Private the past doesn't stay away for long enough

[Rynar Solde]

The low hum of the Vigo‑77's engines vibrated through the deck plates beneath his bare feet, steady and grounding, as Rynar leaned over the workbench in their makeshift workshop. Goggles perched on his brow, the tip of the soldering iron in hand, he traced delicate wires across the battered datapad. Sparks flickered in the dim light, reflecting off his lenses like tiny, fleeting stars. From the small earbuds tucked just beneath his short, tousled hair, the raw scrape of thrash metal tore through the quiet, heavy riffs cutting into the ship's ambient hum.


His free hand traced the edge of the datapad in a habitual tick, fingers tapping lightly against the worn metal whenever he paused to adjust a wire or consider a connection. He wasn't in armor tonight, just a white undershirt clinging slightly to his lean frame, shorts hanging comfortably on his hips, and the faint scratch of early stubble along his jaw catching the dim light.


"Come on… just a little more…" he muttered under his breath, voice rough, almost drowned by the music. The datapad had seen better days, but Rynar imagined it alive again, holding fragments of their lives, notes, sketches, memories, little pieces of quiet moments he didn't always speak aloud.

Dean's face drifted unbidden into his mind, soft and grounding. Her laugh that chased the tension from his shoulders, the way she leaned into him without hesitation, the reminder that life could be more than constant motion. She was the reason he persisted, the reason he got up each day, the reason he kept soldering wires in this cramped, humming ship.

A sudden clatter echoed from down the hall. Cupcake had knocked over a crate again, scattering supplies across the deck. Rynar exhaled, a faint grin tugging beneath the goggles. "You're lucky she loves you, little troublemaker," he murmured, flicking his hand back to the datapad, tapping the edge once more in rhythm with the riffs.

The soldering tip met the final wire. Sparks danced briefly before settling. He leaned back on the stool, rubbing the bridge of his nose, letting the music roar through him while the ship carried on beneath his feet. Almost there…


For now, this workshop, tools scattered, flickering lights, the gentle vibrations of the ship, the chaos of a mischievous nexu, and the pulse of thrash metal in his ears, was enough. All of it mattered because she was part of it. Because someday, they'd have a permanent place to call home. Until then, Rynar kept working, kept building, kept holding onto the little things that made their life theirs.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean paused just inside the doorway to the workshop, unnoticed at first, the dim light catching on the scattered tools and half‑finished projects that always seemed to multiply when Rynar disappeared into one of his late‑night rhythms. She had meant to slip in quietly, grab the tool she'd forgotten, maybe tease him about losing track of time again. Instead, she stopped.

And watched.

The goggles pushed up into his hair. The subtle roll of his shoulders kept time with whatever violent music was pounding through his earbuds. The careful precision in his hands as he coaxed life back into something most people would have tossed aside without a second thought. The faint line of concentration between his brows. The way he leaned in close, giving the datapad the kind of attention most people reserved for things that mattered deeply.

He always worked like that. As if everything he touched deserved patience. As if nothing was beyond saving.

She stood there longer than she intended, arms folding loosely across her chest, a quiet tightness settling beneath her ribs. It was the same feeling she got every time she was reminded how much he cared, how much he carried, and how little he ever asked for in return.

When Cupcake's crash echoed down the hall, and he muttered at her, Dean finally smiled. Soft. Private. The kind of smile she only ever let slip when no one was looking.

She crossed the room on silent feet, stopping just behind him. For a moment, she simply watched the sparks dance across the lenses of his goggles, watched him lean into the work as it steadied him.

Then, gently, she reached up.

With two fingers, she hooked one of his earbuds and eased it free.

The thrash metal spilled faintly into the room, sharp and chaotic against the quiet.

"Explains the tunnel vision," she murmured near his ear, her voice low and warm, not teasing, not critical, just present in a way she rarely allowed herself to be.

She leaned down and pressed a light kiss to the edge of his temple, right where the goggles rested, lingering just long enough to pull him back into the moment with her.

"You've been in here for hours," she added, her voice softening even further. "I checked the chrono twice because I thought it was lying."

Her hand slid to his shoulder, fingers settling there with a gentle weight, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric, grounding herself as much as him.

She glanced down at the datapad, eyes tracking the fresh solder lines and the careful routing with a familiarity born from years of watching him build and rebuild the world around them.

"You're rebuilding memory storage," she said quietly. "Personal partition."

Not a question. She knew his work. She knew his habits. She knew the way he tried to hold everything together, even when it wasn't his burden alone.

Her thumb brushed once against his shoulder, slow and reassuring.

"You don't have to save everything alone," Dean said, her voice gentler now, carrying that quiet ache she never quite shook. "You don't have to hold every piece of us together by yourself."

She shifted closer, resting her hip lightly against the workbench beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.

"I'm here," she added simply, the words soft but steady, as if offering them cost her something, and she was giving it anyway.

Then, after a beat, a faint curve touched her lips.

"And if you don't take a break soon, I'm going to steal your goggles and hide them somewhere extremely inconvenient."

She finally met his eyes.

Warm. Steady. Home.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar froze for a fraction of a heartbeat as Dean's fingers hooked the earbud free. The sudden quiet made the sparks from the soldering tip look sharper, the hum of the Vigo‑77's engines deeper, the faint rhythm of thrash metal now almost a whisper in the background. He blinked, realizing just how long he'd been hunched over the datapad... two hours, lost in circuits, wires, and his own stubborn focus.

Slowly, he removed the other earbud, setting it beside the first on the workbench. The music lingered faintly, a soft undercurrent to the scent of scorched metal and electronics that still clung to the air. His short hair fell slightly into his eyes as he leaned back, tugging Dean gently onto his lap. The warmth of her pressed against him instantly, grounding him more than the steady vibration of the ship ever could.

"I couldn't really sleep," he murmured, voice low and rough from the hours of concentration, stubble brushing lightly along her temple as he leaned close. "Thought I'd see if I could bring this datapad back to life. Supposed to be fully blank… seller figured it was junk. Just damaged surplus. Bought it for a single credit."


He tilted his head just enough to breathe in her scent, familiar, grounding, steady, and let himself linger in it. For a moment, the world outside the Vigo‑77 didn't exist. The scattered tools, the flickering lights, the faint vibration of the engines, even the faint echo of Cupcake knocking something over down the hall. all faded into the background.

