Chapter Text
You’re not sure how you ended up in this position, currently taking care of a massive Mandalorian who had somehow been injured in some sort of intense scuffle.
You find it difficult to believe that anyone in the galaxy could get the upper hand on the intimidating warrior that absolutely towers over you in the quaint room, but the blood that seeps through the thick material covering his side and the sticky sheen of it on the black leather covering his palm is proof enough that someone had managed to do quite the number on him. You're uncertain of the severity of the situation, the Mandalorian only answering your meek questions with quiet grunts and irritated sighs, and you eventually give up when you realize you're not going to get much information out of him.
At least he had enough sense to apply pressure to the wound before seeking out medical help.
You’ve never seen a Mandalorian before, but you've heard tales of vicious warriors made of metal that live underground and take whatever they desire without much regard for others, not caring if they have to inflict harm on innocent people to get what they wanted in return. You never knew what to think of the stories your father would tell you when you were little, but the whispered rumors you would hear from patients about the Beskar-clad hunters who would occasionally appear in the village one at a time always seemed to coincide with the stories you were told.
A part of you almost didn't believe they existed, or at least not under this village like so many people insisted, but now it's impossible to believe otherwise.
Especially with one standing just a couple feet away from you.
Judging by the way this Mandalorian had stormed into the tiny infirmary, angrily demanding that you be the only one to tend to his wounds, you’re certain the rumors of them being cruel must be true and you had accepted immediately, not wanting to be on the receiving end of the warrior’s wrath should you deny him. He hadn’t even asked where your office was, merely stalking past you after you had scrambled to get up from the front desk where you had been working on the reports you had been asked to work on and file.
Despite all of your years of working at this rundown infirmary, you now find it nearly impossible to keep your composure and you have to smooth your palms over the skirt of your dress in an attempt to wipe the clamminess away from your skin, reminding yourself that you're useless if you can't even stop your hands from shaking while patching up the irascible Mandalorian.
You watch in awkward silence as he slowly detaches his massive weapon and jetpack from his back, the blue warrior breathing a little harshly and grunting whenever he moves in a way that must painfully pull at his wounds and cause him discomfort. You step forward and raise a hand to help the stranger when sympathy fills your heart and leaves you with a dull ache in your chest, but his helmet whips in a threatening manner to where you’re standing and you immediately back up, concern quickly turning into slight irritation because of how stubborn he’s already being before you've even gotten a good look at his wounds. After a few painfully quiet moments, the Mandalorian finally props his equipment up against the stiff cot in the center of the room and begins to remove his scuffed cuirass, though it proves to be a harder task for him.
“W-Would you like some help, Mandalorian?” Your question comes in the form of a meek murmur and he immediately freezes upon hearing your voice, his intimidating visor now staring at you dead on, and you finally muster the courage to raise your chin when you remember you have a job to do, “It just seems like you’re in quite a bit of pain. I don’t mind helping, really—that's what I'm here for.”
His black gloves promptly fall to his thighs and you watch with disdain as a few droplets of blood drip onto the white tile, though you take the defeated gesture as a sign that he’s willing to let you help him.
You remain as composed as possible as you approach the huge warrior and nervously reach up to undo one of the latches that rests above his collarbone before repeating the action with the other one, though you find it’s broken and slightly trickier to unlatch. Deciding it’s not a good idea to mention his shoddy armor, you remain silent as you stand on the tips of your toes to remove the heavy piece of durasteel, reaching around him to catch the back piece before it can fall and hit the ground.
Stars, you don't know much about the armor they wear at all, but you had assumed it would be far more lightweight than this.
His helmet cocks to the side upon hearing the small huff you let out, unprepared for how heavy the piece of durasteel is in your tight grasp as you carefully set it on your small desk next to a few pots filled with your favorite flowers that you've miraculously managed to keep alive for so long, despite how dry the weather has been as of lately. The pretty violets seem to serve as the only splash of color in your typically bleak life, and your lips barely tug upwards into a smile when you see how well they seem to be flourishing under your care, a reminder that your purpose on this planet isn't completely useless and all for nothing.
"You can lay down on the cot," You gesture to the dinky piece of furniture with a small nod, pretending as though you aren't amused by how awkward he appears as reluctantly lowers himself onto the stiff surface, his pauldrons nearly grazing the lip of his helmet as he tenses and dutifully scans the room. It's almost as though he's searching for any threats, though his unforgiving gaze eventually lands on you as you pull up a small chair next to the cot and you wonder what it is he sees as he continues to stare at you.
You can only pray that he doesn't sense your nerves or the shakiness in your voice as you finally risk a cursory glance at his visor, "Your utility belt and clothing needs to be out of the way so I can properly tend to your wounds, is that okay?"
Immediately, he freezes and you nearly shift away from him when you see his leather-clad fingers curl into tight fists, though he eventually relents with a sharp nod and a grunt as he gets to work on unbuckling his belt. The Mandalorian almost appears like a dejected child who's been told he can't have sweets as he unsheathes several weapons that you hadn't even realized were tucked into his belt this whole time, your eyes wide as he reaches past your shoulder to set several unfamiliar devices on your desk next to his cuirass and your vibrant flowers.
