Archive of Our Own

It started after the krayt dragon.

Well, that is to say—it started when Cobb put together that personal contract listing, after a long, long day and maybe a little too much spotchka.

But he wasn't in trouble, not really, not so's it counted, until after the krayt dragon.

Cobb hadn't meant for it to happen like that.

He hadn't meant for any of it to happen like it had, come to that. He'd composed the listing itself on the spur of the moment, idle-like. It was something people did, of course—out here, edge of the Rim, tiny dusty planets spinning through a whole lot of empty black, sometimes it was the best way to find somebody to spin along next to you. Sometimes it was the only way. And there wasn't a world out there that didn't have its own data-comm beacons blasting away; notices, for any ship entering the system on a hyperjump. Warnings about local anomalies, job postings, advertisements, solicitations. And personal contracts.

There was a standard form and everything. He'd filled it out on the public console in the Mos Pelgo saloon—the terminal was junk, backlight flickering the whole time, but it was linked to the beacon, and it had saved the form just fine. He'd had to submit it half a dozen times; kept missing one required field or another, no thanks to the spotchka. Something to do, a puzzle his dim tired brain had dug its teeth into, and then—

Well. Then, suddenly, he'd gotten it right, and the damn thing had actually gone through.

Not that it was likely to matter, he'd decided, after staring down at the console blankly, a rote confirmation flashing up at him. Even if somebody did make it through all the other data on the beacon, actually saw it—what were the odds they'd answer? What were the odds anybody'd be tempted by the prospect of settling down on the outskirts of Mos Pelgo?

He'd figured he knew the answer to that question.

He'd still checked the console, sometimes. When he happened to be in town anyway, for one reason or another.

And then, about the eighth time he had—there'd been a message after all.

Curt. Not one more word than had been absolutely necessary. That if the offer was still open, the terms final as transmitted, then he could consider the contract accepted.

Cobb had nothing against curt. Never had. And truth be told, he'd been curious as hell. Somebody out there who was honestly desperate enough that Mos Pelgo looked like a good deal? He was a marshal; he ought to help if he could. Or somebody who figured Cobb was the one who had to be desperate, who figured they could get something out of him or swindle his homestead out from under him. In which case, well, same answer. He was a marshal, and he ought to do something about it.

He'd sent back a confirmation, and coordinates.

And two days later, a Mandalorian showed up.

He'd almost been looking forward to it, by then.

Not that he'd expected much of it, not really. Another pair of hands to help out around the place, mostly; he'd picked moisture farming over mining, but even basic condensator maintenance was hard to keep up with, when he was getting called out to town at all hours, day and night alike. And maybe—

Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd have somebody to get to know. Somebody new, not the same hundred faces he always saw in Mos Pelgo, no matter how friendly they were. Somebody who'd—who'd be around, on the long days, the late nights. Somebody to share a space with, for a while, so they neither of them would be spinning along out here alone.

And then, late in the afternoon, he heard a ship coming down, just over the ridge. He went out, walked up the slope and looked at the figure coming down the ship's cargo ramp, squinting into the sun, and his guts dropped into his boots.

A Mandalorian.

Well, shit. Somebody really wanted him dead.

Pykes? Didn't seem likely, he hadn't caught that many spice runners in his territory, but maybe it had made enough of a dent somebody'd decided to do something about it. Or Mining Collective, come to that. One of 'em might've survived—might've scraped together just enough for a bounty, and of course he'd gone and tossed up a personal contract, made it easy as tipping a speeder bike.

He thought about going back down to the house, getting his own armor out, giving himself a fighting chance. But a Mandalorian would be able to kill him anyway, probably. And he found he didn't much like the thought of going out to a blaster bolt in the back. As if he'd been running—no, that wasn't to his taste at all. If this Mandalorian meant to shoot him down, then all right; he'd take it in the chest, like the damn fool he was.

The Mandalorian got closer.

Close enough, now, that Cobb could see more than just the gleam of all that beskar. There was a hover pod, drifting close at the Mandalorian's side. A hover pod, and it had a child inside it.

Cobb blinked.

The Mandalorian slowed—stopped, still a good half-dozen paces away, and one armored hand went out, caught the curve of the hover pod and pushed it gently, until it was behind him instead of beside him. Protective.

Protective enough that maybe he wasn't planning to shoot anybody today, in which case Cobb's odds of surviving until suns-set had just gone way up.

Cobb set his weight back on one heel, and wet his lips. "Well, hello there, stranger," he settled on at last.

The Mandalorian said nothing.

"You, uh. You here to fill a contract?"

"Yes," the Mandalorian said.

"Personal contract," Cobb pressed. "Not a bounty."

"Yes," the Mandalorian said, and then went quiet again—the helmet turned, tipped, almost over the shoulder. Down at the hover pod, and the kid. "I took bounties for a long time. But this foundling is in my care."

"And bounty hunting's a dangerous business," Cobb allowed.

A Mandalorian who'd quit bounty hunting and wanted to settle down on a moisture farm in the middle of nowhere to raise the cutest, greenest kid Cobb'd ever seen. The universe had one hell of a sense of humor, Cobb thought, feeling his mouth slant helplessly.

And then the helmet came back around, faced him straight-on.

"I have nowhere else to go," the Mandalorian said.

It wasn't pleading, wasn't desperate. Struck the harder for it, somehow, that he spoke the words so quietly and evenly, almost matter-of-fact.

Cobb didn't feel much like smiling, after that.

He scratched a thumb across his eyebrow, squinted over the Mandalorian's shoulder at the ship, and then at the kid, and then at the Mandalorian again.

Not a tough decision, not really. Ship helped—wasn't like the Mandalorian was stuck here. It would work out or it wouldn't. And if the Mandalorian decided he wanted to go after all, even if he had nowhere in particular to go to, well. He could, and no hard feelings.

But Cobb was quiet a moment too long.

"If—the contract is still open," the Mandalorian added, "and you don't consider the terms already breached."

"What," Cobb said, "because you didn't tell me about the kid first? Nah, nah, relax. Little guy's adorable. Aren't you? Huh?"

The kid blinked, huge dark eyes, and then made a sweet uncertain burbling sound, almost interrogative.

"Yeah, you are," Cobb informed the kid seriously, and then he looked at the Mandalorian again. "I'll grant you I figured you were here to kill me a minute ago, but seeing as it now appears that's not the case, I'm happy if you are. Come on." He tilted his head, illustrative. "Come on back to the house. You can take a look around—and if you want to take off after you see the place, I won't hold it against you."

It was weird, no doubt about it. Not just that it was a Mandalorian, not just the kid, but—the helmet didn't come off. Impossible to tell what the guy was or wasn't thinking, whether he was smiling or frowning under there, how he felt about any of it.

But Cobb showed him around, and he didn't make a break for it after all. They went into the house, after Cobb had taken him through the condensator bay, and Cobb laid the whole thing out for him, as clear and calm as he could make it.

"And I'd like to make it official, if that's all right with you," he added, once he'd gone through the whole marshal-Mos Pelgo-condensator maintenance bit. "Register in Mos Eisley, proper-like."

"Register," the Mandalorian repeated.

Cobb shrugged a shoulder. "Marshalin' is a dangerous business, too," he said mildly. "If you're down on a register with me, if you've got the records chit to prove it—somebody shoots me in the head one day, and you'll get this whole property, fair and square. Not that you need to keep it," he added. "I'm not expecting you to play the grievin' widower here, and I realize it ain't exactly prime real estate. But you can, you know. Sell it, lease it, whatever you want. Something to help you out, you and the kid. Enough to help you find somewhere else to go, maybe."

The Mandalorian was silent.

And just like that, Cobb felt an odd pointless heat trying its damnedest to climb up into his face. He cleared his throat. "I don't mean to obligate you in any way. I'm not—I won't be insisting on taking any unwanted liberties, here, just 'cause some data core in Mos Eisley says we're married. It'll help make the official bits go smooth, that's all. If you don't want to, that's all right. You stay here, you help me out around the place, keep an eye on it when I'm in town, then you got a place that's yours other than that ship, you and the kid, whether we're on that register or not."

The Mandalorian didn't say anything, still, for a long moment.

And then he turned his head, looked down at the kid again; and the kid looked up at him, huge ears shifting one way and then the other, and chirped.

"Will you protect the child?" the Mandalorian asked at last.

"You mean if something happens to you?" Cobb said. He should've figured, really; probably plenty of people out there with grudges against a bounty hunter, even a bounty hunter who'd retired. Maybe especially a bounty hunter who'd retired—who didn't have a guild backing him anymore. "Of course. Do my best, anyhow."

"All right," the Mandalorian said. "I agree to register," and—shit, Cobb hadn't meant for that to sound like it was a promise he was dangling, incentive for the Mandalorian to go along, instead of basic decency the Mandalorian was going to get either way, but—

But hell, it was going to make the official bits go smooth. And it wasn't ever going to matter otherwise.

"Okay," Cobb said. "All right."

He looked at the Mandalorian, and he felt—something, for an instant. A pang, kind of. The way the guy was standing there, armored all over, bristling with weapons; something stiff, awkward, in the set of his shoulders, a self-conscious hand still resting on the curve of the kid's hover pod. Like he knew what an odd picture he made, him and the kid, but he didn't know how else to be, what else to do with himself. Like—

Like, maybe, he hadn't had all that much more practice than Cobb, at not being alone.

Cobb cleared his throat. "Well, we'll worry about that in the morning, I guess. Anyway, there's, uh. There's one other problem."

The Mandalorian's helmet tilted, fractional.

"I've been trying to get the place set up a bit better," Cobb admitted, "but—frankly, I wasn't countin' on anybody actually taking that contract. Not that I mind, you understand. It's just I ain't finished building another bed yet. Not that mine's not big enough, and I swear I don't mean anything by that; you go ahead and sleep on your ship, if you'd rather."

"No," the Mandalorian said, after a moment. "One bed is fine." And then, awkwardly, "I can—turn off the helmet's vocoder."

"You can—"

"If I snore," the Mandalorian clarified.

And Cobb couldn't help it, then; he had to laugh.

"Okay," he said, grinning. "I'll keep that in mind."

The one bed was fine.

They could both fit in it without touching by mistake. Wasn't like it would've mattered if they had, either, considering the Mandalorian kept his armor on all the time anyway.

If he was doing it just because Cobb was there, if it was uncomfortable trying to sleep like that—he didn't say so, and Cobb didn't push him on it. He had options, and he understood that he did, and he'd picked this one. Cobb could do him the kindness of believing he knew his own mind.

He didn't snore, either.

He never told Cobb his name. He never told Cobb the kid's name, either. But that was all right, too. Wasn't like it was hard to tell who Cobb was talking to, given there was nobody else around. Cobb didn't push him on that, either. Filled out his half of the datasheet for the spousal registry, and let the Mandalorian fill out the other half, and sent it off without looking at it. If the Mandalorian didn't want him to know, then the Mandalorian didn't want him to know. They got the records chit, solid data crystal etched with it all permanent-like, in the next shipment that came in from Mos Eisley; Cobb took it, put it in his pocket, felt the warm weight of it there the whole way back on the speeder bike, and then put it away, didn't let himself linger over it more than was called for.

It was awkward. Of course it was, especially the first few days. But they fell into some kind of a routine, inevitably, and sooner or later it just turned normal.

Turned out they both were in the habit of rising early, which helped—made the bed easier to share, that they weren't disturbing each other at the wrong hours, having to try to figure out how to get out of it without waking each other. Breakfast was never anything much, but the Mandalorian didn't seem to mind; took his plate, and thanked Cobb all level and quiet, and then went off around back of the house somewhere, and Cobb made sure to stay inside till he was done, till he'd come back and the plate was clean and the helmet was on again. Apparently that was real important to the Mandalorian—and seeing as it appeared there were about four things in the universe that were real important to the Mandalorian, Cobb figured trying to accommodate it was the least he could do.

Cobb usually got a call sooner or later, some dispute or other, or else he had to head out on patrol, take a speeder out along the town boundary and make sure there weren't no spice runners had come in overnight, or traces in the sand that said the krayt dragon was restless, that sort of thing. He'd say bye to the kid, and tip his hat to the Mandalorian, and go. With his own armor, if he was expecting trouble, and he was usually expecting trouble.

