Private Even the Stars Feel Quiet

[Deanez]

Two days had passed since the Vigo had settled into its quiet orbit. The ship felt different without him.

Dean had not realized how much of the vessel's life came from Rynar's presence until it was gone. His boots moving through the corridors, tools clattering somewhere in the workshop, the low hum of music leaking from an open hatch, the occasional muttered argument with a piece of machinery that had offended him in some personal way. Even his sleep had been loud in its own quiet way, the small shifts and restless turns that had become a familiar rhythm beside her.

Now the ship moved with a cleaner silence. Not empty exactly. Just… still.

The cockpit lights cast their usual soft glow across the controls while the viewport showed the slow drift of stars sliding past the ship's nose. Dean sat in the pilot's chair, one leg tucked beneath her, a datapad balanced loosely in one hand while the other rested on the armrest.

The Vigo ran perfectly. Rynar's maintenance had always bordered on obsessive, but Vael's repairs had pushed the ship into a rare state of calm efficiency. Power flowed smoothly through the couplings, the sensor array hummed without protest, and even the environmental systems ran with the quiet steadiness of something that had finally been given the attention it deserved.

It meant there was very little left for her to fix. Which meant there was a lot of time to think.

Dean set the datapad down on the console and leaned back slightly, her eyes drifting toward the empty co-pilot seat beside her. She had caught herself glancing at it more than once over the last two days, expecting him to be there with his boots propped up on the console and a mug of something terrible balanced in his hand while he argued with the navigation computer.

The chair remained empty.

A soft thump sounded behind her.

Dean didn't turn right away. Cupcake had been stalking a loose tool for the better part of ten minutes, and judging by the sound of it, the nexu had finally decided the object was an enemy that required decisive and possibly terminal action.

Another thud followed. Then a metallic clatter that suggested the tool had lost the battle.

Dean closed her eyes for a moment and exhaled through her nose, the kind of breath that came from someone who had been alone just long enough for the silence to start settling into her bones.

"Cupcake," she said, calm and even. The cockpit went still. Slowly, she turned in her chair.

Cupcake stood in the middle of the floor with the defeated wrench pinned beneath one paw, her wide golden eyes fixed on Dean with the earnest innocence of someone who had absolutely not been doing anything questionable.

The wrench shifted under her weight. Cupcake's ears twitched.

Dean regarded her for a long moment before rising from the chair. The movement felt heavier than it should have, as though the quiet of the last two days had settled into her limbs.

"You have defeated the wrench," she said softly. Cupcake blinked, triumphant.

Dean crouched and retrieved the tool, setting it back on the console. The nexu immediately leaned forward and bumped her head against Dean's shoulder, demanding recognition for her valor. Dean let her.

Her hand lifted automatically, fingers sliding through the thick fur behind Cupcake's ears. The rumbling purr that followed filled the cockpit, warm and alive in a space that had felt too still for her liking.

"You are supposed to be guarding the ship," Dean murmured.

Cupcake's tail flicked, clearly interpreting this as praise.

Dean straightened slowly, her hand lingering at the nexu's neck before she stepped back toward the pilot's chair. The empty co‑pilot seat sat beside her, quiet and patient, the way it had been for two days.

Outside the viewport, the stars drifted past in their slow, indifferent way.

Two days.

Korda would still be arguing with medical staff. Rynar would still be trying to keep him from doing something reckless. And she would still be here, orbiting in place, keeping the ship running because that was what she knew how to do.

She lowered herself into the chair again, her gaze drifting once more to the seat beside her. The silence pressed in gently, not hostile, just present. The kind that made her too aware of her own breathing.

"He will come back," she said quietly, more to the room than to herself.

Cupcake, apparently satisfied that the wrench had been neutralized, climbed onto the co‑pilot seat and circled twice before settling exactly where Rynar normally sat. Her tail curled neatly around her paws as she looked out the viewport with the solemnity of someone assuming an important post.

Dean watched her for a moment, something soft and tired flickering behind her eyes.

Then she leaned back, letting the hum of the Vigo fill the space around her.

The ship held its orbit. The stars drifted. And the quiet settled in again, familiar and heavy, as she waited.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar Solde lay on the narrow bunk, one boot hooked loosely over the other, the durasteel frame creaking faintly whenever the outpost shifted under distant artillery vibrations. The mattress beneath him was thin enough that he could feel the cold structure of the cot through his armor, but after two days on a forward operating base in the Outer Rim, comfort had stopped being a meaningful concept.

His helmet rested on the small crate beside the bunk.
He hadn't taken the rest of the armor off.

Across the narrow aisle, another bunk faced his. Korda sat on it, bare from the waist up, the dark lines of fresh stitches cutting across his torso where vibroblade and blaster burns had opened him days before. The gashes had been closed by hurried field medics, the uneven thread still stark against scarred skin that had already lived through more battles than most soldiers ever would.

In his hands, a vibroblade moved with slow, deliberate rhythm.
Stone against metal whispered quietly in the dim barracks light.
The blade slid. Turned. Slid again.
The sound repeated with steady patience, the kind that came from a man who was more comfortable preparing for the next fight than recovering from the last one.

Rynar watched the motion for a few seconds from where he lay, the familiar rasp of sharpening steel filling the quiet between them. The outpost itself wasn't loud right now. Most of the troops stationed here were resting between rotations, the halls outside reduced to distant boots and the occasional burst of static from a comm unit.

