Rough Day by guardianangelicas

Of Metal and Men

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

"Mando?"

"Hm."

"I have to pee."

He grunts.  "So go pee."

"I can't see."

"Turn on a light."

"But..."  You don't even want to say the words aloud.  You've so far convinced yourself that if you just never mention the fact that he's got his helmet off right now, he'll somehow forget to put it back on again. 

It's not that you necessarily want him to deviate from the ways of the Mandalore, obviously; you have more respect for his culture than that.  No, it's just that.  This is so nice.  Hearing him speak without a modulator warping the natural frequency of his voice, being able to feel his skin directly under your lips with your face buried in the crook of his neck like this.  Practically everything on this fucking ship is metal—the floor beneath you, the mechanics, the hull, the cockpit, the blasters, the armor.  When he puts it on, he becomes nearly invincible; an unreadable, impenetrable fortress that abides by a strict code he rarely deviates from.

But without all that, he's so... human.  Not a Mandalorian, just a man.  Everything that gives him prestige and recognition stripped away.  Every weapon he straps to his body removed.  The code he's honored his entire life suspended in a paradisiacal loophole that you never want to end, even if it means having to walk around in the dark for the rest of your life.

He has to put the helmet back on at some point, you're eventually forced to remind yourself.  What starts out as an impossible task slowly becomes easier as the pressure in your bladder increasingly makes itself known, a reminder that you too are only human and sometimes humans have to pee soon after they wake up.

Which, y'know, a lot of times is okay.  But sometimes, like right now, it really fucking isn't okay.  Because right now, his hand is so big and warm resting against your upper-back, shoved up underneath the fabric of your shirt and spread out across your shoulder blade.  Right now you can feel his heartbeat through his chest, feel his lungs expand and contract slowly against you.  The last thing you want is to move, and the darkness makes a perfect scapegoat.

You're quiet for too long, apparently, because he eventually turns his chin to brush his lips against your temple.  "Turn on a light.  Just don't look."

You honestly don't blame him.  He hasn't had as much time to contemplate the staggering predicament you're in.  "Those two things aren't mutually exclusive, shiny."

"Go.  I trust you."

Your lashes brush against his neck when your eyes pop open, and the giant pang you feel in your chest shouldn't be nearly as debilitating as it is.  You know he trusts you, it goes without saying.  But it's one thing to travel around the galaxy with him, cultivate that inherent trust that comes naturally with odd partnerships that work surprisingly well.  He trusts you to look after the kid, trusts you to pilot and maintain his ship, trusts you to cauterize his wounds when he's incapable of doing so.  He even trusts you enough to fall asleep next to you, leaving himself unarmored and vulnerable in ways you know you'll never truly be able to understand.

But this—this is entirely different.  This is the Way.  And he's half-asleep right now, putting a proverbial blaster in your hand and painting a target on his livelihood, telling you he trusts you enough to uphold one of the strictest, most foundational pillars of his belief system for him.

Okay.  Okay.  If this is what he wants.  You're not sure you'd put nearly as much blind faith in your own abilities (pun totally intended), but okay.  You trust him and apparently he trusts you, so by some weirdly paradoxical extension inwards, you're just going to have to trust yourself, too.  He's always been a man of relatively few words, so it shouldn't really come as a surprise to you that somehow only three of them work to provide you with more motivation than you've experienced in your entire life.  If this is what he wants, then you'll fight logic with gloves on and downright force yourself to see without seeing.  Somehow.