First time, he hadn't even thought about it. He'd just grabbed it up, started putting it on, and then looked up, and the Mandalorian had been watching him—dead silent, but the helmet was pointed at him, even if Cobb couldn't tell what expression the guy was making in there.

"Not mine," Cobb had said, and then, rueful, "Obviously. And I—didn't kill whoever it belonged to, for the record. Told you I never met any of your people before, and that was the truth. Bought it off some Jawas; can't say where they might've gotten it from."

And the Mandalorian had stood there a little longer, tense and silent, and then turned away. "You should keep it," he'd said quietly, at last. "I've been told you're in a dangerous business."

"That I am," Cobb had agreed, and then he really had had to go, so.

Anyway, after that, the Mandalorian never said another word about it. Cobb went out and did his job, and came back. And at first, half the time, he'd—he'd forgotten, almost. Not that the Mandalorian, the kid, were easy to forget, easy to overlook; it was just he was used to the place empty, used to coming back here to nothing. Finding the Mandalorian on his back in the condensator bay, trying to wrench that one stubborn-ass coolant filter back into place, with the kid cooing at him encouragingly, was a surprise somewhere down in the roots of his brain, in his gut, even though it shouldn't have been.

It was the good kind of surprise, though.

He helped, when he could, in the gaps before something else dragged him away again. The Mandalorian didn't seem to know a whole lot more about moisture condensators than Cobb did, but they muddled along all right together—he'd been taking care of that ship of his a while, Cobb figured, so it was no wonder he was a decent mechanic.

And dinner wasn't much either. But it didn't matter how late Cobb was, of an evening; somehow the Mandalorian was only just hydrating a ration packet right as he walked through the door.

Wasn't as if he had to wait. Would've been more convenient for him if he hadn't, even, since with Cobb out of the house, he could take the helmet off and sit at the table, if he wanted.

But he had to know that—and if, somehow, he didn't, then Cobb was just selfish enough not to tell him.

They didn't talk all that much. But Cobb had never had anything against curt. The kid was adorable, charming little thing, those huge eyes and those huge ears, tiny three-fingered hands. First time he actually lifted his arms up at Cobb instead of the Mandalorian, asking wordlessly to get picked up, Cobb felt his heart just about melt out from between his ribs, and after that, well. He was sunk, all right.

He started to kind of get a feel for the kid's noises, which ones meant what, whether he was hungry or thirsty or tired. He started to get a feel for the Mandalorian, too—to know where to look, because sure, he couldn't see the expression under that helmet, but he could see how the Mandalorian was holding himself, what the line of his shoulders was doing, where his hands were, where he'd settled his weight in his feet. All kinds of things, once you had the eyes to spot 'em, that could tell you plenty.

The moisture farming yield went up, a bit at a time and then steady, no fluke. Enough to buy them another couple condensators, and then another, and not cranky junk that needed to be coaxed to life every day but decent, good condition. Cut the town's payments to Mos Eisley for water by almost a quarter, after a while, enough that Cobb could start holding back some—building up a reserve, something that could keep them all going for a time even if Mos Eisley tried to cut them off someday. Not that he had any particular reason to think that was likely; but it never hurt to be prepared.

By the time he'd actually made some real progress on the second bed, well.

He stopped early. Made it short, like, and put it in the side room for the kid, in case he ever actually grew out of that hover pod of his.

It was working out just fine, all told.

And sure, maybe Cobb thought about it, now and then. Who was under there; what the guy might look like. Didn't seem like he was built right to be the same species as the kid, but there were a whole lot of two-armed, two-legged bipedals out there—plenty of possibilities.

But he didn't do anything foolish. He wasn't planning on doing anything foolish. He had exactly what he'd wanted, everything he'd asked for: another pair of hands around the place. Somebody to share a space with. Nothing quite like the weight of another living person on the same mattress, even if they were covered in beskar. It was enough. And if he got a little twisted up about it in his own head, well, as long as he didn't make it the Mandalorian's problem, it didn't have to matter.

He probably could've kept on like that a while longer, if it hadn't been for the krayt dragon.

It had been quiet a long while, until it passed through town again. Happened to be the same day Cobb and the Mandalorian were out making a supply run; Cobb had a whole load of water to drop off, and they needed a handful of things, new spanner and a few different kinds of condensator bolts and the like. The krayt came through, shook the sand and sent everybody screaming and running, knocked a dozen mining drones out of alignment and then took a bantha on top of it, and Cobb was already running the numbers in his head, trying to work out how much water it was going to cost them to buy another, big valuable bull like that—maybe he could pull a little from the reserve, make it work.

The Mandalorian had never seen the krayt before. Took a minute for Cobb to realize that, another minute to explain. And, well.

Cobb had heard the stories: Mandalorians were real good at killing.

More words than Cobb'd ever gotten out of the Mandalorian in a row, when the Mandalorian was talking to the Tuskens. Talking to 'em—Cobb hadn't really thought you could do that. And how the hell did the Mandalorian know? He must've—he must've been on Tatooine before. A lot, maybe, if he'd learned Tusken.

It just kept piling on, after that. The Mandalorian talking him down, firm, when his temper got the better of him; which it mostly hadn't, till now, so they were both learning a few new things about each other. The Tuskens actually agreeing to it, helping, and once Cobb had his head on straight, he managed to get the townsfolk to go along, too, even if there were a couple close calls along the way. The Mandalorian making it happen, as if—as if maybe Mos Pelgo wasn't just where he'd happened to set down a while thanks to a personal contract. As if maybe it was his town, too, or at least someday it might be.

The actual fight was even worse. Weren't words for it, the way it had felt to have the Mandalorian take that detonator from him, turn to him like that and say, "Take care of the child," and then let the damn dragon swallow him. It had stopped Cobb's heart in his chest, being stuck waiting, not knowing whether he was alive or dead—and then that explosion, the Mandalorian soaring up as the dragon slumped dead below him, had started it beating again.

He couldn't stop it, after that. He couldn't do anything about it except let it have him, sweep him up like high tide, all the ocean Tatooine had ever lost.

He couldn't take the Mandalorian home with him, beat-up and aching, that pretty armor all coated in krayt guts, and not touch him. At least—

At least if there was even the tiniest sliver of a chance he wanted to be touched, and happened not to mind if it was Cobb that did it.

He managed to keep it wrestled down, mostly, while they were on the way back. Even the distance between their speeder bikes seemed like too much; he felt driven by it, needing to get his hands on the Mandalorian, and not even to tumble him but just to—just to do it, to reassure himself with the solid reality of the man, that the Mandalorian wasn't swallowed up or dying slow somewhere under the sand but right there, whole, alive.

He didn't do it. The faster they got back home, the better, and they wouldn't get there faster if Cobb threw himself at the Mandalorian, knocked them both into the dunes and let their speeder bikes go the rest of the way without them. No matter how tempting the idea was.

All the pounding adrenaline of the fight had long since faded, by the time they'd made it back and shut the bikes off. The Mandalorian was moving like it, and Cobb could relate; he hadn't been swallowed by a krayt dragon, but he hadn't done himself any favors charging around, rocket-jetting himself up and down and every which way. He was too damn old to pull nonsense like that without paying for it at least a little.

So they limped to the house together, slow. Almost picturesque, in its way, now that it was nearly suns-set—the pale sandcrete walls, the condensator bay looming up behind the house, the wide gleaming fins of the condensators themselves stretching up into the dimming sky as the suns dropped low, and the sand rippling away around them, red and gold where the light touched it and blue-shadowed where it didn't.

The Mandalorian had the hover pod propped absently against his hip with one hand; the kid was already yawning, big eyes three-quarters of the way shut.

Cobb slid his own helmet off, set it on the table, and then turned around. "Here, come on," he murmured. "I got him," and the Mandalorian's helmet turned, and then tipped down toward the kid. He stayed like that, took a second just to brush his fingers over the kid's head, down one little sleeve, and the kid turned into the touch with a warm happy noise and then yawned again.

A gentle push from the Mandalorian's hand, and the hover pod drifted across the space between them. Cobb nudged it along, toward the kid's room, and herded it in.

The kid burbled sleepily.

"Yeah, big day for you, too, huh?" Cobb said to him, gentle, crouching down to look him in the face. "Lots of fun, watching your daddy get eaten by a krayt."

The kid cooed and then giggled; that was definitely a yes. Cobb grinned.

He got the kid some water, swabbed at least some of the sand off his tiny face and head and hands, out of those big ears of his. By then the kid was pretty done being awake, starting to get a little fussy about it, and it was good enough for now, Cobb figured. He bumped the pod over to the bed, thumbed the controls down the side until it settled onto the frame—didn't shut it off, in case the kid needed to move around in the night, but brought the height down just enough to steady it for him.

And then, well. If the Mandalorian was still out there, hadn't left to go clean himself up on that ship of his, then—maybe.

Maybe, Cobb told himself, and firmly ignored the sudden stupid pounding of his heart.

The Mandalorian was still standing there, when he went back out; he'd hardly moved, framed in the round arch of the doorway.

"You all right?" Cobb said.

"Yes," the Mandalorian said. A pause. "You?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm all right. Hell of a trick you pulled, partner," Cobb added, "hittin' my jets like that. Can't say as I appreciated it much."

"I didn't know what would happen. There was no reason for both of us to—"

"Didn't say I didn't know why you did it," Cobb said patiently. "Can't even claim I could've argued, if I'd known what you were about, seeing as the kid needed at least one of us to walk away from that. Just can't say as I appreciated it." He stopped, tried to rein himself in, but it was rising up in him all over again—that moment, the way the fist of it still clenched around his heart. And hell, didn't he want to have said at least this much? Even if the rest of it came to nothing, this part still mattered on its own. "Can't say as I wanted to leave you, is all."

"Cobb," the Mandalorian said, as low and crisp and even as he said everything else, through that helmet.

Cobb shook his head. He didn't even know why, he was—that hadn't been what he'd meant to do, what he'd meant to say. Now he was all twisted up inside, throat tight, no words left in him; hadn't even started trying, hardly, and he'd already sucked all the air out of the room. Real smooth operator, he was.

He shut his eyes, and he gripped his own armor by the waist, found the catches by feel.

Should've been warning enough, right there. That he couldn't keep out of his own head, with this, that he was already tangled up somehow and he needed to back the hell away, not wade in deeper.

The problem was—

The Mandalorian was silent, behind him. And then he said, "I—need to go clean this." A pause, a breath; Cobb swallowed, tongue feeling thick in his mouth.

Booted footsteps, over the threshold and then softer, moving across the sand outside.

Cobb stood there alone, for a minute. And then he blinked, cleared his throat. Peeled his own armor off a piece at a time, mechanical, on autopilot.

The problem was, he still wanted it.

He turned around, and went outside. His heart had kept on pounding, useless, foolish, so hard he could feel it in his palms—bare, now, without the armor's gloves to cover them.

One of the suns was down, and the other was so low the light was already gone, the house in the lee of the ridge, those blue shadows welling up everywhere. The Mandalorian was out in the sand half a dozen strides away, kneeling, and his head was bowed, the yoke of his shoulders soft, exhausted. The jet pack was off, resting beside him; without it, that dark cloak of his fell evenly again, just long enough to reach the sand. At a two-thirds angle, Cobb could just about see his arm, his hand: the gauntlet that went over his forearm, and the gloved fingers of the other hand picking at it, half-heartedly trying to work it loose and slide it off.

He didn't lift his head, when Cobb went to him. But he went still all over. Cobb knelt down with him, slid his bare fingers between the Mandalorian's gloved ones, and the Mandalorian let him; still blue-spattered, sticky, but in between where the krayt guts had started to dry on it, the gauntlet was satin-smooth, the metal cool to the touch. Cobb found the right divot with his fingertips, and the whole length of the gauntlet unsealed, cracking open with a quiet click and a sound like a sigh.

"Is this okay?" Cobb said, hardly more than a whisper.

The Mandalorian was silent, for a long slow beat that made Cobb start to think he'd better let go. But before he could—the Mandalorian's gloved fingers closed, abrupt, almost convulsive, trapping half Cobb's knuckles between them, keeping Cobb's hand where it was.

"Yes," the Mandalorian said, no more loudly than Cobb. "Yes."

Not half what he'd come out here to ask for, and yet it had such a weight in itself that he felt staggered by it all the same, breath thin in his throat, pulse loud in his ears. Even if the Mandalorian only meant to let him help take it off, clean it, before sending him back inside, that was—the Mandalorian hadn't ever taken his armor off himself, not where Cobb could see him, let alone given Cobb leave to put his hands all over it.

