Din Djarin x Reader One-Shots

Battle Scars

Warnings: PTSD, Violence, Loss of a limb, guns, swearing, scars

Mandalorian x FTM! Reader

Word Count: 5035 (so.many.time.skips. also Din is so sheltered omg but we love him. I can't wait to get top surgery :,) )

₪ ₪ ₪

You remember that day in the Guild, many years ago now, you know. It was just your fifth job, dipping your toes in the bloody water that was the career of bounty hunting.

You were young, barely twenty-two and just three years on your medicine to make your body fit your soul.

In the beginning of your job, you ran into another hunter. A Mandalorian, his armor mismatched and patchy, but doing the job well. He was quick on his feet and quiet in that stoic way of his, and he was making his own name in the Guild.

You'd argued and gotten catty like a hungry loth-cat, but when the bounty jumped you with her band of murderers, you put aside your egos and melded together in the brawl.

His aim with a blaster was impeccable, and your strike of the spear was strong. Together you made quick work of her gang and struck her in the back of the head while he cuffed her wrists.

There had been a few seconds of tense, anticipated silence before he nodded to you, his helmet glinting as it caught the light of a nearby star. You nodded in return, smiling slightly and just a bit-too-smug as you hauled the bounty between you and made camp for the night.

You didn't trust each other, far from it as it was the first rule you learned in the Guild, but you slept opposite the fire, arms crossed and postures lax with the bounty tied between you.

You both slept light, and not very well, but you discussed splitting the pay even on your way back to your ships.

He had a carbon freezer in his old beat up Razor Crest, you did not. You shook hands, saying you'd follow him back to the contact and track him down if he so much as thought of running off with the money.

He'd said he was a man of his word, as sacred as his creed.

You believed him.

- ₪ -

Eight years.

You'd worked together intermittently over the next five years whenever the situation had called for it. Then you got hurt on the job. Bad.

With your leg shattered from the hip down, you were down for the count for at least six months while you scavenged the galaxy for a doctor or robotic that would take your stashed credits for a new one. When you did, it took just weeks to recover. But after that you couldn't go back to the Guild. Not with the nightmares you faced from that night. Not with the phantom pain shooting down the shiny new circuits on your leg. Not with the way your hands shook every time you picked up your spear or lined up a shot.

So you said goodbye to the dirty water of the Guild and took odd jobs whenever you could, taking a greater interest in mechanics when you found out you couldn't afford regular appointments and favors for your leg every time it got stuck and grimy.

Three years of this, and over a decade on your medicine, you found someone that could release your ribs of the weight they carried since you were ten. Thirty years old, and you could finally get rid of what you hated most when you looked in the mirror. Your dream was coming true.

And stars, was it everything you dreamed.

Nothing binding your chest or caving your ribs or holding you down. You felt lighter, faster, better. You could finally move and feel and live how you wanted to. Finally, you could breathe.