2Thank you to everyone who bookmarked, kudos'd and commented on the last chapter! As always, we're running fast and loose with no beta here, so hopefully there's no glaring mistakes!
It had been hot last time he'd visited, uncomfortably so - the cooling units in his armour barely able to keep up with the dense, sticky heat. However their seasons worked, it was cold now - the bright sun ahead feeling as if it did little to ward off the chill from the sea air behind them. Cara was wrapped in an over-large coat, and the Child had nestled tight within the thick bag Din wore over his body. The doors to the cantina were heavy, made all the more so by his own nervous reluctance. The contrast between now and his last visit was stark - excitement to dread; his nerves morphing from warm and fluttering to sinking and foreboding.
The inside of the cantina was different, though the outside remained largely the same. The walls had been some sort of plaster last time - the same as the outside. Not quite brick, not quite mud. Now though they were covered in mismatched wooden panels that looked born from wooden crates; if the differing lengths and marks were any indication. Whilst they'd obviously been cleaned and possibly waxed, stripes of colour stood out against the brown; half a word here or a symbol there. Infinite languages, those of spoken word and business, entirely mashed together in the circular room. Half a 'cleared' here, or a 'denied' there. Lines that could have been X's, symbols that looked like the word for 'ammunition' in one of the Wookie dialects. Dates and times both faded and fresh. It was cosy - a mismatched pattern of grains and customs marks, the colour warming the previously stark space. He'd spent his entire adult life going between cantinas, and was used to the darkness, the stench of unwashed lowlives - downturned faces, gambling. Stark metal tables and starker criminality. This one was small, cosy, full of small, bright splashes of colour.
She'd always loved colour, even when they were children. Talking his ear off about dresses and shoes and the lush greens and animals of her forest home. The painted doors, the orange and purple of her family - the ones she adopted on her armour once she took the pledge. He remembered feeling a twinge of grief as she'd clipped her helmet into place, later than he. Suppressed it, hid it beneath pride and honour. He thought he'd never see her face again, the quirk of her smile, the arch of her cheekbones. He'd committed her glittering eyes to memory, the way they'd shone with pride at the sight of the familiar Mandalorian helmet.
A fire crackled in the hearth, and atop it, he almost couldn't look, forcing his gaze to where he expected to see- no. It was gone. It was the first thing he'd spotted last time, before he'd even seen the girl - no longer a young woman now anymore but an adult, as he was. Before he'd let anger and pride draw him away from the first woman he'd wanted, and the only person he'd truly felt romantic love for.
"The boys at the dock said you were back. Wasn't sure if they were having me on"
He drew his gaze from the empty mantle, and forced himself to look at the source of the voice. Beside her was the armor that had sent him red last time, hung with pride behind glass. He allowed his gaze to linger for a split second, to take in the familiar lines of the bescar - hung in perfect replica of the person he'd once imagined becoming his clan. His partner for life. Continuing their ways.
Looking at the figure behind the bar, he wished it had been winter when he'd landed last - as cold as now. Whether he'd have reacted the same or not…he knew the answer, deep down, but couldn't help but feel he'd have been less jarred by the woman staring him down if she'd have been attired as she was now - long trousers, a scarf, what looked to be a jumper and a cardigan, layered for warmth. A flash of skin between the scarf and the hat that fit snug to her head and covered her ears; just enough for her to see.
He'd come into the bar 3 years before, expecting to see a reflection of himself. Shorter, probably. More vividly painted, slender.
He'd expected bescar and had found only skin.
Those eyes that he never thought he'd see again. Cheekbones, a heart shaped face. Freckles. The forbidden sight of her face, seared into his consciousness like a dirty secret. A dream and a nightmare, all at once; bundled up in his youthful hopes. A scar, cutting through her left eyebrow. Another along the side of her head, a deep ravine against her peach fuzz buzz cut. In the place of an undershirt, the magnetically sealed bescar was…scandalous. A strip of fabric on her top half, some kind of loose shorts below. He hadn't known where to look between the swathes of skin showing, until he'd settled on her eyes.
Winter, he decided, was preferable. This was better, less intense. More comfortable. The room went quiet as the patrons spotted him, but that wasn't unusual. It wasn't the first bar he'd stunned to silence and it certainly wouldn't be the last.