Cobb bit down on the inside of his cheek, did what he could to steady himself, and got his other hand under the gauntlet, caught it and drew it away from the Mandalorian's arm. Then t'other, just as cautious, because surely any second the Mandalorian would take it back, tell him his help wasn't wanted here after all.

But it didn't happen. Cobb set the gauntlets down, gentle, beside each other in the sand. The pauldrons, next; the bare one first, in case it mattered, in case he wasn't meant to touch the one with the mudhorn worked into it. But the Mandalorian didn't say a word, didn't stop him. He knelt there as Cobb unhitched each piece from him, gloved hands left half-suspended, and it was hard to tell just looking at him, but Cobb set one palm to his chestplate next, and he could feel the Mandalorian's breath, coming quick in his chest.

Cobb swallowed, and let his hand lie there for a second. Let himself feel it, that breathing. The man under the armor; not gone somewhere Cobb couldn't reach him, but right here, whole, alive. It made it better, even, the tacky blue gunk between his skin and the metal. Made it real, that indelible detail, the way it had happened.

"Cobb," the Mandalorian said, and for the first time Cobb could remember, it sounded different. Strained—unsteady.

"It's all right," Cobb murmured, inane, nonsensical. "I got it. It's okay."

The chestplate came away in his hands, and he let it settle to the sand beside the gauntlets.

And then, well. Then there wasn't really anywhere left to go but the thighs.

Cobb reached out for one thigh plate, slid his fingertips up the gleaming silvery shape of it, and then—and then around the edge, under it; like this, with the Mandalorian kneeling, tense, Cobb could feel the muscle of his thigh, even through the armorweave underneath the beskar. He drew a sharp breath, mouth dry, and pushed his fingers under the edge of the plate properly, and the Mandalorian made a sound, choked and thin and scratched-up, through the helmet, that sent a glorious shivering heat up and down Cobb's spine.

"Shh," he heard himself say hoarsely. "Shh, easy. Not done yet."

The Mandalorian was—he was breathing hard enough, loud enough, that the vocoder was actually catching it, now; Cobb could hear it, the harsh white-noise rush of it.

"Let me. Just let me—"

Finally, damn, there it was. The thigh plate came away, and Cobb couldn't help it, let it slide off sideways without taking the care to set it down himself, because he'd already turned over his hand, spread his palm out over that broad thigh; it was as if he'd stripped the Mandalorian naked already, just being able to feel the Mandalorian through nothing but cloth. Cloth, even if it was armorweave, and that was the Mandalorian's skin, right under there, warm and soft, giving under the helpless pressure of Cobb's fingertips, nothing like beskar at all.

"Cobb—"

"One more," Cobb said, but it was damn hard to mean it; the Mandalorian was shuddering under his hand, weight hitching clumsily into his grip, and he fumbled his other hand down, gripped the other thigh plate and hoped like hell he wasn't tearing anything as he pried it out of his way.

And it was a greedy, glorious feeling, being able to close his hands around both the Mandalorian's thighs at once, being able to slide them up uninterrupted all the way to the Mandalorian's hips. The Mandalorian shivered, swaying, and his helmet touched Cobb's temple, bumped his forehead; Cobb swore breathlessly and lifted one hand to the nape of the Mandalorian's neck instead, and then dug his teeth into his own lip until he had some chance of stringing a thought together again.

"I know what I said when you got here," he managed, after a moment. "And I meant it—still do. I don't mean for you to feel you've got to oblige me in any respect in particular. But if—"

"Yes," the Mandalorian said. "Yes. Please, I." He stopped; he'd caught Cobb by the arms, gloved fingers twisting in Cobb's shirtsleeves, but that was all. "Do it. Anything."

A hunch—Cobb followed it, let the one hand trip from the Mandalorian's hip down into the crease of his thigh, and then between his legs. A good guess: not just two arms and two legs, but a very familiar arrangement altogether, which was going to make this a lot simpler. "You liked that, huh," he murmured, feeling himself on somewhat steadier ground; that was an awfully hard cock, trapped in a straining curve that said he hadn't been kidding himself, that the Mandalorian had been right there with him all along.

"Yes," the Mandalorian blurted, and then he sucked in a breath, the helmet twisting to the side—turning his face away. Ashamed of himself, Cobb thought with a sudden jolt, and he shouldn't be. He shouldn't be.

"You liked that," Cobb repeated, gentler, warmer, and he rubbed the backs of his knuckles up the shape of the Mandalorian's cock under that armorweave and then kept going, let it be. The Mandalorian's utility belt was still hitched, but there was a gap just above it, fabric that was loose now, after all that tugging and shuffling to get the armor off, and Cobb slid his hand in and was rewarded with skin, tense and shivering under his fingertips. "Letting me take you apart, open you up for me, one piece at a time."

The Mandalorian made a half-strangled sound, weight shifting, restless and uncertain; Cobb squeezed the nape of his neck, stroked the other hand soothingly along the shape of his waist.

"Well, I ain't done with you yet, partner," Cobb promised him, and then rose up a little way, pressed close and let his own weight start to do a little work. And, slow, one halting fraction at a time, the Mandalorian let himself be moved—got his feet out from under himself, and Cobb eased him back, guided him down onto the sand, settled himself between the Mandalorian's thighs, and damn, that was a hell of a view. The Mandalorian under him, and the pieces of the Mandalorian's armor scattered around beside, and the Mandalorian's gloved hands clenched in Cobb's shirt like he wasn't planning to let go anytime soon.

And Cobb sure as shit wasn't going to make him.

It wasn't much, in the grand scheme of things. Heat had driven them along a ways, sure, but they were both beat down, exhausted, and there was only so much reckless arousal could do about it. Cobb managed to work the Mandalorian's belt open without too much trouble, and then his waistband behind it; the Mandalorian didn't cry out, when Cobb got a hand around his cock at last, but he made a low helpless sound, muffled, bitten-down-on, that was twice as gratifying. "You," he said after, hoarse and strained. "You, too."

"Okay, okay," Cobb hushed him, "all right," and his own pants, he could get open one-handed in the dark, seeing as he'd been practicing that particular maneuver since he was a teenager, and right now it was still dusk. The work of a moment, and then he touched himself, one long sweet stroke, and hissed between his teeth at how good it felt; and then he took the Mandalorian by the hips, hitched him closer and leaned down over him, lined them up with each other and wrapped a hand around them both. And even better than the heat of the Mandalorian's cock, the startlingly intimate texture of hair, was the way the Mandalorian cursed and curled upward into him, clutching at him, fumbling down. He still had his damn gloves on, Cobb understood dimly, as the Mandalorian's hand closed over his, curled around them both, gloved fingertips shoving between Cobb's to slide along their cocks.

He couldn't hang on much longer, after that. Not that he'd been expecting to, but it was good, scorching, better than he'd have let himself imagine—and awkward, hitching, but that only made it more real, and real was exactly what he'd wanted most.

When he came, it was long and slow and toe-curling. Felt like it took his whole body, clenching its way through every bit of him from his feet to his fingers to the ends of his hair, and he gasped his way through it, shuddering, temple pressed to the inward arc of the cheek plate of the Mandalorian's helmet.

"You," the Mandalorian said in his ear, sounding almost surprised, and then, "Cobb—" and Cobb managed dimly to figure out which part of his brain it was that controlled his hand, convinced his fingers to close around the Mandalorian's cock properly again, and it only took three strokes to tip the Mandalorian over with him, so at least he hadn't fucked that up too badly.

They lay there for a minute, after. Cobb didn't want to move in general, and especially not now, the Mandalorian warm and strong and solid underneath him, but—he probably ought to give the man a chance to catch his breath, he told himself, and rolled off.

Rolled off, and then grimaced, at the prodding of a hard smooth curve of beskar underneath him.

"Whoops," he said, breathless, and then fumbled under himself, came up with one of those damn thigh plates. He only realized after he'd done it that he'd used the same hand he'd been jerking them both off with, that it wasn't just krayt guts smeared across the surface now.

The Mandalorian's helmet tipped toward him.

"I, uh." He cleared his throat. "Guess this one's going to need a little extra cleaning."

The Mandalorian lay there, looking at him, and then shifted.

Squirmed, an optimistic man might be inclined to say.

"Oh, that's how it is, I see," Cobb murmured. "Like that too, do you?" He still had a decent spattering of come on his wrist, his palm, his thumb; he swiped the thumb across the thigh plate, slow, wiping it around in a long unnecessary arc, and the Mandalorian's head tipped back a little, the angle of his hips turning one way and then the other, restless.

"I," the Mandalorian said, and then stopped. The cloak, the collar of the armorweave, had shifted; Cobb could see his throat move, underneath. "Beskar—requires little maintenance. It's very easy to clean."

Cobb grinned. "Well. Ain't that convenient." And then he paused, and cleared his throat. The Mandalorian hadn't moved; he'd let his hands drop to his sides, after, and Cobb touched the near one, brushed the gloved back with his fingertips. "That is, uh. Assumin' you'd care to use that fact to our advantage."

"Yes," the Mandalorian said, quiet. "I would."

"Well," Cobb said. "All right. All right, then."

They put themselves back together, after a little while.

Staggered to their feet, in the dimness; it wasn't true night yet, the first stars only just coming out, but Cobb was tired enough it might as well have been dawn. The Mandalorian didn't put his armor back on. He just gathered it up, and Cobb took a couple pieces himself, and then they stumbled back to the house, shoulders brushing, bumping, arms pressed together.

Cobb's armor was still on the table where he'd left it. The Mandalorian went over and set his own down beside it, and Cobb did the same with the gauntlet, the pauldron, that were in his hands. Like that, it was—it didn't matter that one was painted, chipped, the other clean and polished. It was obvious the bones were the same, a matched set, and Cobb looked at it and felt something tighten up so sharp in his chest there was a kind of pain in it.

The Mandalorian went with him to the bed; that part was normal, ordinary, no more than Cobb had come to expect any given night. But something about it felt different, with the armor gone. With the armor gone, and the Mandalorian shifted, turned toward Cobb instead of away, closer than he'd ever lain before.

Cobb should've ignored it, maybe, shut his eyes. But there was something in that moment, some bated quality to the quiet, and he looked at the Mandalorian and waited, heart in his throat, for he-didn't-even-know-what.

The Mandalorian shifted the barest fraction closer.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Cobb laughed, half a breath through his nose, and—it was easier, now, to reach out, to spread his hand across the Mandalorian's chest and leave it there, when there was some real honest chance he was welcome. "Yeah, it was an awful hardship," he murmured, "doin' you such a favor." He shifted, rubbed his thumb in a long slow arc; still a hell of a novelty, nothing but that armorweave between him and the Mandalorian's living warmth. "Got a pretty good idea how you could make it up to me, though."

"Is that so," the Mandalorian said. And it was as level as ever, just about, even and dry, but there was something, some shy uncertain warmth that colored the sound of his voice, that made Cobb's throat tight.

"You bet," Cobb managed.

They didn't talk any more, after that. They fell asleep like that, in point of fact: closest they'd ever been to each other, curling in toward each other instead of away, and Cobb thought dimly he ought to move his hand, leave the man in peace, and then didn't quite manage to do it before he slid away into the soft dark.

So, after the krayt dragon, they were fucking.

Not all the time, not every day or every night. The work was still the same, and it still had to be done.

But there were times when—when Cobb would've just sat quiet and kept himself to himself, before. When he'd have held himself in check.

Thought about it, hell. Yeah, he'd thought about it. He'd thought about it a lot more than he ought, even if he'd been talking himself down, telling himself every day not to make it into more than it was.

Got so he'd been locked down tight, so he couldn't hardly breathe for it. Making sure not to look too long, not to linger over it any in his head, if he caught the Mandalorian in the condensator bay, on his back under a coolant filter with his legs apart, thighs open. Not to listen too close, when the Mandalorian was outside playing with the kid in the sand; because the Mandalorian's laugh was soft, low, rough and always a little surprised, as if he hadn't expected himself to let it out, and that hadn't been anything Cobb needed filling up his head, not back when he couldn't rightly have done anything about it.

Now, though, he could. He could, and he did.

