Rough Day by guardianangelicas

Negotiation Skills

This story doesn't belong to me. It belongs to guardianangelicas on AO3.

They're all scared to death of him.

It's remarkable. You've never seen so many drunk, uninhibited people instantly sober and part for anything. On the small handful of occasions you've accompanied him out to get food and supplies, you usually saw more curiosity in the eyes of the locals than the sheer terror you're witnessing now. Stares, not averted gazes.

Apparently they don't get many Mandalorians in Canto Bight. Probably too shiny, too reflective in the spotlight and spectacle of the flashy casino of a city. They don't fit in; they're meant for a much darker, grittier crowd-one that frequents dusty outer-rim cantinas, drinks booze out of worn metal tankards as opposed to champagne glasses, foregoes the bouncers in tuxedos and just shoots people when they cheat at Sabacc.

The stares, you liked. You liked flanking him when he was a source of intrigue, got high off the second-hand prestige of walking next to him. You liked that the immediate question in everyone's mind subsequent to why is he here? was what do you think that girl is doing with him? It made you feel protected and guarded in dirty, backwater shitholes you normally wouldn't be, gave you a thrill to be part of the mystery just by extension.

But this?

The way people subtly move their casino chips closer to them as you both walk by? How the bartender doesn't even look at you when you order, simply waves off the atrocious amount of credits your food and drink costs when you try to exchange them with the beskar statue silently hovering over your shoulder? How every patron in the general vicinity manages to find somewhere else to linger and converse the second he leads you to a corner of the establishment, how you can see the servers bickering quietly amongst themselves about who has to cover your table as he slowly lowers himself into the booth with his back to the wall?

It's... well, it's a fucking turn-on is what it is.

It strokes some weird, primal instinct deep inside you, one that preens at the raw display of intimidation your companion exudes. Your plate of food comes out faster than you would've thought possible with the insane amount of people here, the red wine tasting so strong and sharp and expensive on your tongue, so much more bitter than the Gamorrean ale or Trandoshan spiced cider you're used to drinking.

You've grown accustomed to eating at vastly different times from Mando, so the lack of food on the table in front of him while you devour yours doesn't really bother you as much as it used to. To be honest, you're not even exactly sure how he does it. You're not dumb enough to believe he finds someway to intake sustenance through the helmet, obviously; it's the speed with which he manages to accomplish it that continues to elude you. You swear he doesn't even chew his food, just inhales the nutrients in the thirty seconds he takes to shut himself away somewhere and eat from time to time.

"Is this a...?" You find yourself saying at one point, waving your fork around at the stunning abundance of space surrounding the two of you compared to the compact way everyone seems to be huddling together outside a glaring twenty or so foot threshold. "...a common thing for you?"

This wine is different. Even when you're tipsy, you're not necessarily talkative, just... slower. Less anxious. But somehow, with this incredibly top-shelf shit (now in short supply after Alderaan's demise a few years ago-a quality which you most definitely do not remember ordering), you've barely finished half a glass and you're already initiating conversation.

For a second you almost think he's going to ignore you, just let the question hang awkwardly in the air and use his silence to remind you what business of his is or isn't your place-until he looks around at the terrified crowd as if he's only just realizing they're there and says, "Inner-rim? Yeah. Sometimes."