A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest. "I wonder what Cupcake's destroyed this time…" His fingers traced the curve of her hip, light but deliberate, grounding both of them in the small bubble they'd carved out of the ship.

He leaned further in, stubble brushing against her skin, lips brushing her temple as he spoke again, reverent, quiet. "But… I'm glad you're here." Every word carried the weight of two hours lost to work and thought, all focused on her now.


The datapad sat on the workbench, half-revived, sparks from the tip now dull and harmless, but Rynar didn't move to it. Right now, there was only this: the warmth of Dean against him, the subtle rise and fall of her breath, the grounding presence of someone who knew him as deeply as the wires and tools he bent to his will.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean let out a soft breath when he pulled her onto his lap, the motion so natural, so instinctive, that she barely registered it before she was already settling there, one arm sliding loosely around his shoulders, her body fitting against his like it had always known where it belonged.

Her forehead brushed lightly against his for a moment as she listened, her eyes half-lidded, attention fixed entirely on him.

"I had a feeling sleep wasn't happening," she murmured, voice low and fond. "You get that look when you're halfway between exhausted and stubborn enough to rewire half the ship instead of resting."

Her thumb traced slow, absent circles at the base of his neck, just beneath his hairline, feeling the warmth there, the faint tension that still lingered from hours of focus.

"One credit," she added quietly, glancing toward the datapad with faint amusement. "You and your talent for finding treasure in other people's trash. Pretty sure that's a survival skill at this point."

She shifted slightly on his lap, tucking in closer, her cheek resting briefly against his shoulder.

When he said he was glad she was there, something in her softened.

A lot.

Her fingers tightened just a little in the fabric of his undershirt.

"I'm glad too," she replied softly. "Every time. Even when you're covered in solder dust and look like you've been arguing with a datapad for hours."

Her lips brushed his jaw, just beneath the edge of his stubble, slow and deliberate.

"And for the record," she added, her voice dropping just a touch, "you're a lot more distracting than any thrash band."

Down the corridor, something crashed.

Followed by a very guilty-sounding chuff.

Dean didn't even look.

She just smiled.

"Cupcake is absolutely committing crimes right now," she said calmly. "But that sounds like Future Us's problem."

Her gaze lifted to his, warm, teasing, unguarded.

Right here. Right now.

She reached up and gently tugged his goggles down off his brow, setting them aside on the bench.

"Which means," she murmured, leaning in close enough that her breath brushed his lips, "you're officially on break."

A tiny pause.

"Mandatory."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar didn't hesitate when she leaned in.
He met her halfway, pressing a soft, unhurried kiss to her lips. Warm, familiar, more grounding than any engine hum or circuit diagram. It lingered just long enough to say everything he wasn't putting into words, before he leaned back slightly with a quiet breath and a faint chuckle.

"Sorry I wasn't in bed when the CO woke up," he murmured, voice low, teasing just a little as his hands settled more securely at her hips. "Terrible example I'm setting."

His thumb brushed idly along her side, slow, absent, while his other hand traced a light line up her back. The faint rasp of stubble followed as he leaned in again, this time brushing his nose against hers.


Then he studied her for a second, really studied her, eyes warm, posture relaxed against him, that unmistakable spark in her expression.
"…So," he said quietly, lips twitching. "Why are you in such a playful mood tonight?"
Down the corridor, Cupcake made another suspicious noise.
Rynar huffed softly through his nose.
"Yeah. That tracks."


He shifted slightly on the stool so she sat more comfortably on his lap, one knee angling outward, his chest easing back against the edge of the bench. His fingers resumed their unconscious tick for just a moment, tapping lightly against the datapad's casing, before drifting back to her.

His gaze flicked briefly toward the workbench, then back to her.
"You know," he added thoughtfully, "I've been considering growing the beard out."
A beat.

"Like… a real one. Enough to braid."
His mouth curved into a crooked half-smile. "Not saying I will. Just saying I'm thinking about it."
He leaned closer, stubble brushing her cheek as he spoke near her ear.
"What do you think?"

Then he drew back just enough to look at her again, expression softening.
"I was gonna tell you why I couldn't sleep," he started, then stopped himself, exhaling quietly instead.
His forehead rested lightly against hers.
"…Later," he said gently.


For now, he just held her there, letting the faint thrash metal bleed through the room, the ship humming beneath them, Cupcake committing crimes somewhere down the hall. Dean warm in his lap, exactly where she belonged.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean let out a quiet, fluttering breath of laughter against Rynar's mouth when he finally pulled back, the sound a soft vibration that seemed to bridge the small gap remaining between them. Her hands didn't drop away; instead, they slid upward with a gentle deliberation to rest lightly against his shoulders, her fingers curling into the worn fabric of his shirt as she studied his face with an expression of open, unguarded affection that she rarely allowed the rest of the world to see.

Her thumb moved in a slow, thoughtful arc along the line of his jaw, tracing the faint, sandpapery texture of the stubble there as if she were committing the sensation to memory.

"Playful mood?" she echoed softly, the words hovering in the still air of the workshop. "I think it is because you are sitting here in this half-awake haze, covered in fresh solder burns and smelling of ozone, listening to thrash metal at… well, whatever ungodly hour the ship's chronometer says it is, and you are still somehow managing to be entirely adorable about the whole ordeal."

She leaned in once more, not for a full embrace but to brush a slow, lingering kiss against the corner of his mouth—a quiet tribute to his patience—before settling her weight back against him.

"As for the beard," she continued, tilting her head to the side while one brow arched in a look of playful skepticism, "stubble is perfectly fine, Rynar. In fact, I like this." To emphasize her point, her fingers skimmed his jawline again, appreciating the rugged reality of him.

Then she shook her head, a faint, genuine smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she entertained the mental image he'd suggested.

"But a full, proper dwarven beard? No, thank you. Let's be practical for a moment." She huffed a small, amused breath through her nose. "For one thing, it would absolutely get caught in the seals of your helmet every single time you had to suit up, and then you would complain about the pinching constantly—only to spend the rest of the day pretending you were not complaining at all while looking thoroughly miserable."

Her gaze softened then, the teasing light in her eyes giving way to a profound, quiet warmth as she looked at him, really seeing the man behind the mechanics and the music.