The worst had been the late nights. Real late, the kind where Cobb was prying himself off his speeder bike already yawning, stumbling his way toward the house with bleary concentration—giving the Mandalorian a nod, rubbing his eyes, getting himself a drink, and it had been a trap but he'd stepped into it anyway, every time. Sitting down across from the Mandalorian, never beside, because he weren't a fool even if he did a damn good impression now and then; spotchka in one hand, and his other at the kerchief, first, and then his collar underneath, and then the greatest challenge of all in the sleeves, rolling 'em up one at a time with all the weary concentration he had left in him. Setting himself up for the fall: wishing, dim and helpless and silent, that it meant something, anything, to the Mandalorian, that under that damn helmet the Mandalorian might be looking at the bared base of his throat, his forearms, at—him, and thinking—

Well. Didn't matter what he'd wished the Mandalorian was thinking. Always ended the same way, before. Mando's voice, soft and steady, telling Cobb one of the coolant cyclers was busted again, or how the kid had made some noise that sounded almost like a word. Cobb tipping back a little spotchka, letting himself smile, feeling that raw tender wanting inside himself sharpen so much it hurt and then gradually soften, till he could almost bear it. And then the Mandalorian would get to his feet, and wish Cobb a quiet night and deep sleep, and Cobb would stay right where he was until—until he couldn't hear the Mandalorian moving around anymore, in their room. Soft shuffling sounds, and the muted clunk of the helmet coming off, the splash of water in the fresher; and Cobb had made sure to shut his eyes, then, every time. Just in case. Just so even if his feet did some damn fool thing like lift him up and carry him into the bedroom, he wouldn't ruin everything at once.

He'd always told himself he was just being reasonable about it, giving the Mandalorian a chance to get himself settled in first. Couldn't let himself admit that if he followed the Mandalorian in there too soon, he'd do something, say something—ask the Mandalorian for what he'd had no right to ask for.

But now he was allowed.

Now he was allowed to walk into that condensator bay, settle in between the Mandalorian's knees and slide his hands up over the smooth familiar beskar of those thigh plates, and listen to the Mandalorian's breath rush out of him. Now he was allowed to step outside, drop to the sand beside the Mandalorian and press his shoulder to the Mandalorian's, grin at the kid and tickle his toes, and wink at the Mandalorian after. Now—

Now, he got to rest himself against the edge of the table, those late nights, lean back and slug a swallow of spotchka and part his thighs, and the Mandalorian would look at him, draw a long soft breath and let it out, and then step up in between them. Now Cobb got to pry that armor off, quicker and quicker the more practice he got; now he got to feel the Mandalorian's hands on him, shy gloved fingers at his throat opening his collar even further, one button at a time—like maybe the Mandalorian really had been looking after all, whenever the kerchief came off.

He got to look, and he got to touch. Never got old, cracking all that beskar open; not even the doing of it so much as the knowing that the Mandalorian was allowing it. That he'd picked Cobb, even if it was only convenience, pleasure, even if it was only for this.

And he'd been right, the armor was easy to clean. Lucky for them, even if Cobb sometimes caught himself wishing it wasn't. Wishing his fingerprints stuck to it, wishing he could see every single place his hands had been, after. Wishing it left a mark, wishing it damn well stained, every time he took a piece and pushed it between the Mandalorian's legs, rubbed himself off against the smoothness of it while the Mandalorian made urgent shocked noises under him—

But never mind. Wasn't how this worked, and never would be.

It was good just as it was. It was fantastic, come to that. The Mandalorian was so cautious, awkward and uncertain, it was charming; might've made Cobb nervous, thinking he'd had second thoughts about the whole thing and decided he didn't care to warm Cobb's bed after all, except it melted away from him so easily under Cobb's hands. As if it was only that he didn't know where to start, how to begin, but once that first plunge had been taken, that gap crossed, there was nothing he'd wanted more.

And, truth be told, Cobb was grateful for it. It had been an awful long while since he'd done anything like this, never mind with—with his own husband. With someone who meant to stick around, who weren't just passing through. Made Cobb awkward in his own right, now and then; but the Mandalorian wasn't going to hold it against him, and the way the Mandalorian responded, answered, moved into his touch instead of away every time, turned it easy.

A few weeks of it, and the weight of the Mandalorian, the shape of his cock, grew familiar. Cobb managed to get a few more clothes off him, armorweave pushed out of his way and the Mandalorian's britches open properly, and even the gloves off, once and then again. And it wasn't always shadowed dusk, which meant he actually got a decent look, managed to assemble some kind of picture for himself. He was starting to think the Mandalorian was human, of all things—skin a few shades different, and the wiry curling hair around the base of his cock, the dusting across his thighs, was darker than Cobb's. But his cock went red and heavy when he was hard, his naked hips and belly flushing pink; not blue- or green-blooded. No tail, no tentacles, no gestational pouch. Funny, almost, that Cobb had spent all that time wondering, the Mandalorian so closely covered up he couldn't begin to guess, and the answer had been as simple as that, the whole while.

They were both too eager for it, the first half-dozen times, to get much further than hands, moving against each other with clumsy eagerness. Must've been near as long for the Mandalorian as it had been for Cobb.

But Cobb managed to slow things down, a bit at time. Got his mouth on the Mandalorian, first, and it was worth every moment of the wait—the Mandalorian's cock sliding in over his tongue, the weight of it filling his mouth, the half-choked frantic noises the Mandalorian made as he did it and the mindless reflexive shifting of the Mandalorian's hips. Cobb had to hold him down, toward the end, pin him, and the Mandalorian shuddered all over, gripped his arm and gasped, "Cobb," and came in his mouth. After that, Cobb only had to give himself two or three desperate strokes, eyes squeezed shut, panting with his mouth open against the bare shivering skin of the Mandalorian's waist, before he was over the edge himself.

Rousing success all around; an experience worth repeating.

The first time he got the Mandalorian to fuck him was even better. Hardly seemed possible that it could be, but it was.

One of those late nights, and the kid long since asleep by the time Cobb came home. Came—back to the house, Cobb had always thought of it that way before the Mandalorian; he didn't know when that had changed, but he stood in the doorway, a single light shining and the Mandalorian awake, waiting for him, and his heart wrung itself tight in his chest. Home.

He was exhausted, too, which didn't help. Harder not to want it, then. Harder to remind himself he wasn't to overstep, wasn't to ask the Mandalorian for more than it was right to expect the Mandalorian to give him.

He looked at that gleaming, familiar helmet, every angle and curve and facet as known and distinct as any face ever could have been. And he didn't know for certain what expression he was making, but the Mandalorian's chin came up a fraction, white-noise rush of an indrawn breath, as if he could tell exactly how powerfully Cobb's insides were twisting up on themselves with want.

Cobb swallowed. Crossed the room to him, quick, and touched the back of one gauntlet at the end nearest his wrist. "How about the bed this time?" he murmured, hoarse.

"Yes," the Mandalorian said, just as quietly. "Yes."

And having to back up to let the Mandalorian rise, having to go into the other room, made it easier. If they'd been touching, they probably wouldn't have gotten any further than usual; but they weren't, even if the air was so taut and still between them that it felt almost as if they were, and that meant Cobb could keep his wits about him, focus enough to actually strip himself down for real.

When he was done, the Mandalorian was standing there, watching him, the single dim light falling in from out over the table tracing him out, half silhouette.

"Cobb," he said, very softly; and then he moved, halting, clumsy, and stripped off his gloves, one and then the other.

He'd let Cobb take them off him, a few times. But he'd never done it himself before.

His hands were broad, strong, and there was still novelty enough in feeling them, their warmth, that Cobb shivered all over, couldn't help it. That was all it was, the—the novelty.

He breathed out, slow and uneven, and leaned in close, let his temple, his cheek, rest against the Mandalorian's helmet. The Mandalorian had taken him by the shoulders, and then those hands skimmed gently, tentatively, down his back, into the small of it.

"Please," Cobb said, and caught him by the nape of the neck, the lip of the helmet under the edge of his palm, and then he drew the Mandalorian, one step at a time, to the edge of the bed.

It felt like it all went too fast and too slow, both at once, after that. The Mandalorian over him, three-quarters shadow; the steady familiar weight of him, and the reassuring rush of his breath, coming quick, through the helmet. Cobb was already hard, couldn't hope to stop it, and there wasn't anything much he could distract himself with except his hands on the Mandalorian, except parting his thighs so the Mandalorian could fit himself between them, which weren't exactly the best way to make him any less hard. His heart was hammering fit to burst, and his own pulse was loud in his ears.

He'd done this before, and quite a bit. But not in a long while. He still had something of the trick of it: how to get himself a decent angle to unhitch the Mandalorian's belt, to get the Mandalorian's waistband open and close his hand around the Mandalorian; how to relax into himself, into the hot alive feeling of his body, so it would go as smooth as it could.

But—it had been a long while. Even with the Mandalorian all slicked up, thanks to certain handy personal supplies Cobb happened to keep in the storage closure on his side of the bed, the first blunt pressure of the head of his cock made Cobb's breath stop in his throat. He felt oddly overaware of himself, the sweat gathering at the back of his neck and behind his knees, the easy stretch in his thighs, each individual fingertip of both the Mandalorian's hands where they were closed carefully over his hips, wide, spanning almost up to his last rib. And then—and then one of them lifted away, the Mandalorian shifting his weight, reaching to guide himself; that firm hot pressure increased, and Cobb gulped air, let his head tip back, spine helplessly weak.

"Sorry," he croaked.

The Mandalorian went still.

"Might, uh," Cobb managed. "Might be a moment. Ain't been goin' out ridin' all that often of late, if you follow me. Or getting ridden, for that matter."

"I—don't mind," the Mandalorian said, soft and breathless, sweetly awkward in that way he always was when he had no idea what the hell to do, and Cobb was swept with such a sudden powerful swell of feeling over it that his eyes stung hot for an instant. He bent in the grip of it, got an elbow under himself and caught the Mandalorian's shoulder in his other hand, felt along dimly till he'd found the helmet again, and the Mandalorian took his meaning, bent likewise to meet him, till Cobb's forehead met the cool smooth curve of the Mandalorian's.

The Mandalorian heeded him, and took him real slow. First true stretch knocked the breath out of him, as the head of the Mandalorian's cock breached him, the sweet hot strain jolting through his nerves. But he hung on, bore it, and the Mandalorian made a choked wordless sound and pushed deeper, opening him up—almost more of a torment slow than it would have been if the Mandalorian had just shoved it in, but the good kind, a soft ache building, the barest gritty friction now and again where Cobb hadn't taken quite enough care slicking the Mandalorian's cock up first. He gasped and swore, clenching helplessly around the shape of the Mandalorian's cock in him, shaking a little with the effort it took not to—not to squirm, not to writhe, but hell, it was already so fucking good—

He squeezed his eyes shut, made himself breathe even though his body didn't much care to waste any attention on that when there was so much of interest going on elsewhere. And the Mandalorian gathered himself, shifting between Cobb's thighs, and then thrust again; further, this time, had to be almost the whole length of him, and Cobb felt himself give to it, take it—shuddered all over, panting helplessly against the Mandalorian's cheek plate, and that, in retrospect, was when he should've come to an understanding of exactly how much trouble he was in.

He didn't. Not then, with the Mandalorian holding him there, dragging them both through the slick shivering heat of that last critical fraction till it was over, till he was in Cobb to the hilt. The Mandalorian fucked him in long, slow, stuttering strokes, and the only thing he said, the whole time, was, "Cobb. Cobb," as if it was the only word in his head, which was gratifying as hell.

And it weren't as if Cobb couldn't relate. He clung on hard as he could, face to the Mandalorian's helmet, and he couldn't keep a thought in his head that wasn't the Mandalorian, the way it felt to have him like this, how much Cobb had wanted it and how hopelessly fucking good it was to get it. He hadn't—he hadn't even peeled the Mandalorian's armor off him this time, which meant that the Mandalorian moving in him, fucking him, was hitching his bare thighs over the Mandalorian's thigh plates; when the Mandalorian leaned in close over him, that was—that was the lower edge of the chest plate bumping just under the head of Cobb's cock, and when he came, which he was damn sure going to, it was going to get all over—

The Mandalorian made a harsh, unsteady, strangled sound, as if he were biting his own mouth shut and then crying out anyway. He gripped Cobb tighter, frantic, and fucked in, one sharp uncontrolled hitch of his hips and then another—searing enough on its own, even if the blunt thickness of him hadn't hit just the right angle by it. There was warning enough, the tightening weight of Cobb's balls and the tingling urgent tension clenching its way through his ass, his thighs; shit, he thought hazily, and fumbled his way down, closed a clumsy hand around himself just in time.