The irony of seeing weapons that can cause so much destruction next to something as fragile as your little violets isn't lost upon you, and a shaky sigh escapes you as you turn back to the warrior with a small grimace, "I typically ask my patients to leave all of their weapons in the lobby—it's one of my more important rules."
His helmet cocks to the side and you suddenly can't tell whether he's tense because he is without a good amount of his equipment, or because he's simply not used to baring himself to others. You've dealt with all kinds of gruesome injuries on areas of the body that patients have been embarrassed by, none of it ever really bothering you, but it suddenly feels as though you're committing some act of sacrilege when you see a small patch of dark skin under the chin of his helmet after he's lifted up his black tunic enough to unzip the flight suit he wears underneath.
"You didn't mention that before."
"Most people cause a scene and give me a difficult time when I tell them," You continue to stare down at your hands, only stepping in to help when you hear him let out a pained huff, and you're somewhat surprised when he simply gives in and lets you finish unzipping the suit down to his navel, "Besides, with how many weapons I didn't even realize you were carrying, you probably would have bled out by the time you disarmed all of them."
He hums in response, only seeming somewhat amused by what was supposed to be a joke, though a part of you thinks it's more truthful than anything else.
There's certain parts of his torso that are more muscular than others, the skin around his belly surprisingly soft, rather than taut, and you realize he must carry most of his strength in his arms and shoulders from constantly lugging around his heavy equipment. Even with two dangerously deep knife wounds and intense bruising on his side, it makes him no less formidable and you’re certain he can still inflict a good amount of pain should anyone cross him, even in such a compromised position. Keeping that in mind, you make sure to keep your touch light along his bare, hot skin, realizing how uncomfortable and on edge he must feel to be displaying this much of himself to a stranger when he's most likely spent the majority of his life covered up and shielded from wandering, curious eyes.
You pretend not to notice the smattering of thick scars all along his chest and the couple that are stretched along his stomach and sides, some of the marks appearing as though they had once been grave and perhaps improperly tended to with a cauterizer, and you briefly wonder what kind of weapon is capable of penetrating Beskar.
‘He is your patient,’ You remind yourself when you realize he's caught you staring, and you quickly stand up to gather a few things before he can snap at you, ‘A massive, terrifying patient that could easily crush you in the blink of an eye. Get it together.’
You have your back to him and are washing your hands when you clear your throat and speak up quietly, “Can you tell me exactly what you were stabbed with?”
“Does it make a difference? I’m injured, that’s all you need to know.”
You swallow the lump in your throat as you gather all the supplies you need before sitting in your chair and pointing your bright lamp at the severe injuries so you can see them more clearly. It’s only when you pull a mask over the lower-half of your face that you feel a little more comfortable in his presence, now able to focus on the task at hand, rather than the strength that he possesses. The gashes are both several inches long and though they don’t seem critically deep, you can tell that he’s lost quite a bit of blood at this point and must be feeling the effects of it, despite giving no indication that he’s in pain.
“It just helps to know what weapon was used to cause the injury. If it was rusted metal, it can be more prone to infection—if it was glass, there could still be shards in the wound and it may require extra attention. I’m not asking about the circumstances involving how you got these injuries, just the weapons involved, Mandalorian.”
He grunts and you pretend not to notice the way his fingers curl against the cot when you begin to flush out the wound with a mild saline solution, carefully wiping away the excess blood with a thick pad of gauze. Despite your insistence of having no desire to learn how he sustained such injuries, you have to bite your tongue when your curiosity starts to grow and you contemplate how this could happen to someone like him. You had learned long ago not to pry into the lives of criminals and bounty hunters, understanding that it always put them on edge and made them wary of you.
The last thing you want is ending up on this Mandalorian’s bad side.
“It was a dagger—few inches long and definitely not rusty.” He finally answers after several nerve-wracking moments of silence, his filtered baritone strained as you dip your head a little lower in an attempt to hide yourself from him.
A quiet sigh heaves at your chest as you repeatedly remind yourself that he deserves the same basic medical care that everyone else does, despite his stubborn and brusque temperament, and you quickly continue the task at hand so you can get this over with and finish what you were previously doing before he had interrupted.
“Does your left shoulder hurt at all?”
The Mandalorian seems caught off guard as he freezes again, his helmet lifting from the cot to gaze at you, rather than the ceiling, “What does that have to do with anything?”
Your cheeks suddenly burn with embarrassment for not having explained yourself further, “The less critical wound is located in a spot where your spleen could have been affected if contact was made with the blade, though it doesn’t seem to be deep enough to cause any trauma to the organ. A sharp pain in your left shoulder is often a sign of a ruptured spleen.”
You reach up to lightly dig your fingers into his firm shoulder, only pulling away when he shakes his helmet with a grunt a few seconds later, “No… There’s no pain there.”
"Any confusion or lightheadedness? Are you dizzy at all?"
He's quiet for a few moments and just when you think he's not going to answer at all, he speaks in a tone that is surprisingly soft for someone so rough around the edges, "No... None of that."
You're certain that he has to be at least a little lightheaded, but you don't push him and simply nod with a meek smile that is hidden underneath your mask.