"And for another… I simply like seeing your face. All of it. I like the lines of it and the honesty I find there, and I don't want it buried under complex braids and beard oil and whatever other nonsense you would inevitably feel pressured to start grooming into it."

She shifted slightly in his lap, adjusting her weight until she was fitted more comfortably against him, her forehead eventually coming to rest gently against his in a gesture of shared peace.

"And my mood," she added, her voice dropping to a low, honest murmur that felt meant only for his ears, "is simply because I am here. With you. In these hours when sleep won't come, and the galaxy feels like it's finally stopped screaming. When it is just us, the heartbeat of the ship, and Cupcake off somewhere preparing to cause his next brand of trouble."

Her fingers tightened their hold on his shoulders, anchoring herself to the safety of the moment.

"This is when I feel… safest. Most likely the person I actually am, rather than the one I have to pretend to be out there." She smiled faintly, the expression reaching her eyes. "So yes. I am playful. But give credit where it's due—you are the one who makes me that way."

She let the sentiment hang in the air for a heartbeat before the spark of mischief returned to her gaze, her voice dropping into a teasing, mock-serious warning.

"But consider this a fair ultimatum: if you ever actually attempt to braid that beard, Rynar, I reserve the absolute right to sneak in and cut it off while you're sound asleep."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar listened to her in silence, forehead still resting lightly against hers, breathing in the quiet honesty of her words. His eyes stayed on hers, steady and warm, and when she finished, something in his chest eased in a way he didn't quite have language for.

A faint huff of a laugh escaped him first.
"Alright," he murmured, brushing his nose gently against hers. "Fair."
His hands slid from her hips just long enough to cradle her sides, thumbs warm through the thin fabric as he leaned back slightly to look at her properly.
"If I ever grow a beard big enough to braid," he said calmly, a crooked half-smile tugging at his mouth, "you have full permission to shave my head."

A beat.
"Eyebrows included."
His lips twitched. "Make a whole ceremony out of it."
Then movement caught his eye.

Cupcake trotted past the open bulkhead doorway, dragging a bundled length of cables behind her like she'd just conquered some great mechanical beast. Rynar stared for a second.

"…That better be spare," he called after her, voice carrying down the corridor, "and not something you pulled out of the wall."
Cupcake froze.
Then immediately bolted.
Rynar closed his eyes.
"Of course."

He let out a long, suffering sigh and leaned his head back against the edge of the workbench, one hand coming up to rub over his face. The other reached blindly for his flask, fingers finding familiar metal. He twisted the cap and took a solid swig.
The liquor burned warm on the way down.


Dean would catch it instantly. the smell was stronger than usual.
He glanced back at her with an apologetic half-smile, arm settling around her again to keep her close, then lifted the flask slightly in offering.
"Want some?" he asked quietly. "Fair warning...it's not exactly polite company."

His thumb brushed slow, grounding circles along her back while he waited, keeping her tucked against him.
"…Future Us is having a very productive evening," he muttered softly.
Then his voice dropped, warmer, more honest, stubble brushing her temple as he leaned in.

"But right now," he added quietly, "I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."
The faint thrash metal still whispered from the bench. The ship hummed beneath them. Cupcake committed crimes somewhere down the hall.
And Rynar held Dean just a little tighter, letting himself stay in the moment a while longer.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean caught the sharper scent immediately and gave him a look that was equal parts knowing and unimpressed, though the softness in her eyes took the sting out of it and made the moment feel more intimate than admonishing.

She gently nudged the flask back toward him, the motion quiet but unmistakably firm in its intention.

"No," she said quietly, her voice steady rather than scolding, as if she wanted the boundary clear without making it feel like a reprimand. "You can have that one."

Her hand slid up along his chest instead, fingers spreading over the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as though that simple, living pulse grounded her far more effectively than anything she could have taken from the bottle.

"Future Us can deal with Cupcake," she added with a faint, tired smile that softened the edges of her exhaustion. "Present Us should probably make sure she has not dismantled something critical."

A distant metallic clatter echoed down the corridor as if the universe itself had chosen to underline her point with unnecessary enthusiasm.

Dean closed her eyes briefly, the expression somewhere between resignation and a silent plea for strength.

"…That did not sound spare," she murmured, the understatement carrying its own weary humor.

She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss just beneath his jaw, lingering there for a second longer than necessary before pulling back enough to look at him properly, her gaze warm and steady.

"Help me clean up," she murmured, her voice low but coaxing. "We can track down the chaos gremlin, restore whatever she has stolen, and then go to bed like responsible adults who at least attempted to maintain order."

Her thumb traced once along the edge of his undershirt, a small, grounding gesture that said more than the words she'd spoken.

"I would like to sleep next to you tonight," she added more quietly, the honesty in it unguarded. "Not wake up to solder burns and half‑revived datapads scattered around you."

There was no accusation in the words, no frustration—just want, plain and unembellished.

She shifted off his lap reluctantly, as though her body hadn't quite agreed with the decision, but she kept one hand hooked in his shirt as she stood, giving him a gentle tug that invited rather than demanded.

"Come on," she said, her voice warm but carrying that familiar thread of firm practicality. "If we move now, we might limit the damage before it becomes a full‑scale disaster."

Then, softer, her tone slipping back into something teasing and fond,

"And if you are exactly where you are supposed to be… then you are supposed to be helping me."

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar let out a quiet breath through his nose when Dean nudged the flask away. He didn't argue. Just capped it and set it back on the bench, fingers lingering there for a moment before he stood.

"Yeah," he murmured. "That definitely wasn't spare."
He slid off the stool and followed when she tugged his shirt, brushing a quick kiss against her hair as he passed. "You're right," he added softly. "Responsible adults. Got it."

His tone suggested he was only partially convinced.
By the time they made it down the corridor, Cupcake was already trotting ahead of them like nothing had happened, tail flicking lazily as she carried herself with the confidence of someone who had committed several crimes and felt zero remorse.

She slipped into the bunk room first.


They'd turned it into something that almost resembled a real bedroom over time, extra bunks folded away or converted into storage, gear crates stacked neatly along one wall, soft lighting strung along the ceiling supports. Their bed occupied the lower bunk, widened and padded out with scavenged cushions and blankets. Above it, the top bunk had been claimed entirely by Cupcake, outfitted with a repurposed crash mat, a thermal blanket, and a couple of indestructible chew toys.