He came in sweeping drawn-out pulses, because he wasn't stripping himself, the grip of his hand around his cock enough to drag and spark along his nerves but no more than that. He'd just wanted to feel it, and—and all right, perhaps it was a bit of a thrill, dirty, obscene, to angle his cock just so, even as the first rippling wave of white heat overtook him. To make sure it did, in fact, get all over that damn chestplate.

The Mandalorian clutched at him, shoved in hard; feeling it, Cobb understood vaguely, trying to survive the way Cobb was clenching around the shape of him over and over. "Oh," he said breathlessly, "I—Cobb," and then he was gone, too, stumbling over the edge just the same as Cobb. Cobb could feel it, that last sudden thickening of his cock, and he was in up to the hilt, it was inescapable: the messy wet rush of it, filling Cobb up, as deep in him as anything had ever been. Cobb squeezed his eyes shut, swallowed a dozen helpless noises at once as best he could, but it was so fucking good—in and of itself, the sheer sensation, knowing what it meant, knowing that the Mandalorian wanted him and had fucked him and had loved it. And there was a part of him, the same wicked restless part that had wanted to come on the Mandalorian's beskar, that felt it: Cobb hadn't had his armor on for this, couldn't be given a taste of his own medicine. So what choice had the Mandalorian had but to come on him, in him, to fuck Cobb full of his own mess—

Cobb bit his lip, hard, one more shuddering jolt through him as the Mandalorian thrust weakly into him, the last aftershock.

And then it was just them. The Mandalorian, curled in over him, and the helmet had come to rest just at the base of Cobb's throat, the Mandalorian's bare hands still holding on tight, the Mandalorian's breath coming just as fast and hard as Cobb's, rushing white noise. Cobb had already had one hand hooked tight around the Mandalorian's shoulders, holding on, but he fumbled the other—the come-slick one, and it wasn't really on purpose but his gut flickered with leftover heat anyway—up to that helmet, the curve of it, held it there. His head had fallen back, helpless, in the middle of it all, but he dragged it up, pressed his face, his mouth, to the helmet's side.

He didn't mean anything by it. He wasn't asking for anything in particular. There just wasn't anything else he could do with himself, with the slow raw surge of feeling inside him.

The Mandalorian had gone mostly soft again, after a minute—pulled out of him, cautious, gentle, and Cobb tried to help as best he could, coordinate his muddled shivering limbs a little and make it easy. "Hell of a mess," he managed, and then caught the Mandalorian's shoulder. "No, no, 's fine, don't mind. No need to get up."

"Cobb—"

"I like it," Cobb added, and the Mandalorian stopped moving, the tension melting out of that shoulder under its pauldron, until Cobb judged it was safe to let go of it again. "Being a mess of you. Being a mess with you. 'S good." He shifted, settled himself under the Mandalorian a little more comfortably, and then raised an eyebrow—let his other hand find its way back down, into the middle of the splash of white smears he'd left low on the Mandalorian's chest plate, and slid his fingers into it. It was already starting to dry a bit on the edges, going tacky, but there was enough wet that he could drag some along, paint a couple long uneven arcs over the beskar.

The Mandalorian didn't move. Couldn't tell where he was or wasn't looking. But he didn't knock Cobb's hand away, and after a moment a little shudder went through him, his hands flexing under Cobb's back and hip, closing: holding on.

Cobb grinned up at him, lazy. And then he let his hand slow, pressed it flat over that chestplate, and he let the grin slide away, and for some idiot reason he was just lying there, staring up at the Mandalorian, throat tight.

"Cobb," the Mandalorian said, very low.

"Mando," Cobb said, and he was—here it was, the trouble, the moment he could get himself out in front of it. He needed to look away, needed to get up after all, or at least roll over, put his back to the Mandalorian, make sure he couldn't fuck this up—

"Cobb," the Mandalorian said again, and then, even softer, "Close—close your eyes."

Shit, Cobb thought, and drew a long slow breath, and closed them.

He didn't move. Felt like he couldn't, like there was a wild scurrier in the room he was trying to coax closer, and he'd scare it off if he wasn't careful. With his eyes shut, suddenly it felt like he could hear ten times as much as usual: his own heart, hammering away, and the shift of the Mandalorian's weight, the rustle of the sheets. The soft noise of cloth, and then the faintest shimmering ring of metal. Like arms being raised. Like hands, maybe, against a helmet.

And then—brief stillness. A tiny uneven sound. An indrawn breath, that was what it was, and Cobb screwed his eyes shut tighter, tried to will away a shiver, because it shouldn't have been half as hot as it was, hearing that.

A quiet rush of motion, and Cobb stayed where he was, heart pounding; would've startled him out of his skin, the bare fingertips that touched his mouth next, except there was something, a movement of the air, the dimmest sensation of body heat, that gave him warning.

"Cobb," the Mandalorian whispered, and Cobb didn't just hear it, he felt it, the movement of the breath itself against his ear, sweet and at the same time almost obscene, nakedly daring, in a way the Mandalorian fucking him somehow hadn't been.

And then the Mandalorian inhaled, quick, sharp, and Cobb heard his throat click—reached up without knowing what he was reaching for, and managed to catch the Mandalorian by what turned out to be the nape of the neck, as the Mandalorian leaned in over him and kissed him.

It was warm, soft. Clumsy, a little off-center. And Cobb only had about half a second to understand that, before it was over.

"I," the Mandalorian said, jerking away, pulling back against Cobb's grip. "Sorry. I don't—I haven't—"

"No, hey," Cobb said, "don't. Don't go anywhere, all right?" and the Mandalorian stayed like that, tensed, holding himself away, and then softened by slow degrees, let Cobb draw him close again. "It's fine. It's good, it was good. Please," he said, hoarse, and he kept his eyes shut tight, felt his way up the side of the Mandalorian's throat to his jaw, prickling under his fingers—stubble, he thought, a weird warm feeling welling up in his guts.

And if the Mandalorian was still dubious of his own skill, he was also willing to be coaxed through another attempt. He let Cobb touch his cheek, his mouth; taking aim, and once Cobb had it square in his figurative sights, he pushed himself up on his elbow, kissed the Mandalorian around his own fingertips against the Mandalorian's lower lip. Held it, until he was pretty sure the Mandalorian wasn't going to try to bolt again, and then he slid his hand out of the way, caught the Mandalorian's face in it instead and kissed him again, slower, deeper.

He hadn't been asking for this. He couldn't have, it wasn't—it hadn't been part of what they were doing, up till now. They were husbands, but that was for the register, the homestead, the kid, just in case it should become necessary. They were sharing their bed, but that was because it worked, because there wasn't any particular reason not to. They were taking satisfaction from each other, because it was—because it was convenient, because it happened to have turned out neither of them minded doing it that way. It hadn't ever been—it wasn't ever meant to be—

Cobb screwed his eyes shut tighter, heard himself make a thin desperate sound in the back of his throat; he'd parted his mouth already, slicked the Mandalorian's lower lip half-open with his tongue, but the Mandalorian was—he'd gotten the idea all at once, drawing a shaky breath against Cobb's mouth and then letting Cobb, following the slow coaxing strokes of Cobb's thumb against that stubbled jaw. It should've been too much, Cobb too greedy, practically fucking his mouth now, but he was allowing it, taking it. His mouth, so much more thoroughly hidden a secret than even his skin or his cock had been, and Cobb couldn't breathe for the wanting of it, a deeper and more frantic hunger than any he'd thought it wise to entertain.

But apparently it didn't matter what he'd thought was wise, not anymore. It didn't matter how careful he'd meant to be, how well he'd been trying all along to keep himself in check. He'd crossed the line a long while ago; the real trouble was that now he knew he had, and there was nothing to be done about it.

He kept his eyes shut. They kissed awhile, him and the Mandalorian, tangled up in each other in the dark. Tipped onto their sides, after a time, because it was easier, because they were tired—still wrapped up in each other, smeared in their own mess, Cobb's skin and the Mandalorian's armor alike. Kept on as long as they could, trading long slow touches of their mouths, the wet heat of a tongue now and then. But in the end, Cobb had to let go, sleep dragging him under, and never mind that he'd much rather have stayed right where he was, in the Mandalorian's arms.

In the morning, he woke alone.

Weren't a surprise, in and of itself. He could hear the Mandalorian in the house, moving about; probably hadn't been more than a few minutes since the man had got up himself. Cobb had tuckered himself out, was all, getting a little more athletic and a little later at night than he was used to. Sometimes one of them slept past the other rousing. Nothing odd about it.

He lay there, for a minute. Let himself stretch, real long and slow, feeling the ache in him, his thighs and his hips, his ass—good ache. Worth having. He smiled at the ceiling, couldn't stop it, and then rubbed his hands over his face and told himself to get a grip. No sign of the helmet in here, so the Mandalorian probably had put it back on, which meant it was safe enough to get up and move around himself.

Another ten minutes, and he'd grudgingly pried himself out of the bed and gotten under the sonics, the worst of the dried sweat gone, come cleaned off his belly and his thighs, his ass. Opened up the water recycler, allowed himself a rare splash across the face, a trickle through his hair, and it was clear and even cold, early enough that the suns hadn't quite banished the overnight chill.

Temptation was there to leave it at that, walk out into the main room bare and see whether the Mandalorian could be talked into taking him on the table next—but it probably wouldn't be wise. At least not without checking to make sure the kid wasn't awake and already out there.

Cobb shook his head at himself. Dressed, quick, in the cleanest shit he could lay hands on out of the pile in the storage closure along the wall; only odd part was—he'd stripped in here last night, hadn't he? Kicked his way through the pile of dirty clothes on the floor just to be sure, but no luck. Couldn't lay hands on his kerchief.

Huh. Must've left it out by the table, then. Or maybe he'd pulled it off without even thinking about it, getting home, and left it hanging off the steering yoke of his speeder bike.

"Gettin' old," he muttered to himself with half a laugh, and then he shook his head and went out.

The Mandalorian was there, and for a moment, that was all that mattered. Cobb's heart squeezed itself tight in his chest, in the grip of a bright shy feeling he couldn't hope to name.

And then he looked—actually looked—and the whole room seemed to go real still around him.

He cleared his throat. "Goin' somewhere?"

The Mandalorian looked up.

He didn't have much. Never had. But what he did have were his weapons; and when he was figuring on a quiet morning in the condensator bay, which he was most days, they stayed where they'd come to settle, lined up all neat and deadly against the wall by the door. Early on, Cobb had approved—keeping them ready to go, so if anything should happen, raiders or spice runners or the like, the Mandalorian could rush into the house and have them to hand, right there in the cover to one side of the doorway. And lately, well. Lately it had come to give him a fond warm sensation he couldn't shake, to look over and see them there.

But right now, they were gone, because the Mandalorian had them. Strapped and belted and slung every which way, bristling with them, just as he'd had them secured the day he'd arrived.

The kid was up, too. Up, and in his hover pod, floating at the Mandalorian's hip—and he was looking up at the Mandalorian with his little brow all furrowed, those huge dark eyes liquid and pleading. Confused, uncertain, and that expression on his face, the fact that the Mandalorian wasn't doing anything about it, was a warning in itself.

"We're leaving," the Mandalorian said.

Cobb blinked, and wet his lips, slow. Couldn't quite catch his breath, for some fool reason. But he held himself together, because he had to.

No reason to object, after all. That had been the deal. The Mandalorian had always had the right to go, if he decided to, and that hadn't changed, just because he—just because they—

Cobb cleared his throat again, and then made himself move. Walked to the hydrator, rustled around a moment in the closure next to it for a ration packet, because that was what he'd have done any other morning; because he didn't know what the hell else to do.

"Is that so," he managed.

"Yes," the Mandalorian said.

"Well," Cobb said. The wrapper on the packet crinkled against his palm. He'd closed his hand around it too tightly, but he couldn't make himself stop, ease up, let go. "All right, then. I'm—I apologize if—" He stopped. The words wouldn't come. His eyes felt hot. "Shame it didn't work out," he said instead, after a moment, and it mostly came out steady, which was a relief. "I guess settlin' down ain't for everyone. You gave it a fair shot, and I appreciate that."