“Thank you. The wounds didn’t seem deep enough to cause any injury to any organs, but we don’t really have the proper technology to know for sure.” His visor tilts to the side with curiosity, though you barely notice it as you remain focused on cleaning the grisly wounds before pulling out your suture kit, “The infirmary is low on supplies at the moment—a couple of raiders broke in a few weeks ago and took a lot of machines and medicine from us. I’m afraid I don’t have any bacta patches, but stitches should stop the bleeding just fine. You’re lucky the dagger wasn’t any longer, or else I’m not sure if I would have been much help.”
“I got stabbed and you’re calling me lucky?” He doesn’t sound angry and something about his lighter tone makes you think it’s incredulity that his modulator hides.
You’re suddenly grateful for the surgical mask hiding your amused smile as you get to work on stitching up the deeper wound first, “Considering I had a Twi’lek come in earlier with his intestines practically falling out of his stomach, I would certainly say you’re one of the luckier patients I’ve gotten. Stab wounds and blaster shots I can handle, but guts and brains are another story.”
“You’re a doctor, that stuff shouldn’t bother you.”
“I’m a nurse, actually. The infirmary only has one doctor and he barely works here since he’s always traveling off world.” You correct him, eyes trained on the way the curved hook of the needle pierces his skin, nylon thread bringing the torn flesh back together, “Sorry if you expected to be treated by an actual doctor when you stormed into the the infirmary asking for my help. There’s not really a huge need for medical professionals in the village—most people are dead before they even make it here.”
He makes a small noise from the back of his throat as you work quickly, “Makes sense. Surprised this village even has an infirmary in the first place.”
“Yeah, it’s not exactly the flashiest one in the Outer Rim,” You mutter, tilting your head to the side as you lean over his torso to get a better look at what you’re doing, “Why did you ask for me anyways? We have someone else that could have—”
“It's not like any of your staff was eager to help me—most ran out of the lobby before I even entered,” He quietly cuts you off, stretching his arm behind his head when you gently nudge his bicep, “Besides, you seem like you're actually competent at your job.”
You’re not sure if it’s a genuine compliment or some sort of backhanded one, but you take it for what it is and continue your work, being as swift and precise as you possibly can. The Mandalorian, however, makes it difficult when he keeps shuffling around and you would have thought for such a big warrior, he’d be used to pain by now, given the raised scars that mark several areas of his torso. Perhaps he’s just uncomfortable being this exposed to someone he’s never even met before, and you wonder if the rumors you’ve heard about the Beskar-clad warriors never shedding their armor or weapons is actually true.
You let out an exasperated sigh when he shifts for the umpteenth time and his helmet immediately jolts to stare at you through that unforgiving visor, “What? Something wrong?”
There’s a bite to his deep timbre that has you anxiously glancing at his helmet before lowering back down to the blood-stained gloves covering your hands.
Of course he’s just like the rest of your patients—rude and probably cruel.
“You just…” You wince upon hearing how shaky your voice is and force yourself to steel your nerves again, “Could you stop moving so much, please? It’s slowing down the process and causing you more unnecessary pain. I promise it will go by quicker if you stay as still as possible.”
You try to ignore the fact that he could easily reach past you to where his utility belt is on your desk and and unsheathe his blade within the blink of an eye—before you could really even grasp what was going on—but he does no such thing and simply nods, turning his helmet so he's staring back up the ceiling and you force yourself to relax when he grows deathly still.
“Fine. Just hurry up.”
instead of rolling your eyes at the brutish man, you continue to stitch the second wound that comes to a blunt end on the right side of his hip, just above the waistband of his pants, and you murmur quiet apologies whenever you hear him let out a barely audible huff that you perceive as him being in discomfort. After tenderly wiping the dried and fresh blood away from his torso, remaining mindful as you clean around the sutures, you begin to unroll a thick wad of gauze as well as some medical tape to keep any debris from infecting the wound.
He brushes off your gentle plea for him to change the bandages a few times a day, and you can only hope that he'll at least keep the stitches somewhat clean and covered until they're properly healed.
"Please try not to get in any fights for a while and get some rest instead." You quietly advise the stubborn man as you cover up the tender skin with gauze, your eyes only briefly flickering up to his visor that still seems unnervingly glued to your warm face, "You sustained some pretty serious wounds and the stitches can easily be ripped open if you're not careful and trust me, that's usually not a fun experience for anyone to go through."
"You can't tell a Mandalorian not to fight—it's just what we do." He doesn't sound as tense as before, perhaps already feeling better now that he's not bleeding out all over the place, and you find yourself relaxing again as he speaks in that same soft tone from earlier, "Besides, I'm sure I could find a cauterizer if I rip them open."
So that explains the severely damaged tissue from the wounds he had most likely tended to himself, and you suddenly find it impossible to stop yourself from frowning when you imagine the sharp crackle of electricity as the roughened warrior sears his torn flesh together, perhaps heaving and grunting from the pain. You're no stranger to sustaining injuries either and you've gotten good at patching yourself up over the years, but for some reason, the thought of this Mandalorian doing the same for himself with nothing else besides a cauterizer leaves you feeling sad that anyone should have to go through that.
"I've had patients with nasty infections that quickly lead to sepsis and death because they ripped open their stitches and chose not to get help," You peel away your mask so he can see the serious expression you wear underneath, your lips pulled into a gentle frown as he freezes and stares at you, "It's not a pretty or honorable way to go, especially for someone as tough as a Mandalorian. Please, if you do end up injured again, come back here and I'll take care of it."