Cupcake leapt up into her bunk with a soft thump and immediately curled into a smug little ball.
Rynar stopped in the doorway, hands settling on his hips.
"…Unbelievable."
He glanced down at Dean, mouth twitching. "She absolutely planned that."

He crossed the room and dropped onto their bed with a quiet exhale, then immediately reached out and caught Dean by the wrist, tugging her down with him before she could protest.

She landed against his chest.
He laughed softly, one arm wrapping around her, the other sliding up to tuck her closer, chin resting against her temple.
"Mission accomplished," he murmured. "Chaos contained. Critical systems still operational."

His stubble brushed her cheek as he leaned in, voice dropping into something warmer.
"And you said you wanted to sleep next to me."
He shifted slightly, pulling her more fully against him, legs tangling with hers, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles along her back.

"Besides," he added quietly, lips close to her ear, playful but sincere, "if I let you walk away right now, I'd be violating direct orders from my commanding officer."
A beat.
"That'd be irresponsible."

He pressed a soft kiss into her hair and let himself relax into the mattress, the ship humming gently around them, Cupcake already settling above, and Dean warm in his arms.
For the first time all night, Rynar felt ready to sleep.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean let herself be pulled down without resistance, the movement so familiar now that her body followed his instinctively, fitting against him like it had learned the shape of him by heart. Her cheek rested against his chest, just beneath his collarbone, where she could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing and the deeper, slower thrum of his heartbeat beneath it.

For a moment, she did not speak.

She simply lay there, listening.

To the ship.
To Cupcake's soft, satisfied shifting above them.
To him.

Her fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt at his side, not gripping, just anchoring herself, as though she needed the reminder that he was real, that this was real.

"Mm," she murmured quietly at his comment about orders, a faint hint of amusement threading through her voice. "You are very dedicated to following protocol."

Her head shifted slightly, tucking closer beneath his chin, seeking warmth without quite admitting it.

"I do like sleeping next to you," she admitted softly. "It is… easier. The noise in my head gets quieter when you are this close."

The words slipped out before she could filter them.

She did not pull them back.

Instead, she traced slow, absent patterns against his side with her thumb, mirroring the circles he was drawing on her back.

"Most nights," Dean continued after a small pause, her voice low and thoughtful, "I feel like I am still running. Even when we are safe. Even when nothing is wrong." Her shoulders lifted in the faintest shrug. "Like I am waiting for something to break. Or for someone to tell me I have missed something important."

She tilted her head just enough to look at his jaw, at the line of stubble catching the soft light.

"But when I am here," she said quietly, "it feels… manageable. Like I can breathe without checking over my shoulder first."

Her hand slid up to rest over his chest, palm flat, feeling the steady proof of him beneath it.

"I do not always know what to do with that," she admitted. "With feeling tired all the time. With feeling… heavy. Even when I am happy."

A faint, self-conscious breath left her.

"But I know that being with you helps. More than you probably realize."

She leaned up just enough to press a slow, gentle kiss against his jaw, lingering there for a heartbeat before settling back down.

"And," she added softly, her voice warming again, "if you are going to keep following my 'orders' like this…"

Her lips curved faintly against his skin.

"…I think I will continue giving them."

Dean shifted closer, fitting herself more fully into his arms, forehead resting beneath his chin now, her body relaxing inch by inch as sleep began to creep in.

"Stay with me," she murmured quietly, not as a request so much as a truth. "Just like this."

And wrapped in him, in the hum of the Vigo, in the quiet presence of the life they were building piece by piece, she let herself believe, for a little while, that she did not have to be strong alone anymore.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh when she spoke about orders, his chest rising beneath her cheek.
"Yeah," he murmured softly. "I take my directives very seriously."

His arms tightened around her just a little, one hand sliding up her back, the other settling at her waist, holding her like she might drift away if he didn't. He pressed a gentle kiss into her hair, then another to her temple, slow and unhurried.

When she spoke about the noise in her head, about still running even when nothing was wrong, his thumb paused its circles for half a heartbeat.
Then he resumed, slower.

"I get that," he said quietly. His voice stayed low, steady. "You don't ever really stop listening for the other shoe to drop."
He shifted just enough to tuck her closer beneath his chin, his stubble brushing her forehead as he rested there.
"But you don't have to carry that alone," he added softly. "Not anymore."


Her palm over his heart grounded him in a way nothing else could. He leaned down and kissed her jaw where she'd kissed him, then her cheek, then finally her lips, soft at first, then deeper, lingering with a quiet ache of affection and relief wrapped together.

When he pulled back, he reached for the blanket and drew it up over both of them, cocooning them in warmth. His arm stayed firm around her, fingers threading lightly through her hair as he settled against the mattress.

"I'm staying," he murmured. "Just like this."

He held her close as her breathing evened out, matching his to hers, letting the ship's hum and Cupcake's faint shifting above them fade into background noise. His eyes finally slipped shut, exhaustion catching up all at once.

Sleep came heavy.
Too fast.
At first, it was quiet.


He dreamed of sitting at a forward outpost, nothing special, just dust and durasteel and the familiar sense of waiting. Everything felt calm in that strange way it sometimes did before something went wrong.

Then it did.
Not in detail. Just in feeling.


Sound swallowed the air. The ground shook. Voices blurred together. His chest tightened as instinct took over, his body moving before thought could catch up. He ran. not toward anything, just away, boots pounding, breath burning in his lungs, the sense of being chased by something he couldn't see but could feel closing in.

His heart hammered.
His grip tightened.
Back in the bunk, his arms drew Dean closer without him waking, his brow knitting faintly as he shifted, a quiet breath escaping him.
But even in the dream, something anchored him.
Her warmth.

Her weight against his chest.
And slowly, the chaos ebbed.
His breathing steadied again, his body settling back into the mattress, his grip easing while still holding her close. protective even in sleep.
Rynar didn't wake.
He just turned slightly onto his side, drawing her with him, forehead resting against hers, clinging to the one thing that made the noise stop.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean stirred faintly when his breathing shifted, responding on instinct long before conscious thought reached her. It was the reflex of someone who had learned to wake at the smallest change in rhythm with the tightening of his arms, the hitch in his breath, the subtle tension that moved through him like a distant tremor she had come to recognize without effort.