The Mandalorian was silent, for a moment. "Cobb," he said at last, very quietly.

It weren't anything but the truth. He'd given it a fair shot, and if he'd decided he didn't care for it after all, then Cobb had no call to stop him, to ask him to reconsider.

Cobb turned around. Funny, almost; that first day, he'd thought to himself he'd rather face the Mandalorian than not, get shot in the chest instead of the back, if he was going to.

And here it had turned out it didn't much matter where he pointed himself. Didn't make a difference either way, when there was a hole right through the middle of you.

"Anything you need? Rations, tools—"

"No," the Mandalorian said.

"Well," Cobb said again, and rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Okay."

It went quick, after that.

Cobb should've stayed in the house, maybe. But it didn't feel right as a leave-taking, after—after everything.

They didn't speak to each other, the walk out past the ridge to the ship; didn't seem as there was much of anything to say. The kid was between them, hover pod bobbling along, and he kept making little noises, interrogative and fussy by turns, restless and upset. First time Cobb reached for him, meaning to try and soothe him, the Mandalorian did, too, and the kid snagged a gloved fingertip in one tiny hand, the end of Cobb's thumb in the other, and hung on tight—looking back and forth between them with those round wet eyes, as if he were trying to work out what the trouble was.

Couldn't see how he knew there was any at all, considering the Mandalorian had his helmet on, same as always. Shiny-clean, untouched. And Cobb didn't think he was doing anything in particular with his own face. Weren't as if he were entitled to throw himself to his knees weeping, to clutch the Mandalorian's ankles and beg, and given that, there wasn't much point in making a fuss. He didn't want to anyhow. He felt a step outside himself, somehow. Calm, if you could rightly call it that when it was such an odd, cold sensation. Tired. He was so damned tired.

The Razor Crest sat just as it always had, an outline that had grown familiar against Cobb's horizons. The Mandalorian had flown it, now and then—trips to Mos Espa or Mos Eisley, picking up tools and supplies, the condensators they'd bought, or helping the townsfolk in Mos Pelgo move mining drones, busted speeder bikes, even banthas. But he'd always brought it down again in just about the same place.

Damn fool thing to be focused on, at a time like this, but—it was going to be awful strange, glancing over the ridge in the afternoons and not seeing it there.

He was halfway expecting the Mandalorian to just take the kid and go, without another word. Curt, as ever, and Cobb had never had anything against it, still didn't now, because at least that way it would be fast, over and done with.

But the Crest's ramp opened itself up, and the Mandalorian didn't walk up it—came to a stop by the end of it instead, where it had settled into the sand.

Cobb cleared his throat, crouched down to look the kid in the face, because that was easier than figuring out what the hell to say to the Mandalorian. "Well, you—you go on and have a safe trip, now, huh?"

The kid crooned. He was still clutching Cobb's thumb, and Cobb touched the back of his little hand with two fingers, tried to smile at him and got somewhere close.

"Yeah, you'll be all right," he murmured, and drew his hand gently away, and the kid made a soft doleful sound in objection but couldn't stop him.

And then he made himself stand up again, hooked his thumbs in his waistband so he couldn't find himself grabbing for the kid again or—or anything, and tilted his head.

"You got somewhere to go, then?" Hadn't when he came, but must be that had changed.

"I—received a message," the Mandalorian said. "I think there's a place. And I can no longer remain here."

Cobb shut his eyes against the blow of it, breathed through it, held himself together. "All right, then."

And then he looked up again. He had to. One more time, that was all. One more time, to grab as much as he could manage to hold on to: the precise shape of that helmet, the curve of it, the way the sun glinted off it; the beskar, and the armorweave under it, the fall of the cloak down the back of the shoulder; the belt, the precise height just over the Mandalorian's hips where it hung.

Surely it wasn't too much to ask now, couldn't be. "I hope our paths cross again," he let himself say. The bare minimum, nothing too telling, nothing the Mandalorian could possibly—

"As do I," the Mandalorian said, very low.

He didn't move, didn't speak again, for a long moment. And then his hands rose, and he was—Cobb understood it in a split second, just as one of them lifted unsteadily toward his face, and he had his eyes closed again even before the Mandalorian's gloved palm had settled across them. Because, visible during that split second through the gaps between the Mandalorian's fingers had been his other hand, wrapping itself around the edge of the helmet, rushed, clumsy.

A breath, audible, uneven. The kiss itself was quick, off-center, a dry awkward press of mouths, but Cobb swayed into it anyway, helpless. And there was an instant, after, the Mandalorian's cheek and temple brushing Cobb's, the Mandalorian failing to step away again, when Cobb almost thought—

But all the Mandalorian had to do, if he wanted to stay, was stay. It was some kind of apology, that was all. For being so abrupt about the whole thing. Or—or it was forgiveness, for the line Cobb had crossed, and never mind that it was the Mandalorian who'd told him to shut his eyes first, the Mandalorian who'd kissed him; the line had been his to step over, and he had. Maybe the Mandalorian had figured out he'd crossed it at the same moment he himself had, last night. Maybe that was the thing the Mandalorian would rather take off than live with.

And then the Mandalorian did step away. The kid made a mournful little noise, and the Mandalorian's hand lifted away from Cobb's eyes, and by the time Cobb had actually opened them, the helmet was right back where it was supposed to be, the Mandalorian already striding up the ramp, the kid drifting along behind. A moment's pause in the cargo bay over the controls, and the ramp began to rise again, closing.

Cobb backed away, belated, stiff and unsteady on his feet, to give the Crest some kind of reasonable clearance to work with. The engines came on, humming, sand swirling, and then it was—it rose up, took off.

He could still see it for a minute, after. He stood there till he couldn't anymore, till the whole sky was dull pale blue without the faintest glint of light off metal anywhere.

And then he turned around, and went back to the house.

Shouldn't have been much of an adjustment to make, not really. When he'd been out here on his own for ages; when he hadn't even known the Mandalorian a year. Should've just been things going back to normal. Same amount of space he'd always had, and just him to fill it, ordinary, familiar. Shouldn't have been any lonelier than it was before he'd known what it was like to share it—

He hadn't eaten. The ration packet was still there waiting for him, lying on the table, wrapper crumpled up a little, unopened, unhydrated. He looked at it, and could summon no hunger.

Beside it, round and gleaming, was the—the control knob. The kid's, the one he'd always liked so much to play with. Wouldn't be happy once he realized he'd left it behind, but Cobb looked at it and felt a dim selfish gratitude. At least he had that much to keep for himself, to—remember.

He shut his eyes. Maintenance, he told himself. The condensators needed checking. He'd go out, get started now, eat later. It would be fine.

He kept himself occupied pretty well for a while. Suns seemed to move awful slow, but eventually they rose up higher, a bit at a time.

Round about noon, he got lucky, or at least that was how it felt in the moment—comm console went off, in the house, and a vague ripple of something like relief passed through him. Odds were it was going to be an excuse to get out of here, go somewhere. Help someone, face a problem he could fix. Dream come true, right about now.

He had condensator coolant on his hands. Went in, grabbed a rag to wipe 'em off with, and hit the comm key with his elbow while he was still wiping. "Marshal," he said, rote greeting.

"Marshal Vanth! Marshal Vanth, you all right?"

Cobb blinked at the wavering blue figure. "Scott, that you? Yeah, I'm all right—"

"Only there's a ship just passed over town," Scott tumbled on, before Cobb could even ask. "Headed out your way. Had to be, seeing as there ain't nothing else out that direction. Flyin' real low, like they was in a heck of a hurry, and it looked Imperial, Marshal Vanth."

Cobb felt the hitch and thump of his heart, half a second to tell himself it wasn't going to be the Crest on its way back before the rest landed, a blow of its own. "Imperial," he repeated.

"Yes, Marshal. At least, that's what it looked like, Marshal."

"All right," Cobb said slowly, and kept on twisting his hands, rubbing the last shimmering blue coolant off his knuckles. "All right, listen, Scott—consider yourself deputized. Till you hear from me again, you understand? Anybody in town got any troubles that need sorting out, you sort 'em out as best you can, or else calm folks down and get 'em to agree it'll keep. Might be nothing, but until I know for sure, there ought to be somebody on duty. You think you can handle that?"

Scott stared at him, swallowing, and then nodded fervently. "Yes—yes, of course, Marshal. Won't let you down. I'll keep everything under control, don't you worry."

"Appreciate that, Deputy Scott," Cobb said, mild. He'd been meaning to take the kid aside soon anyhow—give him something to do with himself, help him level himself out a little. As good a time as any, seeing as the morning had been as quiet as it had.

And Scott had holoed just in time. Cobb went outside, squinting up at the sky, and it only took about four seconds before he heard the hum of engines, low, distant, beneath the soft shuffle of the wind over the dunes.

He turned around, cast a glance back into the house—his armor, stacked up neat against the back wall. But it was already too late for that. Another moment, and he could see the ship. Scott hadn't been wrong, it was moving fast. Faster than it should've been, low as it was; and Cobb knew the shape of it, the silhouette. That was an Imperial—ex-Imperial—transport dropship.

Trouble, in other words.

The dropship came in on a curving path around the house, sand whirling every which way. Cobb stood there through it, crossed his arms and shut his eyes till the worst of it was over, the engines quieting; a little sand in his hair wasn't any worse than all the gray. Hiss of hydraulics, and the hull of the dropship opened up, let out a good two dozen ex-Imperial troopers, and—a moff, or at least somebody as used to be, judging by the body armor.

Well. Wasn't that something.

The moff was in a hurry, storming across the sand, dark eyes sharp. Something in his hand, but it wasn't a blaster, wasn't even a blade. It was as if he was holding an empty hilt, attached to nothing.

And it weren't that Cobb wasn't a believer in a good coincidence now and then; but a hunch was already starting to take shape, dim skittish hope in the back of his head, even before the moff jerked his head at the troopers and then looked at Cobb, and bit out, "Where is he?"

Cobb raised an eyebrow. "Can't rightly say as I know who it is you mean to ask of," he said.

The moff wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. "The Mandalorian. The Mandalorian, the child—where are they?"

And all right, maybe it hadn't been Cobb's fault at all. Hope no longer dim or skittish; a stab of it, sharp and alive, right through his chest. Maybe the Mandalorian had left for a reason, a reason that wasn't anything to do with Cobb, or lines crossed. Not a good reason, seeing as he hadn't bothered to explain what in the hell was going on—

I received a message. I can no longer remain here, and damn him, he had to've known what Cobb would think he meant by that, even if it hadn't been a lie in the strictest sense of the word; as if it had come from wherever he had, as if he'd been invited back to wherever it was his people lived, and not given some kind of warning—from who?—that there was a moff on his trail.

When Cobb tracked him down again, he was going to throttle the man.

But he'd have to find some way to be rid of this moff first.

He made a considering face, to demonstrate that he was giving the question his full attention. Looked off to the left, twisting a little, past his shoulder, and then off to the right. "I do hate to disappoint, but there ain't anybody but me here, gentlemen." He tilted his head. "Might be folks got themselves confused, is all," he offered after a moment, and hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the house: the wide open arch of the door, the room beyond it, and his own armor stood out, that solid steel blue, against the pale sandcrete walls. "See, I got some armor myself, off some Jawas. Used to belong to a Mandalorian, but—"

"Enough," the moff snapped, and slashed a hand through the air; and just that fast, two of the troopers had marched forward, gripped Cobb around the elbows tight. A burst of pain, and he didn't have any particular reason to tough it out, seeing as the more this moff told him about whatever the hell kind of trouble the Mandalorian was in, the better his chances of solving it. So he let his legs buckle, one and then the other, to the sharp kicks at the backs of his knees, the heavy boots coming down on his calves after, pinning his shins where he knelt.

"Whoa, easy there," he murmured, mild.

"Do not toy with me," the moff gritted out, and shifted his grip on that hilt of his, and—okay, there was a blade after all. Forming itself in a blink, humming energy, the flat of it dark as void, endless, depthless, and the edge tracing itself around that void, thin pale light.

The moff brought it in close, rested it almost gently against Cobb's jaw, and it sizzled, burned, a slim hot line scorched into his skin.

"Where is he," the moff repeated, no longer particularly bothered about making it sound like a question. "Don't bother to lie. He was here. Rumors of a Mandalorian in Mos Pelgo were one thing; I knew better. But every story coming out of Mos Eisley about you and your—plucky townsfolk," and his mouth twisted, the words dripping with disdain, "slaughtering a krayt dragon out past the dunes, well. They agree on certain details. Two fighters in Mandalorian armor, not one."