Each step towards her felt like a mile, and a millimetre. His heart hammered in his chest as he faced his own demons, or well, one of them.
She wasn't surprised to see him, the radio hanging from the wall behind her obviously to thank for that.
"What can I get you?"
She was being polite, evidently. He could do the same. Owed her that much, at least.
He steeled himself, a shallow breath of grounding. "Some food, please"
She nodded. "I'll clear a space for you in one of the side cupboards, unless you're wanting to take it back to your sh-"
The radio hissed with static.
"Wren, you gotta see the state of this wreck!" A whistle cut the interference, and hit piercing levels. "I think this thing's one stiff breeze from combusting! Don't kill him, we'll have enough work here to keep us in scran for months!"
She held up a finger as Din went to speak, pressing the radio and watching him out the corner of her eye.
"Thanks for the heads up, Bill, I'll offer them a room or two here and come give you a hand when Molly arrives to take over"
"Much appreciated, I think there's some tech on here that needs your eyes"
The static shut off, and the woman turned back, tightening the strings on her apron as she did. She'd filled out, since he was last here. There was softness to her that seemed foreign, and spoke of a calmer, more peaceful life. Good food, beers at night, not having to fight to survive - it all put meat on the bones, though he knew it could be the layers.
"It'll be 20 credits per room per week, extra for food and drinks. Will you be wanting one room, or two?"
"Two" they answered simultaneously, Cara laughing at she grabbed the credits, counting out enough for a few days and handing it to Wren. "I'll pay for your room, Mando - sounds like those repairs'll bankrupt you!"
Cara looked between the two for a second and nodded, asking for whatever was hot and retreating from the tense, unavoidable energy.
"I'll need some food for this one, too" Din asked, shifting his cloak to the side and revealing the Child, who strained to see from the confines of his warm, cosy bag.
Her eyes narrowed, looking at him intently and then down at The Child.
"I'll see if we can't rustle up something warm for the little one, too. He…" she hesitated, eyes shifting to an unknown emotion as she glanced up at the cold bescar of his helm. "He yours?"
"Foundling. I've vowed to get him back to his kind"
She nodded, jutting her chin towards Cara, who had already settled on a table in the corner. Good, defensible position. "She yours?'
"No"
"Two rooms it is then. Why don't I come join you, it's about time I ate?"
She was going to kill him with soft politeness, wrapped around emotional, tense bones. He could see from the set of her shoulders, the tight line of her neck.
"We'll eat, then you can go and eat, and then I think we need to have a talk, don't you?"
He nodded, silently, before turning away and retreating to the table Cara had commandeered, settling the child gently upon his knee, waiting for food.
"She won then?" Cara teased, and he refused to answer.
"Since, you two obviously have some sort of history, and with you that's usually violent but in this case...well…"
The child groaned between them, reaching for Cara, who eyed him without moving.
"Quiet"
"He's a child, I'm not sure if you remember but they're not always the best at quiet, or still"
They turned to the voice, to the woman holding a tray of food. Two large bowls of broth and warm bread, one small with milk to cool it. One in a pot, heat protective and sealed. She knew, of course she knew, that he couldn't eat it here. "One of mine" she explained, placing it before him. "From...before. The locals caught on pretty quickly that I couldn't take my helmet off in front of them, and started giving me hot food in sealed containers. I collected them" she laughed, pulling a seat over and dunking the thick cut bread in the soup before shoving it unceremoniously into her mouth.
"This is pretty decent" Cara complimented, replicating the action.
God that laugh. It was amazing how you could not hear a sound for 20 years and still have it feel as familiar as your own voice. Wished James was here too, Roku. The four of them had grown up together, inseparable as they'd trained to be the perfect Mandalorians. They'd been as lost to him as Wren had been until those messages had appeared on his console.
"It is not a skill that comes naturally," she laughed. "I lived off ration packs and seared random pieces of animal for so many years, but I'm getting better. You should have seen the first time I tried to make something to say thank you to the villagers here"
"You really shouldn't have!" one of the voices behind called out, and she turned, throwing a piece of bread at their head that hit with unerring accuracy.
"Shut it Jaeth!"