You're utterly shocked when he acquiesces and offers you an appreciative nod.
When you’re finished and you’ve discarded your bloody latex gloves, you hesitate to stand up from your chair as your eyes lands on his bruised side. Judging by the way he forces himself to take only shallow breaths, you’re certain that he must be in more pain than you had initially thought, though he forces himself to take a deeper breath when he notices the way your gaze lingers on him, as if he's wordlessly trying to convince you that he's fine.
“Your ribs must be hurting pretty badly,” Your heart bleeds with sympathy when you notice the way he almost seems to slump and relax against the cot, as if he’s simply exhausted and really doesn’t want to get up, “Did you hear a pop or crack when you were hit? They might be broken.”
“I don’t know,” He admits with a sigh, and you know all too well how painful and bothersome bruised or broken ribs can be, “Wasn’t really paying attention.”
Before you can even think about stopping yourself, your feet and legs move on their own accord as you hastily stand up, “I think I still might have a jar of bacta salve that could help with the soreness. If you apply it twice a day, it should speed up the healing process a considerable amount—make it easier for you to get some much needed rest.”
“I don’t have enough credits for anything with bacta in it, so don’t even bother,” He grunts as he stubbornly sits up and lowers his helmet to inspect your work, his fingertips barely grazing along the outer edges of the gauze you securely taped over his belly, "You've already helped me too much."
You ignore his words as you approach the cabinet where you keep several clear jars filled with all sorts of colorful liquids and gels, a tiny smile now tugging at your lips despite the warrior’s heavy gaze that you can still feel pointed in your direction, even with your back turned to him. You’re grateful that your little supply of homemade remedies and salves that you worked so hard on had remained untouched after the infirmary had been raided, most of the focus being on the few machines that could be scavenged for parts.
“Please, take it,” You insist, unscrewing the lid as you approach him, all while gathering the cold salve onto your fingers, “Something tells me you might need it.”
His leather-clad fingers wrap gently around your wrist and stop you from rubbing the healing ointment into his warm skin, fear instantly coursing through your veins as panic causes your heart to thrum so frantically that you hear it in your ears.
If you weren’t so terrified, you would have marveled at how massive his hand is compared to your much smaller one, but it only serves as a grim reminder of his immense strength.
“I don’t want your pity.”
Much to your dismay, your hand trembles against his as that fear from earlier becomes so intense that it punches the air from your lungs, and you feel the way he instantly loosens his grip on you, though it hadn’t been painful or caused you any discomfort in the slightest. You’re somewhat surprised that he’s capable of gently handling someone so much smaller than him, and you hate that your cheeks suddenly grow warm when the leather covering his thumb barely grazes along the back of your hand.
“It is not pity, Mandalorian.”
“Then what is it?”
“Kindness,” You murmur, feeling ridiculous when he scoffs at your answer, and you suddenly feel the need to defend yourself as he barely keeps his fingers curled around yours, “I do not wish to be as cruel as everyone else on this planet. I would like to think I would be shown the same kindness if I was as injured as you are, though I highly doubt I would. Besides, I don’t like seeing people in pain and I know broken ribs are no fun to deal with.”
His unforgiving visor gives you no indication as to what he’s feeling, and you find yourself jealous that he’s able to hide his emotions behind that scuffed Beskar. It must be nice to have an impenetrable set of durasteel armor to not only physically protect you from from those who wish to inflict harm on you, but to also shield your vulnerabilities from people who could easily use it to their advantage. You wonder if the blue Mandalorian even has anything or anyone in his life he would consider a weakness or liability, though you find it difficult to imagine someone like him letting himself form strong attachments with others.
“Fine.” He lets go of your wrist and you let out a sigh of relief, your hands still shaking terribly as you begin to rub the salve against the worst of the bruising. You ignore the way he tenses under your care and how he cocks his helmet to the side as he observes you closely, as if you're somehow a mystery to him, despite him being the one covered head-to-toe in mismatched armor, “That kind of attitude will get you hurt in a place like this.”
“I know.” Your cheeks grow even hotter with embarrassment and your eyes burn as you refuse to meet his gaze, your voice growing thicker and quieter when you speak again, “Trust me, I know, but sometimes it doesn’t and that’s what makes all of this worth it.”
He’s still staring at you as you finish up and he lets out a huffy grunt when you offer him the deep, dull blue cuirass you had nearly dropped earlier, carefully helping him out before he's situating his utility belt and weapons back in place. After sheathing his huge cannon against his back once again, he accepts the little jar of salve that you're insistently holding out for him to take and tucks it into one of the several pouches attached to his utility belt with a disgruntled ‘thanks’, though he suddenly hesitates. It takes you a moment to realize he doesn’t seem all that eager to leave, his fingertips awkwardly flexing against his thighs and his helmet angled downwards to peer at you. There's something he wants to say, you notice as a strange, garbled sound slips past his modulator, and he quickly shakes his helm as if he's cutting himself off, almost seeming disappointed with either you or himself.
You don't question it—simply biting your tongue and keeping your mouth shut, just as you were always taught to do.
