din djarin x reader imagines

a partnership, of sorts

from sevryx on archive of our own

He was quiet when you first met him.

"Am I mad? Mad doesn't begin cover it!"

His voice was still husky, smooth and handsome even through the modulator. But this time, he was yelling at you. The sounds of gunfire faded into the distance, or maybe that was just your ears failing you.

"Broken a few windows, maybe fatally wounded a few patrons – that's mad! You set fire to establishment and almost blew up our asset! And ourselves! What the hell were you thinking?"

You couldn't help the laugh that wheezed out of your lungs, cut into fragments between your pained gasps and being jostled in his arms as you were carried back to the ship.

"And now you're laughing about it!?"

You couldn't see very well, but the familiar hissing sound of the door of the Razor Crest alerted you that you were now aboard the ship.

"I know y-you're upset, Mando... I can see it from – ah!" You grimaced as another stream of hot blood leaked from your side, the taste of copper and burnt debris on your lips bitter in your mouth. "From the – the look on your f-face!" You laughed, deciding your joke was good enough to be worth breaking into another coughing fit.

He threw you onto a bed, a little rougher than warranted. He apparently did not find it humorous.

"You're lucky we still got the full bounty! And I have half the mind to keep your share for the trouble you caused!"

Gloved hands began to tear away at your charred armor, exposing the gnarled flesh on your torso to find a dark gash full of ashes and shrapnel. For once, you couldn't find the words to speak in the midst of the searing pain.

"This is going to hurt. A lot."

He sounded almost apologetic, anger giving way to something softer, yet equally urgent. Something fearful.

The last thing you heard before losing consciousness was the sound of the cauterizer turning on.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

You woke up to a throbbing headache and the sound of anxious pacing. You took an experimental breath in, feeling a sharp aching in your torso and a heavy creaking in your limbs. Swallowing hard, you clenched your jaw, collecting your observations with eyes still shut. You weren't wearing any of your armor – you were not wearing familiar clothing at all, but clothing that seemed much too large to fit you. You were not covered in a thick layer of blood and dirt and grime. And you were not in your regular sleeping quarters on the ship, but in someone else's bed covered by someone else's blankets. This equaled three discrepancies to your typical disposition and brought a wrinkle of concern to your brow.

"You're awake."

You grunted in a blunt agreement.

"... Are you okay?"

You opened your eyes. "I'm not dead, so I'm fine."

"I appreciate that your standard is 'not dead'." Heavy footsteps approached your bedside. "That's good. Let's keep it that way. 'Not dead' makes for a great bare minimum."

There was a beat of silence before you spoke again. You were used to his sarcasm, but not like this. Not with such a bite. With such unfiltered grief.

"I'm sorry." You offered.

Another beat of silence.

Then the Mandalorian laughed at you. Even through the muffle of the helmet, it was a deep, rich kind of laugh despite the pang of pain behind it, the kind that made people smile involuntarily and bite their lower lip in response. Or maybe that was just you. You smiled softly.