Too quiet for a place built for war.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and rolled onto his side, reaching toward the small holodevice resting beside his helmet. The compact unit flickered to life in his gloved hand, its faint blue glow reflecting across the matte beskar plates covering his arms.

Two days.
Two days since Korda had been dragged into the field hospital and nearly fought the medics trying to stitch him together. Two days since Rynar had been told, firmly, that someone needed to stay nearby in case the stubborn Mandalorian decided to ignore medical orders and wander off into the next firefight.

Someone had apparently meant him.
His thumb hovered over the comm pad for a moment before he finally keyed the frequency he knew by heart.
The signal leapt from the FOB's antenna array into the void, crossing the quiet distance to the ship drifting patiently in some distant orbit.

Back aboard the Vigo, the cockpit console chimed softly as an incoming transmission pushed through the ship's comm system.
A familiar ID tag blinked across the screen.
FUTURE HUSBAND: RYNAR
it was a funny little thing he had programed into the Ship for contacts

Back in the barracks, Rynar pushed himself upright on the bunk, forearms resting on his knees as the holodevice projected the outgoing signal. His armor creaked faintly with the movement, the plates still dusted with the fine grit of the outpost's landing field.

His helmet remained off, dark hair slightly flattened where it had been earlier.
The comm indicator pulsed while the signal attempted to connect.
He found himself hoping she was actually in the cockpit.
Or at least somewhere near the comm panel.

After a moment, he leaned forward a little closer to the projection field, one brow lifting as the connection line continued to blink.
"C'mon, Dean…" he muttered quietly.
Another pulse.
Then the transmission stabilized.

Rynar tilted his head slightly toward the projector, the corner of his mouth pulling into a faint, tired smirk.
"Just checking in," he said, voice carrying easily through the small device.
A beat passed before he added, dry as ever,
"Tell me the Vigo isn't on fire."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

The Vigo had settled into the quiet rhythm that came with long waits in open space.

Systems hummed softly through the ship's frame, a constant low vibration beneath the deck plates that had become so familiar Dean barely noticed it anymore. Outside the viewport, the stars drifted slowly across the darkness while the cockpit lights cast their steady glow over the consoles.

For the past two days, the ship had run with a kind of peaceful efficiency, almost too peaceful.

No hurried repairs. No sudden course corrections. No tools clattering across the deck while Rynar argued with a stubborn piece of machinery.

Just the ship. And Cupcake.

The nexu occupied the co‑pilot's chair with the complete confidence of someone who had decided this had always been her seat. Her tail hung over the edge, flicking lazily as she watched the slow movement of distant stars. Dean sat beside her, one hand resting lightly against the console while the other held a datapad she had been reading for the better part of an hour. Or pretending to read. The words had begun to blur together some time ago.

The ship chimed.

Her eyes lifted immediately. Too quickly, if she'd been paying attention to herself.

The incoming transmission blinked softly across the comm panel, the identifier appearing in clear text.

FUTURE HUSBAND: RYNAR

Dean's expression remained calm, but something eased in her chest, a small shift she didn't allow to reach her face. Cupcake's ears twitched at the alert, as if she too recognized the name.

Dean reached forward and accepted the connection just as his voice filled the cockpit.

"Just checking in. Tell me the Vigo isn't on fire."

She leaned back slightly as the projection field activated, the dim blue glow resolving into his image. For a moment, she simply looked at him. The barracks behind him, the armor he still hadn't removed, the faint exhaustion around his eyes that she had been expecting but still disliked seeing.

"You will be pleased to know," she replied, her voice steady in the quiet cockpit, "that the Vigo remains structurally intact."

A small pause.

"The ship has not caught fire."

Cupcake lifted her head and chuffed, offended in principle. Dean glanced toward the nexu, the faintest hint of warmth touching her eyes before she returned her attention to the holoprojection.

"Cupcake did attempt to conquer a wrench earlier," she added. "But the situation was resolved without structural damage."

Her gaze settled on him again, more searching now.

"You appear tired," she said quietly. Not a reprimand. Not even a concern spoken aloud. Just the truth, offered gently. Her eyes drifted briefly to the stitches across Korda's chest in the background before returning to Rynar.

"How is Korda behaving?" A beat passed. Then, in the same calm tone she used for everything else, she added, "Is he following medical instructions… or are you currently preventing him from starting another fight?"

Her voice remained even, but the silence beneath it, the one she'd been living in for two days, lingered like a shadow at the edge of the cockpit lights, soft and familiar and heavier than she would ever admit.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

The holoprojector flickered softly as the connection stabilized, painting Dean and the cockpit of the Vigo in faint blue light across the dim barracks.
Rynar leaned forward slightly on the bunk, forearms resting on his knees, the plates of his armor giving a quiet creak as he shifted. For a moment he didn't answer right away. His eyes flicked past Dean to the co-pilot's chair.
Where Cupcake sat.

The corner of his mouth tugged upward faintly.
"Ah," he said, voice dry but warm. "Good. I was concerned she might finally succeed in dismantling the ship piece by piece."
His gaze lingered on the nexu for another second before returning to Dean.
Then she asked about Korda.
Rynar exhaled slowly through his nose and leaned back a little, glancing over his shoulder toward the opposite bunk.
Korda was still there.