She didn't fully wake, not in the sharp, alert way she did when alarms blared, or danger pressed close. This was different. This was Rynar, and her body knew the difference even in sleep.

Half-asleep, she adjusted without thinking, turning with him as he rolled onto his side, her body following the familiar path it always did. One arm slid around his shoulders, fingers curling gently into the fabric of his shirt, while her other hand drifted to his back, her palm warm and steady between his shoulder blades as if she could anchor him with touch alone.

Her forehead brushed his, her breath soft against his lips as she murmured into the fragile space between dreams and waking. "It's alright. You're here. I've got you."

Her thumb traced a slow, familiar line along his spine. It was the same motion she used whenever his thoughts grew too loud, and the past crept too close. She pressed a light kiss to his cheek, then another near his mouth, not to wake him but to remind him of where he was and who held him.

"I'm not going anywhere," she whispered, her voice thick with sleep and something deeper. "You don't have to run tonight."

She fitted herself closer, tangling her legs with his as though she could physically shield him from whatever his mind had dragged up. Tucking her face against his throat, she breathed him in, grounding herself in the warmth and reality of him.

For a moment, her own heaviness brushed the surface—the exhaustion, the quiet ache she never named—but with him holding her even in sleep, needing her without ever making her feel small for it, those thoughts loosened and drifted away.

She focused instead on the steady return of his breathing, on the way his body slowly relaxed beneath her touch, on the simple truth that they were here together and safe.

"Sleep," she murmured, almost a promise to both of them. "I'll keep watch."

Wrapped in him, in the hum of the Vigo, and in the quiet bond they had built from broken places and stubborn love, Dean stayed awake just long enough to feel the tension ease from his shoulders, and his breathing settle into something deep and even.

Only then did she let herself relax, releasing a small, tired breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her arm loosened around him. Not letting go, just shifting into a position that could last the night.

Her eyes fluttered open once, just enough to take him in, the familiar line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble, the way his expression softened in sleep when she was close.

A quiet warmth spread through her chest.

"Still here," she murmured to herself, the words barely sounding.

Her eyelids closed again, and the constant background noise of her own mind finally dulled under the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the gentle vibration of the ship. Her breathing matched his, slow and even, safe in its certainty.

She tucked her face more firmly into the hollow of his neck, one hand resting over his heart as her fingers relaxed at last.

Sleep took her gently this time. Not like falling, but like being carried.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

A few hours later...
Rynar jolted awake.
Not violently. Not with a shout.

Just a sharp, ragged inhale that dragged him back into his body like he'd been hauled from the crushing pressure of deep water too fast. His eyes flew open, but the darkness offered no comfort. It was a void, a canvas for his mind to paint its horrors upon.

The room was dark. Quiet. The steady, thrumming hum of the Vigo-77's life support vibrated through the deck plating, a sound that was usually a lullaby but now felt like the growl of a sleeping beast. In the bunk above, Cupcake shifted faintly, the soft rustle of her blanket a distant, irrelevant sound.

Dean was still there.
Warm. Close. Safe.

But his heart was a frantic drum against his ribs, a wild, terrified rhythm that spoke of a chase he was no longer running. Sweat slicked his skin, cold and clammy in the recycled air. For a few seconds he didn't move, a statue carved from fear, just staring into the dark, breathing hard, straining to hear sounds that weren't there, the scrape of boots on metal, the hiss of a plasma vent, the wet, tearing sound of…

You're here.
You're safe.
His jaw tightened, the muscles cording like steel cables.

Carefully, gently, so as not to disturb the one anchor he had in the storm, he eased his arm from around Dean. She stirred slightly, a soft sigh escaping her lips, but didn't wake. He lingered for half a second, his knuckles brushing softly against the warm skin of her shoulder, a silent apology, before slipping out from under the blankets and into the cold.

The air outside the bed felt like ice.
He moved through the corridor like a ghost, bare feet silent against the cool deck plates. The kitchen alcove lights flickered on dimly, their pale glow a stark intrusion into the darkness. The small space felt too tight, the walls too close, the ceiling too low. It was a cage.

He braced both hands on the cool metal of the counter, his knuckles white, and breathed. He tried to force the air into his lungs, but it felt thin, useless.
In.
Out.

"You're fine," he muttered to himself, the words a raw, broken whisper in the quiet. "You're fine. You're on the Vigo. It's over."
But his chest was a vise, tightening with every beat of his traitorous heart.

He fumbled with the storage compartment beneath the counter, his fingers clumsy and stiff. He pulled out a bottle of strong Mandalorian ale he'd tucked away for long hauls, its dark glass seeming to absorb the dim light. He stared at the label for a second, the swirling, unfamiliar script a blur, before twisting the cap free. The hiss of the seal breaking was unnaturally loud.

He took a long swallow.

It didn't just burn; it was a line of fire down his throat, searing away the cold sweat but doing nothing for the ice in his veins. It burned hotter than usual, hotter than he remembered. He swallowed hard, his breath hitching slightly as the harsh liquid hit his stomach. The warmth spread quickly, a chemical fire that dulled the sharpest edges of the panic, blunting them just enough to breathe.

"They're not here," he murmured quietly, his gaze fixed on a point on the wall, as if he could stare the phantoms into submission. "They can't hurt you. Not anymore. They're dust."

Another swallow, longer this time. The alcohol was a blunt instrument, a sledgehammer to the delicate clockwork of his nerves.
His fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle until his own knuckles ached. "It's just a dream," he snarled, the words a low, venomous curse directed at himself. "It's just a fucking dream. Get a grip."

He leaned back against the counter, the cool metal a shock against his overheated skin. His head tipped toward the ceiling, eyes squeezing shut as he forced his breathing to slow, counting the heartbeats that hammered against his sternum. The memory was already fading at the edges, not the details, never the details, but the feeling of running, of noise swallowing the air, of something inexorable and hungry closing in behind him. The smell of ozone and blood.

He took another drink.
Not reckless. Not frantic.
Just methodical. A dose. A treatment. Trying to poison the ghost that lived in his head.
After a long moment, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the gesture rough, angry. He stared down at the bottle, at the amber liquid within. A solution. A problem.

