Summary: You hug Din. It's his first one in years.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Kriff, it's been a long day. Well, to be more exact, it was 42 hours of non-stop working. The bounty that the Mandalorian was hired to catch was also being tracked by two other mercenaries.
Finally, he got to the Twi'lek (but not before killing both of the mercenaries), and almost murdered their illegal ass before you reminded him that 30,000 credits were on the line.
You were almost certain that he wouldn't listen to you at all. Maker, you had never seen him talk like that ever. Or heard anyone say "kriff" that many times in one breath.
"Kriffing Twi'lek... ought to shove his kriffing ass into a kriffing cantina and beat the kriff outta him... the kriffing money isn't even kriffing worth the kriffing beskar the kriffing mercenary kriffing broke..."
"Uhh, Mando?"
"KRIFF, KRIFF, KRIFF!"
A fist slammed down on the wall next to the carbonite prison, eliciting a bewildered look from you and a haggard breath from him. The bounty jumped. You blinked. His fist had landed a mere half a meter away from you. Not close enough to flinch, as you'd slowly become desensitized to the battles that he had fought in.
But close enough to wonder if the Mandalorian was broken. The man was a machine, firing his blaster like it was a third hand, not even flinching when the mercenaries dropped dead like flies.
The Mandalorian removed his hand from the wall and placed his hands on top of his helmet.
"I'm sorry," came the ragged voice of the modulator.
"It's fine," you automatically said.
"It's not fine."
"It is," you insisted.
"It's not."
"Seriously, Mando. I'm fine."
"IT'S NOT FI-"
You flinched this time.
The Mandalorian cursed again. "Kriff, cyar'ika [darling], I..."
"It's okay," you hastily said. Before he could protest again, you added, "Really, Mando. I think you're very stressed out. And that's normal. I'd have a lot of frustration in me too if I just went through that."
The helmet tilted down. Maker, you usually loved seeing the Mandalorian's stoicism fade away, but not when it was replaced with shame. Pressure formed against your heart, demanding that you do something. But what could you do to make that anger go away?
Hesitantly, you asked, "Do you want a hug?"
The helmet snapped up. What in the galaxy? You swore it would have given him whiplash by how quickly his neck moved. You bit your lip, wondering if the question was a terrible choice.
Panic flooded into your body in waves and you rushed to say, "Or not."
The helmet slowly tilted downward, then up again by a few degrees. If you hadn't been so focused on him, you wouldn't have seen it. Was it a fluke? Would he really let you hug him? Would it be uncomfortable hugging him through all that beskar?
The Mandalorian seemed to take your hesitation as a denial. He turned around, ready to leave when you whispered for him to wait. It was barely registerable to your own ears, but he stopped immediately.
The tarnished leather gloves encasing his fingers clenched again, forming the fist that had dented the wall you were standing against. What was he doing? He must have heard you, but if he did, then why didn't he turn around?
Thinking that he was waiting for you to continue, you took a deep breath.
"I can-"
At the same time, he started, "Will you-"
This time, the Mandalorian had whispered. Your hand flicked out, gesturing for him to go first. But before it could return back to its hiding place inside your jacket pockets, it was quickly caught by one of the Mandalorian's gloved hands.
Enraptured by the sight, you didn't notice his other hand reach out to grasp your chin. Softly, like you would crumble underneath him if he wasn't careful enough.