Still shirtless.
Still sharpening the vibroblade.
The rasp of stone against metal continued in that same slow, deliberate rhythm.
Rynar looked back to the projection.
"Well," he said calmly, "in the last forty-eight hours I have prevented him from fighting ten Mandalorians."
He lifted a gloved finger slightly.

"To be fair, they did look at him wrong."
Across the aisle the sharpening stopped for a brief moment.
Rynar ignored it.


"There was also an incident earlier where several of them decided the correct solution was to determine who had the larger..."
He paused, clearing his throat slightly.
"...vibroblade."
His eyes flicked sideways again, just briefly.
"I stepped between them before it escalated into a cultural demonstration."
Behind him, the stone resumed its slow scrape against the blade.

Rynar continued.
"He also attempted to lift a supply crate roughly the size of a speeder engine."
His expression remained perfectly neutral.
"So I resolved the matter by jabbing him directly in the stitches."

A beat passed.
"He stopped."
From somewhere off to the side, Korda's voice suddenly cut across the barracks.

"Hey Rynar!"
Rynar's eyes closed briefly.
"Don't..."

"Have you two gotten steamy yet or what?"
Rynar's eyes snapped open.
Across the holoprojector his expression flattened instantly, the quiet patience of a man who had tolerated exactly enough nonsense for one day.
"Korda."

The sharpening stone stopped.
"You are the last person on this planet who should be commenting on anyone else's judgment."
Rynar leaned forward slightly, voice sharpening.
"You charged a squad of heavily armored enemies with a scrap of durasteel and the confidence of a drunk gladiator."

There was a beat of silence.
Then Korda moved.
Fast.

The holodevice jerked violently as a large armored shape suddenly collided with Rynar from the side.
The projection spun wildly as the two of them crashed off the bunk and onto the floor with a heavy clang of beskar and durasteel.
"YOU POKED MY STITCHES!"
"That was medically necessary!"

The holodevice skittered across the deck, the projection now angled sideways as the camera captured a chaotic view of two Mandalorians wrestling across the barracks floor.

Armor plates clattered.
A boot kicked into the edge of the bunk.
Korda tried to grab the device.
Rynar shoved him away.
"You were lifting a crate!"

"I could have handled it!"
"You nearly tore your abdomen open!"
The image bounced again as Korda tackled him a second time, both of them disappearing partially out of frame.
For a moment the holoprojector showed nothing but the ceiling of the barracks while the sounds of a full-grown Mandalorian wrestling match echoed in the background.

Then Rynar's armored shoulder slid back into frame as he shoved Korda off again.
He reached blindly for the holodevice.

The projection steadied as he grabbed it, breathing slightly heavier now, hair more disheveled than before.
Behind him, Korda sat on the floor with the vibroblade still in one hand, looking entirely unapologetic.
Rynar stared into the projector for a moment.
Then he straightened slightly, attempting to recover what remained of his composure.
"…Everything here is under control."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

The holoprojector in the Vigo's cockpit flickered as the image lurched and spun, the signal struggling to keep up with the sudden chaos unfolding on the other end of the transmission. For several seconds, Dean found herself staring at the barracks ceiling instead of Rynar, the sounds of armored bodies colliding echoing clearly through the comm, as if the fight were happening only a few meters away.

Cupcake lifted her head in the co‑pilot's chair, ears twitching once in mild interest.

Dean did not react right away. She simply sat there with one elbow resting lightly against the arm of the pilot's chair, watching the wrestling match through the shifting blue projection with the calm, resigned patience of someone who had fully expected this the moment Rynar mentioned Korda's recovery.

When the image finally steadied and Rynar reappeared in frame—slightly disheveled, breathing harder than before, and looking exactly like someone who had just been forcibly reminded that Mandalorians did not understand the concept of "bed rest"—she regarded him for a long, quiet moment.

Then her attention shifted past him.

To the other Mandalorian sitting on the floor with a vibroblade still clutched in his hand, very much alive, very much awake, and clearly not planning to relinquish the weapon anytime soon.

Dean inclined her head slightly toward the projection.

"Korda," she said, her voice calm and even, though a faint thread of dry amusement slipped beneath the surface. "You appear to be recovering well."

Cupcake chuffed approvingly beside her, as if offering her own professional assessment of the situation.

Dean's eyes returned to Rynar, taking in the state of him with the same steady, unhurried scrutiny she used for ship diagnostics.

"You look like someone who has been supervising a Mandalorian," she observed, her tone carrying the quiet inevitability of a conclusion she had reached long before the call connected.

Her gaze flicked once more to the vibroblade still in Korda's hand before settling on Rynar again.

"And judging by the wrestling match I just witnessed, I assume the medical staff has already given up trying to keep him still."

She leaned back slightly in the pilot's chair, folding one leg beneath her with the ease of someone who had long since accepted that chaos tended to follow the people she cared about.

"The Vigo remains intact," she continued, returning to her earlier report as though nothing unusual had just occurred on the other end of the transmission. "Cupcake has not dismantled any critical systems."

The nexu stretched lazily in the co‑pilot's chair at the mention of her name, her tail flicking once in dignified acknowledgment.

Dean regarded the two armored Mandalorians again, the faintest hint of warmth touching her expression despite the absurdity of the scene.