Shit. Cobb drew a slow breath, let it out; looked the moff in the eye, and lifted his chin a fraction, but didn't twist his face away, didn't try to put any room between himself and that glimmering blade. Because flinching wouldn't help him, and he wanted the moff to know that he knew it, and that he didn't give a shit. Man could waste all the time he wanted trying to pry an answer out of Cobb—and put himself further and further behind the Mandalorian while he did. That would be just fine.

"Planning to be stubborn about this, I see," the moff evaluated, eyes narrowing. He sighed through his nose and then turned his head, tilted it at the couple dozen ex-Imperial troopers who were standing there arrayed behind him, and they moved off in formation—toward the house, the condensator bay. Searching.

And then he lifted his blade away from Cobb's face, curled his free hand into a fist, and hit Cobb with it.

He had a glove, a gauntlet, heavy black armor plated over the backs of his hands and fingers. Next best thing to knuckle dusters, like this. Cobb took it right on the cheekbone, vision washing white for a second as his head snapped sideways, and he could tell just by the way it felt, a certain sharpness in the pain that went past the broad throbbing ache of bone, that he was bleeding, even before he felt the trickle down his jaw that confirmed it. He took a second to himself, caught his breath, let the worst of that first jolting impact fade. And then he wet his lips, and steadied himself, and looked up, ready for the next one.

The moff hit him a couple more times. It was more the man keeping himself occupied than anything else, Cobb began to suspect; behind him he could hear the troopers going through the house, overturning the table, smashing all the storage closures open, dumping everything out onto the floor. More to make a mess, to make him sorry he hadn't given in, than because any of them honestly thought the Mandalorian had folded himself up and squeezed in next to the ration packets by the hydrator.

One of them came back out with the control knob. Didn't recognize it as something off the Razor Crest, though, and when the moff shoved it in Cobb's face, demanding to know what it was, whether it was some secret Mandalorian device, Cobb snorted, spat some blood in the sand, and then squinted up at him and said, "Part of a condensator. As it happens, I was right in the middle of a coolant drain cycle when you fine folks showed up."

The moff's eyes narrowed.

And then there was a shout, another trooper jogging up. "Scanners confirm an ionization trail, sir, coming from behind the house. Engine misconfiguration of some kind—"

The expression that came over the moff's face, sheer fervent anticipation, made Cobb's gut go cold.

And then he looked down at Cobb again, and smiled. "Congratulations," he told Cobb. "You're no longer of any use to me, and I'm too close to waste time on the slow unpleasant death you deserve. Another time, perhaps."

The blade vanished with a hum. The moff stepped away. Cobb hung there for a second, in the grip of the two troopers who'd been holding him in place for the moff—their fellows were already streaming past, packing themselves back onto the dropship like tin soldiers. And then, at some signal Cobb couldn't perceive, they dropped him, too, and as quick as that, the dropship's engines kicked up and it lifted off.

Cobb caught himself on his hands, got one elbow up to shield his face until the sand had settled, and then looked up, wiping blood absently off his mouth and cheek. Sure enough, the dropship was headed off, same direction as the Crest had gone.

For a second, he was stuck there, aching, choked. He couldn't—he had to—he had to do something, dammit. But what? No chance in hell his speeder bike could keep up with that thing; they'd lose him inside ten minutes, if he was lucky. He had to think.

All right, so the Mandalorian had gotten a message. Somebody he knew, maybe at the port in Mos Eisley, who could've let him know when the moff, whatever Imperial cruiser he'd brought with him, had come into the system. And he'd lit out, run, because he'd known the moff was coming. But where had he gone? Where could he have gone, when he'd already had nowhere to go when he came here?

Cobb shut his eyes, called it all back. Hadn't looked like he meant to break atmo, had it? The Crest had vanished into the distance—away, not up. And the dropship had just done the same thing. The Mandalorian had only left in the morning, and it was full noon now, both suns high.

So—so maybe he was still on Tatooine, somewhere. Maybe he hadn't gone all that far.

Not that that was much help, when Cobb still didn't know where, didn't have a set of scanners that could ever hope to pick up an ionization trail, but—

He bit his lip.

The moff hadn't needed the control knob; he'd dropped it in the sand. Cobb reached for it, picked it up, rubbed the dust off that smooth cool surface with his thumb.

And then he put in his pocket, and levered himself to his feet, and rushed back to the house.

They hadn't taken the armor. Everything else could be set to rights later, didn't matter; but they hadn't taken the armor; and he grabbed the chestplate with one hand, a shin guard in the other, and started fastening it on.

Wasn't much of a shot, but it was the only one he had: he needed to go talk to some Tuskens.

Took a whole lot of miming, and a whole lot of gesturing, and a whole lot of furious screeching hoots whenever he moved too quick for comfort.

But it was the only shot he had. Because the Mandalorian spoke Tusken, knew the hand-language they used to signal to each other; Cobb had understood the moment he'd seen it that that meant the Mandalorian had been to Tatooine before. He'd been there, and the Tuskens knew him. And that meant that if he was out there somewhere, across the Dune Sea, they'd probably seen him go—seen him go, and knew where he'd headed, what was out there.

Hell, they'd probably seen the dropship, too. For all Cobb knew, there were scouts, hunting parties, raiding camps out there right now, Tuskens watching that ship pass over and screech-hooting so it echoed across the sand: letting the next-closest fellow to them know where it was, which way it was going.

They had to draw it for him, in the end. But once they had, he knew it for what it was. Across the Dune Sea, all right—where stone rose out of the sand again at last, low mounting ridges carved out by water back when there had been any, by wind in all the eons since. Not a bad place at all to make a stand, if you were a Mandalorian who liked to carry around an Amban rifle, who wanted to hide yourself up there like a sniper and lie in wait for whoever was following you.

He had to promise them a speeder bike before they'd actually point him in the right direction and let him leave. But they did, in the end.

And then it was just him and the dunes, and the frantic driving urgency pounding his heart against his ribs.

It all blended together. The sky, the sand. His relentless awareness of the suns, and of the slow creeping change in the angle of the light as they started to sink through the afternoon—time passing, time time time, when for all he knew that moff had already found the Mandalorian, cut his head off with that empty black blade, taken the child. There was no room in his head for anything else. He was pushing the speeder bike harder than he should, he could tell by the grinding whine of the engine, but he couldn't bring himself to throttle back.

And then, at last, the horizon changed. A smudge, level, stationary; more than just another stretch of endless dunes.

He had to slow down, as he got closer. Couldn't be helped—the noise of the speeder bike was going to carry to anybody listening for it, if he didn't, and if the Mandalorian wasn't dead already, then Cobb was going to be a hell of a lot more help to him with the element of surprise than without it.

The ridges, dull-edged, sand-scoured, rose up ahead of him. And the Mandalorian must've known about them somehow, must've been here before—wasn't a better position to shoot from long-range, out here, a thousand times better than having to crouch behind the crest of a dune.

He spotted the dropship first. Seemed to have come down a little harder than it was meant to, and a moment later, he caught sight of a gleaming white curve in the sand behind it, one and then another, a third. The Mandalorian must've started shooting troopers right out of the open bay, as the dropship had been landing.

Cobb skimmed another dune, crested it as gently as he could and then sank down into the dip between it and the next, brought the speeder bike to a halt and shut it off. Hated climbing up sand in armored boots, they were so damned heavy, but it couldn't be helped. He had to get himself a decent sightline, figure out where that moff and his troopers even were before he was going to be able to flank them. And he was going to have to get pretty close, too—KA74 was a good rifle, but it wasn't built for sniper range.

Flash caught his eye, first. From on one of the near ridges, low, and his heart jerked in his chest, because surely that had to be the Mandalorian up there. Not dead after all.

Cobb hitched himself over the dune, skidded down and then scrambled up to the peak of the next as fast as he could manage, and all right, better angle: another few shallow dunes, and he'd be almost even with the dropship. That moff, his troopers, had scattered up ahead of it, pinned down—he could pick them out easy enough, thanks to that white Imperial armor, and the moff in his solid black was hardly any better, no kind of camouflage against sand.

They were advancing, he understood, watching for a minute. Slow, awkward, and the dunes were the only cover they had; the Mandalorian had already taken out a dozen of them, armor left like cracked shells where they'd fallen, vaporized out from inside of it by that Amban rifle. But of course troopers like these were disposable, as far as the moff was concerned—he sent them to move up two at a time, and the Mandalorian could take out one, but the other usually made it.

Too bad they had no idea Cobb was there.

He got himself settled off to the side. Didn't want to be between anybody and the dropship; if some of those troopers got it in their head that this was the moff's problem but it didn't have to be theirs, who was he to get in the way?

He propped the KA74 on the crest of the dune, got his elbows comfortable underneath it. Took a long, slow breath, and let it out. Had to take as many shots as he could in a row before they figured out where he was and started shooting back; he wouldn't have half as good an advantage, after that.

He waited for another flash from the ridge, and then fired—gave him cover for that first shot, when the Mandalorian was shooting at the same time, same kind of noise. One down, and he shifted a fraction and aimed for another, fired again, again. Then, at last, somebody shouted, half a dozen white helmets suddenly turning, searching frantically, and his targets weren't laid out straight for him anymore, lined up against the wrong side of a dune. A couple blasters aimed his way, and he had to duck quick, plasma bolts flying over him; but when they were shooting at him, they weren't shooting at the Mandalorian. Weren't even looking, and one of 'em came up too far, getting a bead on Cobb, and disintegrated into a pile of sparks.

And after that, well, suddenly the moff only had about eight troopers left. Clearly fewer than he'd like. Cobb was close enough now to see the rage twist his face, his teeth bared—he grabbed one poor sucker by the shoulder, held him there as a shield and took a handful of quick shots at Cobb, and it worked: Cobb fired back when he had an opening for it, but he hit the trooper, not the moff.

The moff kept hold of the trooper even though he'd gone limp, dead, and scrambled down the slope of the dune that was giving him cover from the Mandalorian. Cobb fired at him half a dozen more times, but he kept coming, even if he was still staying low, trying to make sure the Mandalorian couldn't take a shot at him from behind.

And then he was—what the hell was he doing? Fumbling at the trooper's armor, the utility belt at the waist. Poor buckethead had been carrying something, Cobb realized, almost too late; the moff came away with it, whatever it was, white and smooth in his black half-gloved hand, and hurled it at Cobb with a furious shout, and Cobb swore and threw himself backwards down the slope of sand behind him—

He blinked. He was on his back. He was—the world had rearranged itself around him, and he felt bruised all over, hot-faced, disoriented. He couldn't hear anything but his own breaths, and he didn't know why. The sky was empty; and then it wasn't, because the moff was standing over him, smiling down at him with vicious satisfaction, blaster pointed into his face.

Blast grenade, he thought. Must've been. Nothing he could do about it now. He was a fast draw—but he wasn't so fast that he could bring the KA74 to bear on a man who was already aiming at him, and still hope to shoot first.

Could be it was enough, though. Could be it was the help the Mandalorian had needed. Weren't more than four or five troopers left by now, and the Mandalorian could handle that much himself. He could get away, and the child with him, and that was what mattered.

Cobb shut his eyes, and waited.

His ears were ringing. Or—no, they weren't. There was a whistle, somewhere over the crest of the dune behind the moff. A whistle, high and thin and clear, almost sweet, or at least sweet enough Cobb wasn't prepared for the sudden chorus of blasts that came after. Explosions, and close; he flinched, reflexive, and had a half-second to wonder whether the moff was going to flinch, too, whether that was how it was going to end, and then there was a hard roaring sound, blisteringly close, and the moff was gone.

Cobb blinked, bewildered. Took it felt like every single bit of himself he had left to do it, but he rolled himself over, got an elbow against the sand and managed to push himself up a little so he could take a look around.

It was the Mandalorian. It was—the jets, that was what that roaring sound had been. The Mandalorian had come down off the ridge, must've—must've flown over the rest of the troopers, or else he'd taken them out somehow or other, and then he'd struck the moff, knocked him away from Cobb and down into the sand.

The moff's blaster was on the ground, had tumbled out of his hand. He had the blade out instead, and he was gritting his teeth, shoving the Mandalorian away from him and slashing at him.