You’re not sure why, but you find yourself instinctively trailing behind him as he leaves your little office and makes his way into the lobby; it’s not like he needs your assistance, but he doesn’t say anything to make you think he’s annoyed with you or doesn’t want you there.
It’s not until a deep voice calls out your name that you freeze in your tracks and turn around with dread coursing through your veins, the Mandalorian tilting his helmet to stare at you and an older man over his broad shoulder. You know it's bad when a few of the other staff members quickly scramble out of the room to tend to other patients, the lobby now deathly silent as you avoid the older man’s infuriated glare and force yourself to remain still, knowing better than to try to avoid such a confrontation when it could only lead to more pain on your end.
“How many times do I have to punish you before you start actually listening to me?!” He sneers, jabbing his index finger against the base of your throat so roughly that it nearly has you stumbling backwards from the force of it, “I asked you to finish filing my reports for the day—is that really so fucking difficult for you? One little thing, and you can't even do that!”
“I... I'm sorry sir,” You gasp and instinctively flinch when he harshly grabs your bicep and squeezes with enough strength that it has you wincing and clenching your teeth from the pain, “Something came up. I had a patient with stab wounds and I just um—I figured that took priority over a few reports. He was in pretty bad condition and I just thought—”
“I don’t give a shit what you think takes priority over my demands,” He hisses, lowering his head to get in your face, all while violently rattling you, “When I ask you to do something, you fucking do it without hesitation or else I'll make sure you really regret it. I need a nurse that will do her job, not a pathetic excuse for a human being that can’t file a few reports by the deadline I give her. Is that understood?”
You blink away the tears and nod fervently, ignoring the bruising grip he has on your arm, “Good. Now get the fuck out of here. I can’t handle having you around fucking everything up right now.”
“But I still have to–” You’re cut off with a harsh squeeze and you try to keep the pain out of your voice when you speak in a quiet, shaky whisper, “Y-Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
When you turn around, now more shaken up than before and teary-eyed, you’re surprised to find the blue Mandalorian still standing near the entrance of the infirmary looking dangerously tense—more so now than he had been earlier when you’d been tending to his wounds. He’s firmly grasping the handle of the blade sheathed at his hip and it takes you several moments to realize his visor is no longer focused on you, but rather the man who’s hastily retreating back to his office.
Stars, was he really going to start a fight just minutes after you had stitched him back together?
It’s not until you and the Mandalorian hear the sharp sound of a door slamming that the warrior drops his hand from his weapon, his visor following you as you skittishly brush past him and make your way out of the rundown infirmary, your face still hot with embarrassment and tears threatening to dampen your cheeks.
You just want to go home and lay down and forget about everything and—
“Nurse,” The Mandalorian’s deep voice immediately makes you freeze again, and your shoulders instantly lock and hunch up when you hear his heavy footsteps slowly approaching you, slow and precise, like predator stalking its prey. Your eyes squeeze shut as you fear the worst case scenarios, knowing all too well of the kind of pain men of his size and strength could inflict on someone like you.
Oh Maker, were you all too aware of what cruel men with rough hands were capable of.
When you apprehensively open your eyes, you find it impossible to look at his helmet and stare straight ahead at the center of his chest that’s protected by dull blue metal, the silver scuff marks serving as a reminder that it wouldn’t even matter how hard you tried to fight him off. Maybe he would take it easy on you since you had been the one to patch him up and give him the bacta salve, but your fears overwhelm you and take over any other rational thought as he steps even closer, his footsteps heavy and loud as you wait for him to roughly grab you.
You’re frozen to the sidewalk when he finally comes to a stop about half a foot away from you, his fingers clenching against his thighs and you feel ridiculous when a tear escapes the corner of your eye and slowly travels down your cheek, earning a quiet hum from the stranger as his visor follows the pearl of salt until it drips off of your jaw. You’re not sure if the tears are from your previous encounter with the older man who constantly made your life a living hell or the fact that there’s a possibility that you’re about to be brutalized by a terrifying Mandalorian.
His helmet cocks to the side when you take a tentative step backwards, your hands wringing together almost painfully as vicious waves of nerves threaten to suffocate you.
No, no, no...
“P-Please don’t—”
“It’s late and too dangerous to be out in these streets alone. I’m going to walk you home.”
You flinch when he gently grabs your elbow and he’s quick to drop it instantly, much to your surprise and utter relief as you manage to put a little distance between the two of you, “Y-You really… that’s not necessary, really. I do this every night and usually don’t have a problem.”
He grunts and holds out his own elbow for you to take, gesturing to it with a gentle nod of his scuffed helm.
“It wasn’t a question. You helped me and gave me medicine with bacta in it even though I have no credits to spare. Let me return the favor by walking you home,” You stare at his massive arm with distrust carved into your soft features and he must notice it because he eventually speaks up again in that gruff tone, “If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it long ago, nurse. I have no desire to harm someone who doesn’t deserve it, especially you after what you did for me. Besides, even if you’re capable of protecting yourself, you’re clearly shaken up right now and not thinking straight.”
“I don’t know you,” The Mandalorian is still holding out his elbow for you to take as you argue with him in a weak murmur, “How am I supposed to believe you’re not just like the everyone else in this village?”
He scoffs and immediately, you fear that you’ve already managed to insult and offend him, “I don’t like these people anymore than you do. I hate criminals who hurt others that don’t deserve it. Let me walk you home this time and you’ll never have to see me again—you have my word.”