"Although," she added thoughtfully, "it does appear that I left the more dangerous situation behind."

Her eyes settled on Rynar once more, steady and unbothered.

"If everything is truly under control," she said, her voice as calm as ever, "you may want to move the vibroblade away from the injured patient."

A small pause followed, just long enough to make the next line land with perfect deadpan precision.

"Before he attempts another cultural demonstration."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

For a moment after Dean finished speaking, the barracks was quiet again.
Rynar remained crouched where he had steadied the holodevice, one gauntleted hand still holding it while he watched her through the faint blue projection. The calm in her voice hadn't changed, but the dry edge of humor behind it pulled the corner of his mouth upward slightly.

Then he glanced behind him.
Korda was still sitting on the floor.
Still holding the vibroblade.
Still looking far too pleased with himself.
Rynar exhaled slowly.

"…Right."
He rose from the bunk, armor plates shifting with a quiet scrape as he stepped across the narrow aisle toward him.
"Korda," he said flatly.
The larger Mandalorian didn't move.
What did move, however, was the small, pale shape coiled across his chest.

A fluffy hognose snake about two feet long had wrapped itself comfortably around Korda's torso sometime during the scuffle, its body draped lazily across the stitched gashes like it had personally decided to supervise the recovery process.

Oro's tiny tongue flicked into the air as Rynar approached.
The snake turned its head toward him with mild curiosity.
Rynar stopped beside the bunk and stared down at both of them.

"…Of course."
He reached down and plucked the vibroblade cleanly out of Korda's hand before the other Mandalorian could protest.
Oro's head lifted slightly as the movement jostled her perch.
Her tongue flicked once more toward Rynar's gauntlet.

Rynar glanced down at the small reptile, expression softening just a fraction.
"You are very lucky," he muttered to Korda, "that Oro is cute enough to stop me from slapping you."
The snake blinked slowly, apparently satisfied with this arrangement.
Without looking, Rynar flipped the vibroblade up into the air.


The weapon spun once.
and buried itself point-first into the durasteel ceiling of the barracks with a loud THUNK.
Several nearby soldiers glanced over.
Rynar ignored them.

He turned back toward the holodevice, brushing a bit of dust off one shoulder plate before leaning down to pick it up again. The projection steadied as his face came back into view.

Behind him, Korda remained on the floor with Oro still comfortably coiled across his chest, the small snake flicking her tongue occasionally at the room like a bored supervisor.

Rynar looked back at Dean.
"It would appear," he said dryly, "that even I am not safe from Korda's tackles."

He shifted the holodevice slightly so the camera steadied.
"On the bright side," he added, "he hasn't attempted to charge anything in the last twenty minutes."
A small pause followed before his eyes flicked briefly toward the co-pilot's seat.
"Cupcake looks comfortable."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

The projection steadied again in the cockpit, the faint blue glow washing across the controls and painting the barracks scene with enough clarity for Dean to take in every detail of what had just unfolded. Her eyes followed the sequence without a single interruption: Rynar reclaiming the vibroblade with that familiar, unthinking efficiency; the weapon embedding itself in the ceiling with a decisive, echoing thunk; the nearby soldiers doing their absolute best to pretend they had not witnessed any of it; and finally the small pale shape now draped with remarkable confidence across Korda's chest, as though this had been her rightful place all along.

Dean leaned forward slightly in the pilot's chair, resting one elbow against the console as she examined the new development with quiet interest.

"The snake appears calm," she observed, her voice steady as ever, though a thread of dry amusement softened the edges of the words.

Cupcake, who had perked up at the mention of her name earlier, shifted in the co‑pilot's chair and fixed her golden eyes on the holoprojection. She watched the tiny reptile with the focused, predatory intensity of a creature evaluating whether something was a friend, a threat, or a snack that had wandered into the wrong room.

Dean noticed the moment that interest sharpened.

Without looking, she reached over and rested her hand lightly on the nexu's shoulder, her touch gentle but unmistakably directive.

"No," she said, calm and absolute.

Cupcake blinked once, her ears flicking in mild protest before she settled back down with a rumbling huff that conveyed her disagreement as clearly as speech. She would tolerate the ruling—for now.

Dean's attention returned to the projection, her expression composed.

"Korda," she said evenly, addressing the other Mandalorian as though the situation were entirely ordinary. "You have acquired a nurse."

Her gaze shifted briefly to Oro, who flicked her tongue with what could only be interpreted as acknowledgment, if not outright pride.

"If she is supervising your recovery, I recommend cooperating," Dean added, her tone thoughtful. "She appears more patient than Rynar."

Only then did her eyes return fully to Rynar himself, studying him with a quiet perceptiveness that missed very little.

"You look slightly less composed than you did a moment ago," she noted, her gaze flicking upward toward the vibroblade embedded in the ceiling before returning to him again. "But your current strategy appears effective."

She leaned back in the pilot's seat, folding one leg beneath her as she settled comfortably, the movement unhurried and familiar.

"Cupcake is comfortable," she confirmed, as the nexu stretched across the co‑pilot's chair with the languid entitlement of someone who had already claimed the position as her own. "She has decided the co‑pilot station now belongs to her."

A brief pause followed as Dean studied the two Mandalorians on the other end of the transmission—the barracks, the armor, the quiet chaos that seemed to orbit them no matter where they went.

