hated it but couldn’t help it. He liked the suit. Loved it, even.
“Would you like to try it on?”
He shook his head, much to your disappointment. You would have liked to see him in your handiwork before he most likely disappeared forever. Which was fine, of course. Most customers did that.
He was just…quite nice to look at.
“As I said, I trust your judgement,” he said, warmth in his voice. And your grin fluttered from nervous to genuine.
You bagged up his suit for him, careful to lay it flat and pull the zipper away from the delicate fabric as you pulled it closed. He followed you to the register, where you once again found your eyes flitting up every so often as you rang up his total.
“2,345,” you announced. The price of your own wares made you cringe. It was nearly as much as your rent.
He slipped that familiar silver credit chip through the scanner without a moment’s thought. The store’s ancient register worked hard and slow at processing the transaction, green buffer spinning and processors whirring. It pinged, and you looked up at him with a professional smile.
“It was a pleasure working with you.” You held out your hand. “We hope to see you again soon.”
He accepted your outstretched hand with a hum. “We?”
The single word held an unusual lilt in its tone, something inquisitive and suggestive. Your stomach flipped. You cleared your throat.
“Yes we…I, hope to…see you again.” He was still holding onto your hand, not shaking it.
“Here,” you added needlessly, nodding your head to the store as though it needed clarification.
“Hmm…” His voice was deep and rumbling as he finally pulled his hand from yours, leaving your skin cold.
Cold except for the very center of your palm, where you noticed a foreign object left behind. At first you thought it was more credits, and you decided you weren’t going to put up much of a fight this time. He could obviously afford it, and if he enjoyed tossing his money around, more power to him. You could certainly use it.
But as you turned the mystery item around, you realized it wasn’t credits. It was a small white card, with a number etched across the front in black. A com number.
You looked up with furrowed brows. “Oh, we have your number on file,” you told him. You weren’t sure why he felt the need to provide it now, at the end of your transaction.
He shook his head softly. “No, your store has my public number,” he corrected. Then, nodding to the card in your hand, “That is my private number. For you.”
Your heart immediately twisted itself into a knot. Your brain performed a thorough systematic shutdown, rendering tongue and face and hands useless, leaving barely enough power to keep your legs upright beneath you.
Private number. Private number. For you.
Was he…he was…
You gripped the card on either side with both hands, looking down at it, then back at him. Your brain tried untying your heart enough to allow for speech, but failed. Tried for a smile. Failed.
Rather than wait for an answer, the Mandalorian simply tilted his chin up at you. “Have a good day, sweetheart.”
And with that he was gone, new suit slung over his shoulder, leaving you floundering and helpless in his wake.