But it wasn't working. All that beskar, it was—that black star-edged blade struck it, cast a handful of pale sparks off it, but couldn't cut through it.

The Mandalorian dropped, spun away, came back to his feet, and this time the moff was ready for him. A flurry of blows, big sweeping swings, but the Mandalorian kept catching them, on one gauntlet, both, a pauldron. Moff wasn't much of a swordsman, Cobb understood dimly, even if that blade was scary as hell—flailing it around like he was. And, worse still, he was getting angry.

Sure enough, he tried a huge overhand chop next, no finesse in it at all. The Mandalorian brought one forearm up to meet it, sparks spitting all over his helmet, and then used the opening of it, huge and obvious: pushed the blade away to one side, throwing the moff off-balance, and then brought a leg up and kicked the moff in the gut, hard, the moff stumbling straight into it and catching the blow the harder for it. The moff went tumbling backward, and the Mandalorian didn't let any space open, took the advantage immediately. Another sharp kick, this one to the wrist, and the sword flew out of the moff's hand, the hilt skittering away over the sand as the blade itself retracted, vanishing.

The Mandalorian came down on a knee, brought his arm close and set his forearm across the moff's throat—pinned him to the sand, quick and fierce and smooth, and just like that, it was over.

Cobb managed to summon the presence of mind to rise the rest of the way to his hands and knees, and then, very carefully, to his feet. The hilt of the moff's sword wasn't far from him; he limped over to it, and picked up. It was—it was actually real lovely, he thought. Hell of a lot of craftsmanship in the hilt alone; perfect balance. He turned it over, once, twice, feeling it, and then closed his hand around it, and went to the Mandalorian.

"Think you got him, partner," he croaked out, hoarse.

The Mandalorian turned, sharp, and almost rose, before visibly remembering he was the only thing securing the moff at the moment. "Cobb," he said, and there was a certain charming urgency in it, worried, that made Cobb feel odd and light and warm all over.

"I'm all right, I'm all right," he said aloud, and cleared his throat. He was, mostly. He'd be feeling that grenade tomorrow, and his face would look a right mess where the moff had been hitting him earlier, but he was fairly sure he hadn't broken anything. He felt around at his waist with the hand that didn't have the hilt of the dark blade in it, because he could've sworn—yep, there they were, tucked away neat in the utility belt. Stuncuffs. Always tried to make sure he kept at least a couple pairs with the armor.

He pulled them out, and they were working, lighting up blue. He dropped down next to the Mandalorian, and together they managed to get the moff turned over, fastened them around one wrist and then the other.

"You have no idea what you're doing," the moff was saying. "You have no idea what that is, do you?"

"The sword?" Cobb said. "Nope. Seems neat, though."

"The child," the moff bit out. "You don't understand. That child has a gift, a power you can't possibly understand. A power that could restore order—"

"All right, that's about enough rantin' out of you," Cobb told him, and then glanced at the Mandalorian. "Speaking of the kid—he still up there on the ridge?"

"I," the Mandalorian said, and then the helmet tilted, angling past Cobb. "Apparently not," and that was all the warning Cobb had before he heard the whum of a hover pod, moving a hell of a lot faster than it was meant to, and an ecstatic burble from the kid. He turned around, just in time to catch the hover pod when it bounced off his shoulder.

"Whoa, easy there! Easy there, kiddo," he said; but he was grinning, he couldn't help it, and the kid hummed at him, delighted, wrapping one tiny hand around his thumb where he'd gripped the edge of the hover pod. "Yeah, good to see you, too." He hung on, let the pod help him to his feet, and then looked back at the Mandalorian. "Thing is, the speeder bike I came out here on ain't exactly meant for two, let alone three."

The Mandalorian was quiet for a moment. "I understand," he said, very softly.

Cobb eyed him, and bit down on a sigh. "Guessin' you don't," he murmured, "but that's all right," and then he tilted his head, half a nod sideways—toward the shape of that Imperial dropship. "Because I think we got ourselves a ride back to town that's going to be able to get us there a lot faster."

Turned out a few of the troopers had survived, too—just hadn't been particularly eager to stick their heads up and volunteer the fact to the man with the Amban rifle. Cobb got out the rest of his stuncuffs, and then the Mandalorian got them all loaded onto the dropship, along with the moff, while he went and fetched his speeder bike, which fit in the dropship bay just fine.

They didn't talk, on the flight back to Mos Pelgo. Had to stay low, with the dropship bay open, so they'd have some hope of identifying themselves to folks who might otherwise be inclined to fire on an Imperial vessel flying over Tatooine—which meant the wind was real loud. Besides, most of the things Cobb wanted to say to the Mandalorian weren't the sort of things he was eager to have an audience present for.

He almost regretted it, though, when they did reach town. Telling the whole story to Deputy Scott took half an age, seemed like. Only barely enough holding cells to hang onto a moff and four bucketheads, and getting some kind of report sorted out and sent off to the New Republic had to be done sooner rather than later, if they were ever going to get somebody out here to pick them up.

Past suns-set by the time it was all done with. Felt good, though, to step out into the evening air, just starting to cool, and see the first few stars coming out.

Cobb popped his helmet off, tipped his head back and breathed.

And then the scuff of armored boots came up next to him, and he turned to the Mandalorian and let the corner of his mouth draw itself up the way it wanted to.

"Well, hello there, stranger," he said, quiet. "Come on home, huh?"

The Mandalorian didn't move, didn't speak, for a long moment. He just stood there, with the hover pod propped gently against his hip; the kid was asleep in it, had been for a good hour already.

"You—want that?"

Cobb couldn't hardly answer for a second, it lodged so hard in his throat to hear the Mandalorian say a thing like that, uncertain, shy—as if he hadn't killed almost two dozen men in one day, and locked up an Imperial moff besides.

"Yes," he scraped out, when he could. "Yes, I do."

And the Mandalorian didn't try to argue with him, didn't turn and walk away. He followed Cobb over to that good old speeder bike, climbed on when Cobb gestured him forward with the kid's pod held tight in the curve of one arm; and he let Cobb climb on after, reaching around him for the throttle and the steering yoke, holding him.

The house was still kind of a mess.

Not enough of one they couldn't deal with the worst of it, though. Got the table upright again, the kid's bed, and the kid settled, tucked in, and once that was done, the rest didn't seem so bad. Could be left to keep till morning.

But the Mandalorian couldn't.

Cobb didn't hardly know where to start. He stuck his fingers in his pockets just absent-like, to have something to with himself that wasn't standing there staring at the Mandalorian, drinking in every bit of him; he'd been planning on clearing his throat next, maybe, or scratching an eyebrow for a bit.

But his fingertips hit something hard and cool and smooth, rounded, and—oh. Right.

"I, uh. Got a little something for you, I guess," he said, and pulled the control knob out, set it on the table.

The Mandalorian looked at it. "The child will be glad to have it," he murmured.

"Hope so," Cobb said, and then did clear his throat after all.

He paused, before any more words managed to fall out. There was something about the way the Mandalorian was holding himself, a sense of suspension, that said he ought to hold his tongue, that the Mandalorian was trying to work something out himself.

And it took a moment, but the Mandalorian let out a harsh buzzing breath, through the helmet, and then said, "And I—"

He stopped. And then moved, instead of talking anymore. Lifted a hand, slid it in between his chestplate and the armorweave that covered his body under it, and pulled something out. A rag? A—

A kerchief. Red. Cobb's, the one he hadn't been able to find this morning.

Cobb bit down on the inside of his cheek, eyes hot.

They were both damn fools.

The Mandalorian held it out, hand half-curled around it like he didn't want to let go, or like he was afraid Cobb wouldn't take it back—or maybe both. "I told you I had been a bounty hunter. That was true. I took a job. My task was to retrieve the child. I—couldn't turn him over. Moff Gideon was displeased by the breach of contract. I couldn't remain in the Guild; my people were killed, scattered, trying to help me escape with the child."

"You had nowhere else to go," Cobb filled in, and he took a step forward, another, closed enough of the distance between them to reach out and touch the corner of the kerchief: a bridge. "And then you came to this system, because you knew Tatooine, you'd been here before, and you caught my contract off the beacon." He bit his lip. "Worked for a while there. But eventually that moff—Gideon, you say?—picked up your trail. Showed up here. Somebody warned you, and you ran." A slow hunch was creeping up on him, and he took it and ran with it. "The Crest—her engines aren't misaligned, are they?"

The Mandalorian was silent.

"You did that on purpose," Cobb said, hoarse, throat aching. "You made sure there'd be something for him to find, something that would lead him away from here." And for all that the pieces fit together, for all that his heart was swollen up with hope, almost too big to fit inside his ribs where it ought—it still felt like a gamble, a terrifying kind of leap, to say, "You—didn't want to leave."

"No," the Mandalorian said. "No. Never. I married you, I—"

Cobb blinked. "What, the register?" He'd gotten it wrong all over again, his guts twisting up in him, but hell, he'd never meant the Mandalorian to take it that way. "You mean you felt like you shouldn't, because there's a records chit from Mos Eisley with both our names in it."

"No," the Mandalorian said blankly, and then went still all over.

"No," Cobb repeated, leading.

"The armor," the Mandalorian blurted.

Cobb stared at him.

"When I," the Mandalorian said. "When you—you took it off me. I let you take it off me."

"So I recall," Cobb agreed, real slow, and then closed another half-step, and wet his lips. "And you're telling me that means something, among your kind. That means—"

"It is the way," the Mandalorian said softly.

"You have got to be shitting me," Cobb said, and that was about all anyone could expect a body to take. He couldn't stand it anymore, he was—he reached out, clasped the Mandalorian's hand with his kerchief caught between their palms, drew the Mandalorian in and gripped him by the back of the helmet. "You didn't say anything. You never said anything."

"Cobb," the Mandalorian whispered.

Cobb screwed his eyes shut, and found the edge of the helmet properly—waited a long, breathless moment, for a gloved hand on his wrist to stop him, a shove to push him away, but it didn't come. He pulled, slow, careful, and lifted the helmet up, and the Mandalorian let him; and this time, understanding at last what that meant as far as the Mandalorian was concerned, it sent a hot sweet shiver through him from head to toe.

When the Mandalorian did touch him, it was his jaw, that was all. His jaw, fingertips, and then his mouth in a kiss, and he fumbled around beside him, behind him, to set the helmet safely on the table, heart pounding in his chest.

They kept kissing, and Cobb felt clumsy, exhausted, already starting to ache all over, but he couldn't have stopped for anything. It just—it didn't feel like enough, but he didn't know what else to do. He wished helplessly that he'd put his own helmet on the moment the Jawas had given it to him, that he'd never taken it off; then at least he'd have had something to offer the Mandalorian, too, something that at least came close to mattering the way it should.

He still had the rest of the armor on, at least.

He found one of the Mandalorian's hands, against his face, and drew it away, guided it down to one pauldron. And the Mandalorian—the Mandalorian sucked in a sharp breath, against his mouth, and broke away.

"Cobb," the Mandalorian said. "Are you—"

"Yes, dammit, I am absolutely sure," Cobb said. "Please. Take it off. Take it off me. I—I want to marry you, too, you idiot."

The Mandalorian was quiet, then; the only thing Cobb could hear was his breathing, slow, shaky.

"There's one other thing," he said at last, very softly. "My name."

Cobb swallowed—shook his head, helpless, and reached up blindly, found the Mandalorian's chin and then his mouth, covered it. "Tell me tomorrow," he said. "Tell me—tell me in a year. Promise me that."

Stay, he didn't say, except in all the ways he already was.

And the Mandalorian swayed into his touch, shaped his mouth into a kiss against the insides of Cobb's fingers. "All right," he said, half-muffled, through the gaps between Cobb's knuckles. "You have my word."

"Your contract," Cobb corrected him unsteadily. Shifted his grip, freed the Mandalorian's mouth and found the line of his jaw, the miracle of skin, the pulse high at the side of his throat; it was no wonder, he found himself thinking, that the Mandalorian hid himself away under all that beskar, when he was so warm underneath it, so tenderly, wonderfully alive. "And I expect you to honor it, partner."

The Mandalorian closed a hand around the nape of Cobb's neck, drew him in until their foreheads touched. "I will," he said. "Anything. I will."

And Cobb kissed him again, deep and desperate, yearning, and felt the first gentle hitch: his pauldron, coming loose under the Mandalorian's hand.