"You should consider the situation stable," she continued, her tone as calm as if she were delivering a routine systems report. "Korda is seated. The vibroblade is out of his hands. And the snake appears to be enforcing medical compliance."

Her gaze softened slightly when it returned to Rynar, a warmth there that she didn't bother to hide.

"That is significant progress."

She let that settle for a moment before adding, in the same composed tone,

"Try not to let him tackle you again."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar held her gaze for a moment after she finished speaking.
"Significant progress," he repeated quietly, as if testing the phrase.
Behind him, Korda gave a low grunt of agreement from the floor. Oro shifted slightly on his chest, coiling tighter in a way that suggested she had indeed accepted the role of medical authority.

Rynar let out a slow breath through his nose.
Then he stood.
"I'm going to step outside before he decides to demonstrate further progress," he said dryly.


He handed the holodevice off to one hand and moved toward the barracks exit. The door slid open with a hydraulic hiss, and the ambient noise of the FOB filtered in, distant generators, muted conversation, the wind dragging dust across durasteel plating.

The door shut behind him.
Outside, the air was cooler. The sky above the outpost stretched wide and bruised with fading light, twin moons faint against the horizon. Rynar crossed to a supply crate near the outer wall and lowered himself onto it, armor shifting with a quiet scrape.

For a moment, he didn't speak.
The comm projection cast a faint blue glow across his chest plate and jawline. Without the barracks behind him, without Korda's presence filling the background, the silence felt different.

More honest.
He rested his forearms on his knees.
"This is harder than I thought it would be," he admitted quietly.

The words weren't dramatic. Just factual.
He glanced off toward the landing field lights for a second before looking back at her.
"I haven't slept well."
A faint, self-aware exhale followed.

"It's too quiet in the bunk."
He hesitated, then added, softer,
"I'm used to your breathing."
There was no teasing in it. No armor around the admission.

"Two days shouldn't feel this long."
He rubbed a hand briefly over the back of his neck, glancing down at the ground before continuing.
"Korda doesn't help."
His gaze shifted toward the barracks wall behind him.
"He's… different."

The humor faded from his expression, replaced by something more thoughtful.
"He won't talk about what happened on Yaga Minor."
His eyes flicked briefly downward to his own chest plate, as if picturing something.
"He has Jaig eyes painted on the left side of his cuirass now."

The highest honor among Mandalorians.
Rynar's brow furrowed faintly.
"He won't say how he earned them."
A small pause.

"And that bothers me more than the tackling."
He leaned back slightly against the crate, armor plates clinking softly.
"I might have to pull the mission files."
His eyes returned to her, steady again, though something quieter lingered beneath them.

"Just to make sure whatever he's not saying stays in the past."
The wind shifted slightly across the outpost.
Then, almost as an afterthought, though it clearly wasn't...
"Is Cupcake actually sleeping in my seat?"

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

The cockpit stayed quiet while he spoke, the kind of quiet that settled into the metal and the air itself, as though the ship were listening with her. Dean did not interrupt him and did not shift or look away from the projection as the setting behind him changed. Wind swept across the landing field, the stark geometry of the FOB rising behind him, the muted colors of a place built for war and long stretches of waiting. The faint blue light of the holocomm traced the edges of his armor and the line of his jaw, catching on the movement of the breeze as if even the air around him carried something she could feel from across the system.

When he finished, she did not answer immediately. She let the silence stretch for a moment longer, not because she lacked a response, but because she had heard the things he had not meant to say just as clearly as the ones he had spoken aloud. The quiet between them held its own shape, familiar and heavy in a way she did not try to push aside.

Her gaze softened, the shift small but unmistakable.

"You have been sleeping beside someone for a long time," she said, her voice low and steady, carrying a warmth that did not need to be exaggerated to be felt. "It is reasonable that the silence feels… different now. The absence of another person changes the shape of a room more than most people admit."

She did not try to make light of it or turn it into a joke or a distraction. Instead she leaned back slightly in the pilot's chair, her posture easing in a way that suggested she was letting herself feel the truth of her own words. One hand rested against the console, grounding her, while the other moved in slow, absentminded strokes through the thick fur along Cupcake's neck.

The nexu had claimed the co-pilot's seat with complete confidence, her large body sprawled across the cushions as though she had always belonged there. One heavy paw draped over the armrest while her tail flicked lazily every few seconds in a rhythm that matched her contented breathing.

Dean glanced toward her, the faintest hint of resigned affection touching her expression.

"Yes," she confirmed, her tone calm but threaded with something warmer. "She is sleeping in your seat. She made the decision without consulting anyone."

Cupcake's ear twitched at the sound of her name, though she did not bother opening her eyes, perfectly at ease in the space she had commandeered.

Dean's gaze returned to the projection, and when she spoke again, her voice carried a softness that did not hide itself.

"She misses you."

A heartbeat passed, quiet, steady, unguarded.

"Almost as much as I do."

There was no hesitation in the admission, and no attempt to soften it or disguise how it settled between them. She simply let the truth exist, unadorned and unchallenged, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to say.

Her attention shifted then, thoughtful again, though the warmth lingered in her eyes.

"You mentioned Jaig eyes," she said, tilting her head slightly as she studied him with the same quiet focus she used when assessing a damaged system. "I am not familiar with that term."