Something about the sincerity in his deep baritone leaves you a little breathless and you no longer feel as threatened by the Mandalorian, still finding him incredibly intimidating, but also feeling certain that he’s only being genuine about wanting to make sure you get home safely. He clearly must not like being in the village or around these people either, and you briefly wonder why he simply hasn't relocated to another planet if he hates it here—surely someone in the possession of Beskar and so many valuable weapons could afford to leave whenever they please, right?
“Still don’t believe me?” He sighs when he mistakes your thoughtful silence for hesitance towards his insistent offer to walk you home, “Here, take my vibroblade and if you feel uncomfortable, I’ll let you stab me.”
‘I’ll let you stab me.’
It’s quite possibly the most ridiculous string of words that anyone has ever spoken to you and your eyebrows shoot up when you hear the nonchalance in his modulated baritone, like this is nothing more than an everyday occurrence for him. You quickly stop him as he reaches for the handle of his weapon and rest you fingers over the leather covering the back of his hand, though you’re not afraid of him hurting you with it, but more so incredulous that this huge warrior would give you the chance to do such a thing.
“Haven’t you been stabbed enough for one day?”
His chest heaves and you’re surprised by the deep laugh he lets out at your blunt question, the warrior still adamant about placing the heavy weapon in your palm and urging you to curl your fingers around the handle, “Yes, I think I have. Now let’s get going, little nurse.”
“O-Okay,” Your heart is still frantically beating from the initial fear of him taking advantage of you, along with the foreign feeling of such a sharp weapon in your hand, “It’s just... it’s kind of a long walk and I’m sure you have better things to—”
“I don’t.” He firmly interjects, almost sounding exasperated with you, "Tighten your grip on that vibroblade and lead the way. It’s getting late and I don’t feel like dealing with any of the scum in this village.”
Hesitantly, you curl your fingers into the crook of his elbow just above his vambrace, testing the thickness of the fabric there and squeezing until your fingers stop shaking. You can feel the heat radiating from his skin underneath his tunic and relish in it a little, the atmosphere of Nevarro quite brisk this late at night, albeit still insufferably dry as a cold breeze wafts past the two of you.
A surprisingly peaceful silence befalls the two of you as you find yourself glancing up at his helmet every now and then, noticing how the pearlescent glimmer of moonlight reflects off his helmet and accentuates the lighter blue divots in the cheeks of his helm—something you really hadn't noticed in your little office earlier when you had been so distracted by your own fears. With his attention now focused on his surroundings and his visor pointed straight ahead of him, it's easier to observe the blue warrior now that he's not as tense and you attempt to get a good read on him, though you're not surprised when he gives absolutely nothing away and remains utterly impassive underneath your curious gaze.
“Thank you for doing this,” You eventually whisper when he turns his attention to you with a tilt to his helmet, the heat in your cheeks suddenly spreading to the tips of your ears when you realize how close you are to someone so powerful while holding one of his weapons,“It means a lot to me.”
“You said you do this every night.”
You gnaw on your bottom lip as you think of all the bad run-ins you had whenever you had to walk home this late without the protection of a Mandalorian, “It doesn’t make it any less scary when these bounty hunters and criminals find out I’m nothing more than the village nurse and try to take advantage of that. People here aren't exactly the kindest when they find out that a patient I treated is someone being targeted by the Bounty Hunter's Guild.”
You pretend not to notice the way he tenses next to you.
As you lead him to your little hut on the outskirts of the quiet village, you remember all the stories you were told of how Mandalorians are nothing more than vicious savages, and now you wonder just how accurate those silly little tales were, especially when you think of all the cruel people you've met in your life and how not a single one of them ever resembled the Beskar-clad warriors. You can’t imagine someone with an inherently violent disposition offering you his arm and even his precious blade while he walks you home, and you fear that your initial impression of the Mandalorian was made in too much of a haste with far too little knowledge of his culture.
Shame immediately leaves your cheeks feeling unbearably hot, even with how chilly it is, and you don't even know where to find the words to apologize to him for something he doesn't even realize you did wrong.
A few late night stragglers sneer at you and the unfazed Mandalorian, and you find that his presence now offers you a sense of comfort that had become some foreign to you after not feeling it for so long. You can’t remember the last time you actually felt safe walking home so late and you’re barely aware of the way you push yourself closer against his side as if it’s suddenly instinct for you, the Mandalorian not seeming to mind as he hums quietly and simply nods when his gaze meets your wide-eyed expression—perhaps a wordless promise that you're going to be okay.
"That man,” The Mandalorian’s deep voice startles you, and the way he forces his gruff voice into something softer isn't lost upon you, “Does he always treat you that way? That roughly and with such little regard for your well-being?”
You’re surprised that he’s actually starting a conversation with you, figuring that he simply wanted to get through this walk with saying as little as possible, but you think over his blunt question and carefully choose your words, “It is for my own good. How am I supposed to learn and become a better nurse if I can’t follow simple orders?”
“He shouldn’t put his hands on you like that. It’s not right when he’s larger than you and you can’t defend yourself properly against him.”