The ship hummed steadily around him.
Safe.
Dean was down the hall.
Safe.
Cupcake was probably upside-down in her bunk, dreaming of whatever the hell a nexu dreamed of.
Safe.

He exhaled slowly, a long, shuddering breath, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, leaving behind a dull, weary ache.
"You're safe," he repeated more firmly this time, a command, an order to the terrified child still hiding somewhere inside him.
But he didn't quite believe it yet.

And he stayed there in the dim light, bottle in hand, breathing through the lingering tremor in his chest, trying to outrun something that wasn't chasing him anymore, but had taken up permanent residence in his soul.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean woke to absence before she woke to sound, sensing the shift in the room the way someone who has lived too long on instinct always does. It began subtly, with the faint change in warmth beside her and the missing weight of his arm that usually anchored her in place. Her body recognized the wrongness long before her mind caught up, the same quiet instinct that had always warned her when something was off. She stirred slowly, still half wrapped in sleep, reaching out without opening her eyes in the hope that she had imagined it.

Her hand met only cooled sheets.

That alone was enough to pull her fully into awareness.

Her eyes opened, dark and alert in an instant, the remnants of rest dissolving into a quiet, practiced vigilance that had been carved into her over years of necessity. She lay still for a moment, letting the ship speak to her, listening to the steady hum of the engines, the faint shifting of Cupcake somewhere above them, and the familiar rhythm of the Vigo settling around her like a second skin.

And then she felt it.

Not a sound exactly, not something she could easily name, but a presence down the corridor, a light movement, a familiar thread of energy tugging at her through the quiet and pulling at her awareness.

Rynar.

She exhaled softly, the tension in her chest easing only slightly, and slipped free of the blankets. She moved without urgency but without hesitation either, her bare feet meeting the cold deck plates and grounding her as she followed the quiet pull of him through the ship.

She found him in the kitchen alcove.

He was braced against the counter, his shoulders drawn tight and his posture rigid with effort, a bottle hanging loosely from his hand as if he barely realized he was holding it. The dim light caught the sheen of sweat on his skin and the rigid set of his jaw, and she saw the way his breath still came a little too fast and a little too shallow to be dismissed as simple restlessness. She took him in with one slow, deliberate glance, cataloging everything he was not saying, the distance in his posture, the tension coiled beneath his skin, and the way he seemed to be holding himself together through sheer stubborn will.

And the alcohol.

Her chest tightened, not with anger and not with judgment, but with something heavier and far more familiar, something shaped by long experience and quiet recognition.

Understanding.

She did not speak right away. Instead, she stepped closer with quiet, measured movements, careful not to startle him and careful not to break whatever fragile balance he was clinging to. When she was close enough, she rested her palm flat against his back, right between his shoulder blades, placing herself there deliberately and without hesitation.

Warm.
Steady.
Real.

"I wondered where you went," she murmured, her voice soft and still wrapped in the remnants of sleep, threaded with concern and with something deeper that she did not bother trying to hide.

She leaned in until her forehead rested lightly against his shoulder, her presence intentional and undeniable, offering him something solid to lean into if he chose to accept it.

"You did not have to do this alone," she added quietly, her hand shifting slightly and her fingers spreading so she could feel the tension locked beneath her touch.

"I felt you move," she admitted after a moment, her tone gentle and unpressing, never demanding more than he was ready to give. "You were dreaming again."

It was not accusatory.
It was not prying.
It was simply the truth, spoken without expectation or pressure.

She lifted her head enough to see his profile, her dark eyes searching him with a seriousness that held no sharp edges, only care and quiet resolve.

"You were breathing like you were running," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Like something was chasing you and you could not slow down."

Her gaze flicked briefly to the bottle before returning to him, calm and steady, never lingering long enough to feel like judgment.

"I am not angry," she said before he could misunderstand or retreat behind old defenses. "I just do not want this to be the only way you know how to survive the night."

Her hand slid from his back to his arm, her fingers curling lightly around his wrist, not to take the bottle and not to control him, but simply to remind him that he was not standing here by himself.

"You are here," she whispered, echoing the words she had given him before. "On the Vigo. With me. With Cupcake. With walls that lock and engines that do not lie."

She leaned closer, her forehead brushing his temple now, her breath warm against his skin.

"With someone who is not going anywhere."

There was a small pause, her voice dropping even lower, carrying the weight of something she rarely allowed herself to say aloud.

"I know what it is like," she murmured. "To wake up already tired. To feel like your past is standing in the corner waiting for you to notice it."

Her thumb brushed gently over his wrist in a slow, grounding motion.

"I live with that too."

She shifted fully beside him then, pressing her shoulder into his and anchoring herself there as if to show him that she was not leaving, not now and not because of this.

"So if you are going to fight it," she said softly, "let me fight it with you."

A faint, tired smile touched her lips, small but real, born of sincerity rather than optimism.

"Come back to bed," she added, her voice warm and coaxing. "Or sit here with me until it passes. I do not care which one you choose."

Her eyes stayed on his, open and honest, offering him something steady to hold onto.

"Just do not disappear from me when it hurts."

And she stayed there, close and patient and unwavering, offering him what she always did when the ghosts came calling.

Presence.
Patience.
Love.

Not as a cure.
But as a promise.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar didn't turn at first when she touched him.
But he did go very still.
The bottle tilted in his hand as if he'd forgotten it was there, the last swallow sliding down in one slow burn before he exhaled through his nose. When he finally set it down, it wasn't careful. It wasn't reckless either.


It was tired.
The glass met the counter beside two others already standing in quiet accusation.
His shoulders sagged.


And then he laughed.
Not sharp. Not loud. Just soft and uneven, the kind of laugh that comes when you're holding too much and something slips.
"Didn't disappear," he muttered, voice rough. "I'm right here."


When he turned toward her, the dim kitchen lights caught what he hadn't wiped away. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red, and there were faint tear tracks along his cheeks that had dried unevenly against his skin.


He tried to smile.
It wobbled.
"Hi," he said, like he'd just noticed her. Like she hadn't been pressed against him the entire time.


His breath carried the heavy scent of strong ale, thick and sharp, but underneath it was still him. engine grease, metal, and the faint trace of whatever soap they kept forgetting to restock properly.


He lifted a hand toward her face.
Missed slightly.
Corrected.