Her voice remained calm and curious rather than concerned, but there was a subtle openness in it, an invitation for him to keep talking and to keep filling the silence she had been living with.

"What are they?"

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar didn't look away when she said it.
Almost as much as I do.
The wind moved faintly across the landing field behind him, stirring dust along the durasteel edge of the FOB wall. For a second, the hardened lines in his posture softened.

He let out a quiet breath.
"Good," he said gently. "I'd hate to think I'd been replaced by a nexu."


The faintest hint of a smile touched his mouth, but it didn't linger long.
When she asked about the Jaig eyes, his expression shifted, subtle, but unmistakable.
He leaned back slightly on the crate, gaze lifting toward the dim sky for a moment before returning to her.


"Jaig eyes," he repeated.
"In Mandalorian culture, they're… the highest honor one can be given."
His voice steadied into something more formal, almost reverent.
"a simplification of jai'galaar'la sur'haii'se, translating as "shriek-hawk eyes" in Mando'a, and more commonly referred to simply as jaig... the symbol represents cunning. Ferocity. The ability to outthink and outfight an enemy that should have killed you."

He paused.
"If a Mandalorian wears Jaig eyes on their armor, it means they either did something extraordinary…"
A beat.
"…or they went through hell and came back."
The wind shifted again.
Rynar's jaw tightened slightly.


"Korda has them painted on the left side of his cuirass now."
His gaze drifted briefly toward the barracks door behind him.
"He wasn't wearing them before Yaga Minor."
The silence that followed wasn't empty.


It was heavy.
"If something happened there that earned him Jaig eyes…" he said quietly, "then something serious went down."
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck again, a habit when he was thinking too hard.
"And whatever it was… it changed him."


That was the part that unsettled him most.
Korda was still loud. Still reckless. Still willing to tackle him into the floor over a minor insult.
But there was distance behind his eyes now. A hesitation where there hadn't been one before.


Rynar looked back at her, decision settling into place.
"The Vigo has access to Mandalorian archives through my clearance."
He hesitated only a fraction of a second before continuing.
"I'm going to give you my personal authorization code."


That, more than anything else, carried weight.
He had never shared it.
Not with anyone.
The holoprojector flickered faintly as he leaned closer.


"Authorization: Solde-Theta-Seven-Krayt-19."
His voice was steady, but there was trust in it, unspoken and absolute.
"That should unlock restricted mission reports."
He held her gaze.
"Pull Korda's file. Filter for Yaga Minor. Anything marked classified, after-action, commendations… everything."


A small pause.
"See if you can find what earned him those eyes."
The wind tugged lightly at the edge of his kama.
"I don't like not knowing," he admitted quietly. "And I don't like the way he's carrying it."


For a man built like Korda to feel distant instead of loud,
That meant something.
Rynar's eyes softened slightly as they rested on her again.
"Be careful with what you open," he added gently. "Some of those reports aren't… pleasant."


A faint, tired exhale followed.
"And Dean?"
His voice lowered just slightly.
"Thank you."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean listened without interrupting, her attention fixed on the projection while he explained the meaning of the Jaig eyes. The cockpit lights cast a faint reflection across her face, and though she barely moved, the change in her expression was unmistakable in the subtle tightening of her focus—the quiet, inward shift that meant she was absorbing every detail he offered, fitting each piece into the larger shape of him she carried in her mind.

When he finished describing the honor, she didn't speak right away. Her gaze drifted slightly, thoughtful, as though she were already beginning to assemble the implications: the name of the world, the timing, the fact that Korda bore the symbol now when he had not before. It was the kind of information that settled into her thoughts like coordinates waiting to be plotted, something she would return to later when the cockpit was quiet and the ship felt too large around her.

"You are right," she said at last, her voice low and steady. "If he earned Jaig eyes there, then something significant happened."

Her fingers slowed in Cupcake's fur as she considered it, the nexu stretching luxuriously across the co‑pilot's seat, blissfully unbothered by the gravity of the conversation. One ear flicked lazily, as if the discussion were simply another soft sound in the cockpit—one more thing she could sleep through.

Dean's eyes returned to Rynar when he gave the authorization code.

She didn't interrupt him. She didn't even blink.

She simply listened, committing the sequence to memory with the same quiet precision she used for anything that mattered. The weight of the gesture was not lost on her; she felt it settle into her chest with a familiar heaviness she didn't name. When he finished, she inclined her head slightly, the acknowledgment small but sincere.

"I understand."

She leaned forward then, the motion slow and deliberate, reaching for the console. The cockpit lights shifted across the controls as the system responded to her touch, the Vigo's computer waking another layer of its deeper archive functions with a soft hum that filled the silence between them.

"I will access the Mandalorian archive channels through your clearance," she said, her tone calm and measured. "Mission files, after‑action reports, commendations connected to Yaga Minor."

Her voice remained steady, but there was a gentleness beneath it—an awareness of what she might find, and what it might cost him to let her look.

"I will be careful with what I open."

The promise came simply, without ceremony, but it carried the weight of someone who understood exactly how much damage information could do.

Her fingers lingered on the console for a moment before she leaned back again, returning her attention fully to him. The blue glow of the holoprojector softened the edges of her expression, making her look a little more tired, a little more human, than she ever allowed herself to admit.

"If something there changed him," she said quietly, "then understanding it may help you understand what he is carrying now."