You nearly stumble over your own feet as you falter, certainly not guessing that this is the kind of conversation you would be having with the Mandalorian, especially after how well your initial meeting went with him, and you simply offer him a sad smile before gazing up at the twinkling stars dotted in the night sky above the two of you, “He is my boss and my father. He can do whatever he wants as long as I’m working for him and living under his roof.”
“Father?” He cocks his helmet further to the side, as if he’s confused by your words, though all you hear is disgust in his modulated voice when he speaks, “A father should never lay a hand on their child the way he did with you earlier. Parents are supposed to protect their family, not hurt and bruise them. He should feel ashamed of the way he treats you and how he talks to you—it’s dishonorable.”
“I am an adult, not a child,” You lazily give him a single-shouldered shrug and sheepishly turn your attention to your worn out boots and your bruised knees that peek out just from underneath the hem of your dress, “It doesn’t bother me. Like I said, it’s better for me to learn this way and he only does it because I’m always messing up.”
“It should bother you!” The Mandalorian snaps with a fierce shake of his helmet, and you're uncertain of whether you should be touched that he seems to care so much, or feel confused that he... well, seems to care so much. “You should stand up for yourself and leave. Make a better life for yourself.”
You huff out a small laugh then, though there’s nothing funny about his determined words nor your much meeker ones, “Tell me, Mandalorian, where would I go? There is only one infirmary in the village and it’s owned by my father—I have no other useful skills that would help me thrive in a village overrun by bounty hunters and criminals. The nearest city is hundreds of miles away from here and I do not make nearly enough to afford transportation nor to start my life over; my father made sure of that.”
You’re somehow still smiling, but it’s bitter and wistful as you contemplate why this Mandalorian wants you to fight for a better life when there is no such thing that exists for you on this planet, “It is easy for you to tell me to fight for myself when you are covered from head to toe in impenetrable steel. My father could ruin my life if he so desired and I would not give him reason to punish me more than he has already.”
“That is no way to live, orikih baar’ur. You are treated as though you are nothing more than his property, ready to be disposed of as soon as soon as he decides he no longer has any use for you.”
You don’t understand the foreign words he speaks or if he's judging you, and even though you try to shrug it off again, you can still feel the pain on your shoulders and arms from the last punishment you had received for not correctly following orders.
“It’s not living,” You agree, lightly squeezing his arm to reassure him that you’re fine, though you think you’re trying to reassure yourself more, “But I’m still surviving and doing what I love the most, helping others. This is all I ever wanted to do and it would be selfish of me to ask for more.”
The Mandalorian grows silent and you wonder what’s going through his head as you lead him through the village, where clustered buildings eventually give way to smaller houses and huts that could do with some renovation and patching up. You think of your own hut that could desperate use some fixing up, what with all the holes that have been punched through the walls in your father’s fits of rage, or the way frigid gusts of wind slips through the cracks in the ceiling and oftentimes leaves you feeling sick with a fever after a night of tossing and turning. Thinking of how you grew up so poorly and in a hostile environment, it makes you think far more of the Mandalorian’s blunt words and something awful churns in the pit of your stomach, somehow clawing at you from the inside out.
‘That is no way to live…’
You lift your head up to the seemingly endless abyss that is the starry sky again and wonder what lingers beyond this forsaken planet, what beauty exists in the galaxy or if it even exists at all. You had once heard tales of planets covered entirely in oceans or jungles and as you peer at the rocky and volcanic terrain that surrounds the two of you for as far as the eye can see, you wonder what beautiful sights the Mandalorian must have experienced during his years of travel—surely he's traveled all around the galaxy, right? You remember a patient of yours from long ago describing the beauty of Naboo and all of the sights she had witnessed during her several rotations of residing on the planet. Even in your wildest dreams, you couldn’t envision massive rolling plains of emerald grass, or glimmering sapphire oceans with waves just as violent as the most fearsome warrior you’ve ever met—as fearsome as the man walking next to you.
You wonder what it must feel like to have a cool, fresh breeze kiss your flushed skin.
You try to imagine tasting ripe, fresh fruit, rather than bland ration bars, or the scent of sweet flowers tickling your nostrils, rather than the putrid scent of some poor creature being roasted alive. You used to long desperately for it when you were younger—a beautiful change of scenery where you could live in peace without constantly glancing over your shoulder out of fear—but now you've all but resigned yourself to spending the rest of your days on Nevarro with seemingly no escape.
“My place is just up ahead.”
He must hear how forlorn you’ve become, voice slightly high-pitched and crackly as if you’re trying with all of your willpower not to break down in front of him, and you find it increasingly difficult to ignore the way he tilts his helmet to gaze down at you.
Your cheek is nearly grazing his bicep and you don’t even realize how close you are to him until you smell blaster fire and something woodsy on the fabric on the sleeve of his flight suit that he wears underneath a black tunic and a thick layer of padding. He’s warm, you realize, despite being covered in cold blue metal, and you wonder how such a huge, grouchy Mandalorian could make you feel the safest you’ve felt in years—before your mother passed away and your father was slightly less cruel.
You swallow the lump in your throat when the hut you share with your father grows closer and dread threatens to send you fleeing in the opposite direction, though you’re willing to stay by the Mandalorian's side just to enjoy a few rare moments of serenity. Your father won’t be home for another few hours and you hope by then, his anger will have dulled into harmless embers, though you don’t get your hopes up.