She dunked the bread again, not caring for manners as she enjoyed the meal.
His eyes tracked the shape of her tongue as it darted out to catch an errant drop of soup, almost sinful in the ease at which it appeared. Lewd. He'd watched others eat before, but it had never affected him like this. Never made him fidget in his seat, shifting to try and make himself comfortable, to ignore the startled and knowing gaze from Cara. He hadn't expected the kindness of the soup, and didn't deserve it. He was too used to sitting hungry, using the torture as a form of control. Eating whatever it was cold, later. She laughed with the others, teeth shining. And slid a thumb into those flushed, plump lips - unabashedly sucking an errant spot of buttery soup before it was accidentally smeared elsewhere.
He was struck with the mental image of those pretty lips elsewhere.
He couldn't control the tenting in his thick slacks and was glad for their weight, for the table. He couldn't control the small twitch of his body at the sight, and knew he was blushing red under his armour; glad for the shield from the worlds eyes. Knew Cara knew exactly what was happening. Could see it in the smirk of her lips, the silent shake as she laughed to herself. The promise of teasing that would come after.
Or would come now.
"So, how do you two know each other? Can't help but notice that armour over there" - they all turned to look at the bescar, half destroyed, hung with reverence on a stand at the side of the bar. "Can't help but wonder who it belongs to"
The woman laughed, standing and moving to the bar, gesturing to the beer and taking Cara's nod as a given; pouring them both a pint and smiling at Cara. "…mando and I grew up together, foundlings in the same mandalorian confine"
"I have to ask the obvious question, given his...and your...I thought you couldn't take off the mask"
Wren's smile dropped, and she looked at Din across the small, round cantina with shame before turning away. Bouncing on her heels in a way so achingly familiar the mando was glad for his helm, for the way it hid his longing…his worry.
"I'll answer this one"
They all turned to the small brunette at the end of the bar and Cara's eyes narrowed as Wren nodded with gratitude at the small woman.
"Thanks, Mol"
"Wren here was our Mando. She came every few moons to refuel and repair and helped everyone with their jobs and repairs" the woman whistled through her teeth. "I've never seen anyone work their way around a ship like she can. Don't know if I ever will. Every time we begged her to stay, to settle, and every time she hesitated more and more"
"It's the humidity" the blonde chuckled, "nothing beats feels swampy beneath the bescar, just draws you to an area"
"It was the company and you know it!"
Wren leaned back on her chair to look at Molly as she sat back down, handing a cool, crisp pint to Cara. "Keep telling yourself that, little shrimp"
The chuckles from the rest of the room died down, and the woman continued, her accent clipped and almost harsh. "We had a problem though. Bandits kept coming in and taking what they wanted. They realised that whilst splintered, they were no match for our passionate warrior. But together...surprising everyone with a coordinated attack...Wren here took them on, and…" she gulped, and Din realised where it was going. Where he'd been, in those sewers, with that bot. "She nearly died. Hadn't told us all that her body was slowing, that she was in pain every day. That the armour was padding upon padding and supports on every joint. She got hit in the head…and we killed the bandits. Dragged her to the doc and she desperately held onto the helmet til she couldn't anymore. It was death or people seeing her beautiful little face. Finally she cracked; and the armour was too broken to put back on"
"I did not know you were injured" Din finally said, breaking the sorrowful silence that followed the story.
"And I didn't realise everyone didn't age this way" she sighed, thanking Molly as she came to take their bowls, leaning forward to offer the Child the rest of her bread. Smiling at his cheerful chirp. "The doctor here used to work in a city. Retired here. Says it's genetic, something I inherited from my parents. I remember my mother being weak, struggling to walk after the birth of my brother, but...had no idea I would be the same"
Din almost choked. "You have birthed a child?"
She laughed. "No, goodness no. But every fight, every battle. Every hit I took and every time I hit the ground, it took a little longer to get back up, to fight again. I had no clansmen to turn to, no home to return to, bar this one I have carved for myself. I spoke to the Doctor once, asked her for salve. She checked out my hip, it...wasn't good. Told me I had to stop, or my body would make the choice for me. I ignored her, and it did"
"I'm sorry"
"We'll talk later, old friend. When we can talk freely".