Cupcake shifted beside her, stretching across the co‑pilot's seat with the slow confidence of a creature who had decided the ship belonged to her. Dean glanced at the nexu briefly, a faint warmth touching her eyes.

"She is guarding your chair," she murmured, as though the small detail mattered more than she wanted to admit.

Then her gaze lifted back to Rynar, steady and warm in the pale blue light.

"You do not need to thank me."

A small pause followed, soft and unhurried.

"You asked me to look," she said, her voice almost gentle. "So I will."

The quiet in the cockpit settled around her again, the low hum of the Vigo filling the spaces she didn't speak into. She let the silence linger, not uncomfortable, simply present.

Then, with a softness that carried more weight than anything else she had said, she added,

"And the next time we speak, I will have answers for you."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar watched her as she leaned toward the console, watched the subtle focus settle into her posture as the Vigo's deeper systems came alive beneath her touch.

When she said she would have answers next time they spoke, something in his shoulders eased.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Not formal. Not guarded.
Just real.
"It'll help more than you know."
He shifted slightly on the crate, glancing back toward the barracks entrance before returning his attention to her.

"There's no clean way for me to access the archives from here without raising eyebrows," he admitted. "Half the command staff already thinks I'm hovering."

A faint breath left him, almost amused.
"If I start digging through classified reports about Yaga Minor while sitting across from him, it won't stay subtle for long."
His hand drifted absently toward his belt, fingers brushing against the familiar shape of his flask. He pulled it free halfway, the metal catching a faint glint from the landing field lights.

For a second, he just looked at it.
Then he paused.
His expression shifted, small, but noticeable.
He lowered the flask slightly without drinking.
"…Before I left," he said carefully, "I may have had more to drink than I should have."
That was an understatement.

His eyes flicked back up to her, searching her face.
"I don't actually remember everything I said."
The wind stirred lightly again, tugging at the edge of his kama.
He turned the flask in his hand once, then slid it back into its pouch without taking a sip.

"I've got to slow down on that."
A quiet exhale followed.
"When I was drunk," he asked, voice steadier now but carrying an edge of uncertainty he rarely allowed through, "what did I say?"
A beat.
"What all did I tell you?"

He held her gaze.
Not defensive.
Not embarrassed.
Just wanting to know.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean didn't answer immediately.

She watched him for a moment through the soft blue wash of the holoprojector, her gaze following the small, telling movements that revealed far more than the question he had asked. The way his hand had reached for the flask out of habit. The way he had paused before drinking, as though weighing the comfort it offered against the cost. And finally, the quiet, deliberate choice to put it away.

That alone told her more than anything he had said aloud.

Her fingers slowed in Cupcake's fur before settling, her hand resting lightly on the nexu's warm shoulder. Cupcake breathed steadily beneath her palm, a grounding presence in the dim cockpit. The only sounds were the familiar hum of the Vigo's systems and the soft whisper of air through the vents. Steady, constant, unintrusive.

"You did not say anything you need to regret," she said at last, her voice calm and even, carrying none of the sharpness he might have expected. "You were exhausted. You were running from something in your sleep, and the alcohol made the edges of it harder for you to hide."

She leaned back slightly in the pilot's chair, her posture relaxed but attentive, as though she were giving him space without stepping away from him.

"You told me about the corridor again," she continued, her tone softening. "The fire. The door that would not open."

Her eyes stayed on him, steady and unflinching.

"You said you could hear them."

She didn't repeat the words with drama or pity. She simply stated them as facts—truths he had already lived through, truths she had already accepted.

"You said you were tired of hearing them," she added, her voice gentler now.

Cupcake shifted beside her, stretching one paw across the co‑pilot's seat before settling again with a low, contented rumble.

Dean continued, her tone warming just enough to ease the weight of the moment.

"You also attempted to fight your flight suit."

A faint thread of dry humor touched her voice.

"You lost."

She let the smallest pause settle between them before she went on.

"You asked me if we were married," she said, her expression barely changing, though something in her eyes deepened into something warm, something quietly affected. "You were concerned that if we were not, we should correct that oversight."

She let that truth rest between them for a moment, neither pushing it nor diminishing it.

"You also informed the pillow that it was comfortable," she added, the faintest hint of amusement softening her tone.

Her gaze remained steady on him, open and without judgment.

"And you said you wanted children someday."

Another quiet breath passed between them, the kind that carried more meaning than words.

"You told me that I stay," she finished softly. "That I stay better than the others."

She didn't embellish the statement or try to soften its weight. She simply let it exist because it mattered and because pretending it didn't would have been a disservice to both of them.

Her voice gentled further.

"You were not ashamed of anything you said," she told him. "You were just honest."

Her eyes flicked briefly toward the pouch where he had returned the flask, then back to him with a steadiness that held no judgment, only recognition.

"And you put the bottle away just now," she said quietly. "That matters more than anything you said two nights ago."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar didn't interrupt her.
He didn't look away, either.
The wind moved softly behind him, carrying dust across the landing field, but he barely seemed to notice it. Each word she spoke settled into him slowly, like something being returned to its rightful place.

The corridor.
The fire.
The door.
His jaw tightened faintly, but he didn't flinch from it.

When she mentioned fighting his flight suit, however, a quiet, embarrassed breath escaped him through his nose.
"…I lost?" he asked under his breath.
Of course he did.