His fingers brushed along her cheek with exaggerated care, as if she might shatter.
"You're… really pretty," he informed her with quiet seriousness, as though this was groundbreaking news. "Has anyone told you that?"
His thumb traced clumsily under her eye.


"You're too pretty for this ship. We should get you a palace. Or… or at least better lighting."
He leaned his forehead against hers without asking permission, eyes slipping closed.
"Are you my wife?" he asked suddenly, voice hushed and fragile in a way that hurt more than the tears had. "I think you're my wife."


His arms came around her then, not steady, not confident, but desperate in their need for contact. He pulled her in close, burying his face against her shoulder like if he let go she might evaporate.


"I had it again," he murmured into her skin, words damp and slurred but painfully honest. "The corridor. The fire. I couldn't get the door open. I could hear them."


His grip tightened.
"I'm tired of hearing them."
Another small laugh escaped him, brittle and wet.


"Thought I could outrun it tonight. Turns out it runs faster."
He shifted, clinging to her now with zero pride left intact. One hand slid up into her hair just to confirm she was real.
"You stayed," he mumbled, as if this was a revelation. "You always stay."


He pulled back just enough to look at her again, eyes swimming and soft and utterly unguarded.
"If you're my wife," he said solemnly, "you have to kiss me. That's the rule."
A beat.


"…Also you have to come back to bed because the floor is tilting and I don't trust it."
He leaned more of his weight into her without warning, absolutely using her as balance now.
"And if you leave," he added quietly, voice cracking under the alcohol and the truth of it, "I'm gonna follow you. Just so you know."


There was no swagger left in him. No soldier. No pilot. No stubborn edge.
Just a man who had fought too many battles in his sleep and didn't want to fight this one alone.
And even drunk, especially drunk, he chose her.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean did not flinch when she saw his face, not at the glassiness in his eyes, not at the tear tracks on his cheeks, and not at the way his smile trembled like it was trying to hold together something that had already cracked. She stayed exactly where she was, steady and unshaken, and lifted her hand without hesitation to guide his wrist when he missed her cheek the first time, helping his fingers find her skin so he would not have to correct himself again. She let him touch her like she was something fragile, even though they both knew she was anything but.

"You have mentioned it once or twice," she said quietly when he informed her she was pretty, her tone soft and threaded with warmth. "I appreciate the consistency."

When he leaned his forehead against hers and asked if she was his wife, something in her chest tightened, not from embarrassment but from the fragile way the question left him. She did not laugh or deflect. Instead, her hands rose to cradle his face, her thumbs brushing carefully beneath his eyes as she murmured, "If I am, then I suppose I should take that responsibility seriously."

When he pulled her into him, desperate and unsteady, she absorbed the weight without complaint. One arm wrapped firmly around his back while the other slid into his hair, her fingers threading through it in slow, deliberate strokes. She anchored him the way she always did, the way she knew he needed, even if he would never admit it when sober.

"I know," she said quietly when he told her about the corridor, the fire, the door that would not open. Her voice did not waver. "I know." Her hand moved through his hair in steady, rhythmic passes, something for him to follow when the memories tried to drag him backward. "You could not get the door open," she repeated softly, acknowledging the shape of the nightmare without letting it take the room. "But you are not there now. You are here."

When he said he was tired of hearing them, her eyes closed briefly, not in frustration but in understanding. "I know," she whispered. "I am tired of some things, too." She did not elaborate. She did not need to.

When he said it ran faster, she breathed a faint huff against his temple. "It does. But you are not running alone anymore." Her hand tightened slightly in his hair when he said she always stayed. "Yes," she answered simply. "I do." There was no drama in it, no grand declaration, only certainty.

When he looked at her again with those unguarded, swimming eyes and informed her of the rule, her lips curved into the smallest, fondest smile she had shown all night. "Is that the rule?" she asked softly, and then she leaned in and kissed him. It was not rushed or heated, just slow and grounding, her hand steady at his jaw, her mouth warm and deliberate against his, sealing something far quieter than the alcohol in his system. When she pulled back, her forehead remained against his. "There," she murmured. "Rule satisfied."

As he leaned into her and declared the floor untrustworthy, she adjusted automatically, bracing him with one arm around his waist. "The floor has always been unreliable," she said lightly. "I will file a complaint in the morning." Her tone softened again when his voice cracked, and he warned her he would follow if she left. "I am not leaving," she told him gently. "You do not need to chase me."

She shifted his arm more securely over her shoulders and guided him, step by careful step, back down the corridor, moving slowly and patiently with his weight, his imbalance, the parts of him that only surfaced when the armor came off. "Come on," she murmured near his ear. "Let us put you somewhere the floor cannot tilt."

When they reached the bunk, she eased him down, pushed the blankets aside, and guided him beneath them before slipping in beside him. She pulled him close immediately, one arm across his chest and one hand at the back of his head, holding him the way he had held her earlier. "You are not in the corridor," she whispered against his hair. "You are in our bed." Her thumb traced slow lines at his temple. "You are not hearing them." Her lips brushed his brow. "You are hearing me."

She tightened her hold just enough that he could feel it even through the haze. "And I am not going anywhere," she finished softly. "Wife or not."

Then she stayed exactly as she had promised, holding him steady and unmoving until his breathing finally slowed.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar kissed her back when she leaned in, slow at first, then with sudden, exaggerated seriousness, like he was trying very hard to "do it properly." When she pulled away just enough to guide him toward the corridor, he followed immediately, obedient and oddly pleased with himself.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured, though the words slurred together. "Very trustworthy wife. Ten out of ten. Excellent floor management."
He squinted down the hallway as if personally assessing structural integrity.
"Still suspicious," he muttered gravely, then looked at her again with sudden clarity. "You're very pretty."
He said it like it was new information. Urgent information. Important battlefield intelligence.

When she guided him back to the bunk and eased him down, he let out a dramatic sigh as though he had survived something monumental. "Bed's better," he declared. "Bed doesn't tilt. I approve."

The moment she slipped in beside him, though, the bravado dissolved.
He turned immediately, rolling toward her with single-minded focus, wrapping both arms around her like he was afraid she might evaporate if he didn't secure her properly. His leg hooked over hers. His face buried into the curve of her neck.