“Thank you again for walking me home,” You clear your throat when you two come to a stop in front of the sad excuse for a home, and you reluctantly pull away from him, fingertips grazing the crook of his elbow for just a second longer than necessary before its promptly falling back to your side, “They don’t speak too kindly of Mandalorians around here, you know?”
He keeps his neck craned at an angle to gaze down at you, seeming all too comfortable to speak with you before parting ways, “And what do they say of my people?”
“My father used to tell me tales of Mandalorians being savages,” You sound shameful as you confess this, tilting your head upwards as you hopefully meet his gaze through his t-shaped visor, “That your kind would kill innocent people and steal from them with no remorse—that they wouldn’t hesitate to kill women and children, or even torture them. My father told me your people were worse than the monsters that plagued my dreams.”
You don’t back off when he steps a little closer and reaches out to lightly touch the little violet you always keep tucked behind your ear or in the weaves of your braids when it’s too hot to wear your hair down. It’s something you’ve worn in your hair quite often since your mother’s death, perhaps just wanting to remember her kind spirit and how she would always teach you the healing properties of different flowers and the way they could alleviate certain ailments if administered in a particular form.
Plus you enjoy seeing the smiles on your littler patients' faces when you offer them a flower after tending to their scraped knees and palms.
You hadn’t even realized it had become such a force of habit for you to constantly wear the wildflowers in your hair until the Mandalorian unknowingly pointed it out and you grow utterly still and silent when you barely feel the smooth leather covering his thumb graze along the shell of your ear.
“And what do you think about my people?”
You're half-tempted to tease him when you catch the curiosity even in his filtered baritone, but you find it difficult to properly gather your thoughts when he's this close to you—far closer than you allow most people to get.
“I used to believe the stories,” You hesitantly raise your chin to peer into his t-shaped visor, wondering if he has warm, soft eyes that betray his cold, gruff voice, and you watch as his hand drops to his thigh before he can touch the fragile violet tucked behind the warm shell of your ear, “Now I think the monsters in my nightmares are far more terrifying than the Mandalorian who walked me home tonight. If your people are anything like you, then I think the rumors are just that—silly rumors that should be ignored, and I apologize for judging you based on what others have told me.”
“You say that now, but you don’t know what I’ve done,” His voice drops into a low rasp that sends shivers up your spine and for what reason, you’re not so sure, “You don’t know what I am capable of.”
“I don’t need to,” You murmur just as quietly, eyes desperately searching everywhere on his dull blue helmet as you count the number of scuffs created from blaster shots or perhaps even sharp daggers like the one he had been attacked with earlier, “You told me yourself that you have no desire to harm innocent people. I think you are the first man on this planet to show me any form of kindness.”
“I don’t doubt it,” He reaches for your arm, just as he had done earlier when he’d first insisted on walking you home. However, this time you don’t flinch and your breath hitches when he dips his helmet in the slightest just as you feel the gentle pressure of his thumb rubbing along the crook of your elbow, his gruff voice suddenly sounding lighter as he offers you a short nod.
“Good night, saviin’ika.”
“W-Wait!”
He tilts his helmet to the side when you quickly hold out his vibroblade that you had loosely been holding onto the entire walk home, almost forgetting that he had let you borrow it in case you felt the need to protect yourself against him.
You hadn’t—not once.
“Keep it for now,” He reaches out to curl your fingers back around the handle, speaking up quickly when you part your lips to protest, “You shouldn’t be walking around without anything to protect yourself, especially this late at night.”
“But what about you?”
Immediately, your eyes land on the heavy cannon attached to his back, along with ridiculous amount of various weapons he carries on his utility belt and you wince, knowing that this warrior will undoubtedly be able to take care of himself without his blade. Even without all of his equipment, you're certain that most people wouldn't even bother to try and fight him, and you find yourself envious that he's able to carry himself in such a way that prevents others from attempting to strike up a confrontation with him.
Just like the Mandalorian, you try to avoid most people in the village at all costs, but now it suddenly feels difficult to part ways with this stranger that you've only know for about an hour or so.
“I think I will somehow manage without the blade,” He sounds amused as he teases you in a playful manner, rather than condescending, and you find yourself relaxing further and wanting to hear more of his voice, “Anything else?”
You hesitate, the heat in your cheeks blossoming to the tips of your ears until it feels like you've been set ablaze, “Will I... Will I see you again?”
"You wishing I'll get injured, little nurse?”
For the first time all day, your lips tug into a genuine grin as you tilt your head to the side, suddenly feeling as though you're speaking with a friend, “You don’t need to go and hurt yourself to come visit me, Mandalorian. I would prefer to see you in one piece and those ribs all healed. Don’t forget to use that salve–”
“Twice a day,” He finishes with a shake of his helm, a quiet noise slipping past the unforgiving guise of his helmet as he hesitates to turn around and leave, “Take care of yourself. Don’t hesitate to use that vibroblade if anyone threatens you—maybe one day I’ll show you how to hold it properly.”
“Thank you, Mandalorian.” You nod your gratitude as your smile gradually disappears, almost certain you’ll never be seeing the blue warrior again, “See you soon.”
“See you soon, saviin’ika.”