Then she said it.
The marriage.
The pillow.
Children.

You stay better than the others.
For a long moment, he didn't speak.
His gaze lowered slightly, not in shame, but in thought.
When he finally exhaled, it was slow and steady.
"I'll slow down," he said quietly. "On the drinking."
No deflection. No humor.
"I don't need to be getting drunk to sleep."
A small pause.

"I'll work toward not getting drunk at all."
That was as close to a vow as he ever made without ceremony.
Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted.

"…I wouldn't mind the children part."
There was warmth there now. Careful, but real.
"But only if you wish," he added gently. "It would be your body carrying them. Your choice."
He shifted slightly on the crate, some of the earlier heaviness easing from his shoulders.
"I don't plan on volunteering you for anything without your consent."

A quiet chuckle followed.
"At least I haven't taken up smoking or started using spice."
He shook his head faintly.
"Could be worse."
The breeze tugged lightly at the edge of his armor again as he leaned back, the tension in him not gone, but softened.

"Some time," he added, a trace of playful warmth returning, "I'll make you a proper drink."
"Something balanced. Not whatever battlefield swill this flask usually carries."
His eyes settled on her again, steady and warm.
"And I'll stay sober enough to remember it."

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean listened the same way she always did when something mattered, without interruption, without rushing to fill the space between his words. The cockpit lights reflected faintly across the console in front of her while the Vigo continued its quiet drift through the dark, the steady hum beneath the deck plates a constant presence that seemed to anchor the moment.

When he spoke about slowing down on the drinking, she did not react dramatically. She simply watched him for a moment, measuring the tone of his voice more than the words themselves. The promise had not been loud, but it had been sincere, and that was enough.

Her hand continued to rest against Cupcake's fur, the nexu breathing slowly beside her, content in the co-pilot's chair she had claimed as her own.

"I believe you," Dean said quietly.

The words carried no pressure, no demand for proof. She trusted the decision because she knew how rarely he made those kinds of promises without meaning them.

Then he spoke about children.

That softened her expression in a way she did not attempt to hide.

She leaned back slightly in the pilot's chair, considering the thought for a moment before answering. Her gaze drifted briefly toward the viewport, where the slow movement of distant stars reflected faintly across the cockpit glass.

"Yes," she said after a moment.

Her voice was calm, but the warmth in it was unmistakable—quiet, steady, the kind that didn't need to be emphasized to be felt. She let the thought settle between them for a breath, her gaze drifting briefly toward the viewport where the distant stars slid slowly past the glass, their pale reflections softening the edges of the cockpit.

"I would like that someday."

When her eyes returned to him, there was no hesitation in them, only a thoughtful certainty.

"But not yet."

She shifted slightly in the pilot's chair, drawing one leg beneath her as she settled more comfortably, as though the conversation itself required a steadier posture. Her hand remained resting against Cupcake's fur, the nexu's slow breathing a quiet counterpoint to the weight of the moment.

"I would want us to have more time together first," she said, her tone gentle but deliberate. "Time that belongs to us. Not borrowed hours between missions, or whatever we can salvage after battlefields and other people's emergencies."

Her gaze softened, the honesty in her voice unforced.

"I want something steady before we bring a child into it. Something that feels like ours, not something we're trying to build while everything around us is on fire."

Cupcake stirred beside her, stretching with a soft rumbling sigh before curling back into the co‑pilot's seat she had claimed. Dean glanced at the nexu briefly, a faint smile touching her expression before she looked back at him.

"A home would help," she added quietly. "Not just a place we sleep between jobs. Somewhere we return to because it's ours."

She let that idea linger, not as a demand but as a possibility she could see clearly enough to name.

Then her expression warmed again, subtle but unmistakable.

"But yes," she said softly, the smallest smile curving her mouth. "When we've built something more together. Something that feels like a life instead of a series of escapes. I would like children."

She didn't rush the words.

She simply let them exist, steady and sure, the way she meant them.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar let her words settle, the quiet certainty in her voice threading through the cockpit like a tether he hadn't realized he needed. He exhaled slowly, letting the weight of it sink in.

"…I guess I'll have to start looking into houses," he said quietly, the hint of a dry chuckle tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And figure out what planet we'd like to settle down on."

He shifted slightly on the crate, the breeze tugging faintly at his kama. "…A farming world wouldn't be bad. Grew up living off the land. There's something steady about it… something I'd like to share if we ever…" He let the thought trail, eyes lifting to hers again, steady and warm.

"The galaxy isn't the one I grew up in anymore," he admitted softly, "but I'd be happy to carry on my bloodline. Especially… with you."
He drew a slow breath, letting the words linger between them, heavier than the faint hum of the Vigo around them.
Then a sharp call from the barracks cut through the quiet.
"Korda."
Rynar's jaw tightened just slightly, and he exhaled with a faint, resigned sigh.
"…I guess that's my cue."

He shifted to his feet, adjusting his armor with practiced ease. "…I'll check on him. Try not to get yourself a herniated nexu from too much co-pilot duty."
Even as he turned, there was a softness in his gaze toward the holoprojector. "…And Dean?"
He paused, voice low. "…Thank you. For everything."
Then, finally, he walked toward the barracks, armor plates sliding quietly across the metal deck, ready to face the chaos waiting inside.

Deanez