"You smell like home," he mumbled into her skin.
His grip tightened, not painfully, just desperately.
"You're real, right?" he asked after a moment, lifting his head slightly to squint at her face in the dim light. "Not… dream version. Dream version runs away sometimes."

He reached up to cup her cheek clumsily, thumb brushing her skin with excessive concentration.
"Stay," he added, softer now. "You stay better than the others."

Then, as if the vulnerability embarrassed him even in his intoxicated state, he tried to cover it with something lighter. He pressed a series of uncoordinated kisses along her jaw and neck, overly affectionate and completely unfiltered.

"Very good wife," he muttered approvingly between them. "Very soft. Excellent hugging skills."
He nuzzled back into her neck like an oversized, emotionally compromised cat.
After a beat:

"…Are we married?"
He sounded genuinely concerned about missing important paperwork.
His arms tightened again, fingers bunching in the fabric of her shirt.
"If we're not, we should fix that," he added solemnly. "You're very good at staying."


His breathing began to slow gradually as the alcohol pulled him downward again. The clinginess didn't lessen, if anything, it increased. He tucked his face under her chin, holding her like a lifeline, his voice fading into sleepy fragments.

"Don't let corridor win," he murmured. "You're faster."
And then, softer still:
"Thank you for staying."
His grip remained tight even as sleep dragged him under, not frantic anymore, just holding on.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean did not laugh when he clung to her like that. She only smiled softly against his hair as she guided him the last few steps down the corridor and into their bunk room, steadying him with one arm around his waist and the other braced against his back. When they reached the bed, and she eased him down onto the mattress, she followed immediately, sliding in beside him before he could even think about letting go. The moment her weight settled next to his, his arms tightened around her as if he had been waiting for that confirmation, as if the simple fact of her being there made the world tilt back into place.

Her own arms came up around him without hesitation, one hand sliding to his back and the other threading gently into his hair, holding him just as securely as he was holding her. "You're not dreaming," she murmured quietly when he lifted his head to squint at her in the dim bunk light, her voice low and steady, warm with certainty. "I'm real. I'm here. We're in bed. On the Vigo. With very suspiciously stable floors." She brushed her nose lightly against his. "And you smell like home too," she added softly, the words carrying more truth than she would ever admit out loud. "Grease, metal, bad decisions, and me. That's our brand now."

When he asked her to stay, her hand tightened slightly at the back of his neck. "I'm staying," she answered without hesitation. "I always do." She tolerated the uncoordinated kisses with patient affection, letting him nuzzle into her like he needed to make sure she existed, her thumb tracing slow, calming patterns against his shoulder as if she were anchoring him back into his body one breath at a time.

At his worried question about paperwork, she huffed a quiet, tired little breath of amusement against his temple. "No," she whispered fondly. "We are not married." After a small pause, she added gently, "But if we ever are, I promise I will personally make sure you do not miss the paperwork." Her lips brushed his brow, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth in a soft, grounding kiss that carried none of his drunken urgency and all of her steady devotion. "You don't have to fix anything tonight," she murmured. "You're in bed. You're safe. And I've got you."

As he tucked himself beneath her chin and his voice began to fade, she adjusted automatically, shifting so he fit more comfortably against her, her arm firm around his back and her other hand resting over his heart. "I won't let the corridor win," she whispered into his hair, echoing his words with quiet conviction. "I'm faster. I'm stronger. And I'm stubborn." A faint smile touched her lips. "And I'm not going anywhere."

As his breathing slowed and deepened, as the tension finally drained from his body and left him heavy and warm against her, she stayed exactly where she was, holding him like he might need it even in sleep. When he thanked her, half-lost in dreams, her eyes closed briefly. "You don't ever have to thank me for staying," she murmured softly. "It's not something I have to force myself to do."

She pressed one last kiss into his hair, settled her cheek against his temple, and let herself relax at last, wrapped around him in their bunk, anchored together as the Vigo hummed quietly around them.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

For a while, he slept.
Heavy. Boneless. Completely wrapped around her.
Then, sometime later, too early to be morning, too late to still call it night, he stirred again.
At first it was just a shift. A grumble. A half-formed sound like he was arguing with gravity itself.
Dean tightened her arm instinctively.
Rynar rolled.

Dean rolled with him.
The blankets twisted.
There was a brief, confused tangle of limbs


and then both of them tipped clean off the side of the bunk.
They hit the floor in a muffled thud of blankets, limbs, and indignant Mandalorian muttering.
Rynar blinked up at the ceiling from the deck plates, hair a mess, stubble shadowed in the low light, eyes glassy and unfocused.
"…The floor," he muttered hoarsely, as if deeply betrayed. "I told you it was unreliable."

He tried to sit up.
Instead, he rolled halfway onto his side and squinted at Dean like he was trying to determine if she had always been sideways.
"…Why are we… vertical wrong?"

He planted a hand on the floor to push himself up.
Missed.
Corrected.
Finally got to his knees.


And then, in the deeply confident logic of someone still very drunk, he decided this was clearly a tactical situation
He looked toward the armor rack across the room.
Narrowed his eyes.
"…We are underdressed," he declared gravely.


Before Dean could intercept him, he was on his feet, wobbling, determined , and stumbling toward the armor stand.
He grabbed for his flight suit first.
Got one leg in.

Then the other.
Then somehow twisted the torso half inside out.
He shoved an arm through the wrong sleeve and froze when the fabric tightened awkwardly around his shoulders.
There was a long pause.
He frowned at the suit like it had personally insulted him.
"…You are not cooperating," he informed it sternly.

He tried to yank it up.
Instead, the neck seal flipped halfway over his head.
Now one arm was trapped.
His face was partially covered.

He staggered backward a step.
"…Dean," came his muffled, very serious voice from inside the fabric.
"I believe… the suit has initiated a countermeasure."

He attempted to free himself.
The suit twisted tighter.
He stiffened.

"…It's trying to eat me."
There was genuine offense in his tone.

He flailed an arm weakly, which only made him rotate in place like a very large, very confused combat operator caught in laundry.
"I did not authorize this," he added, voice still muffled.
He tugged again.

The sleeve tightened around his elbow.
"…Dean."
A beat.

"…If I am consumed, you must avenge me."
He stumbled sideways, nearly tripping over the discarded blankets on the floor.

"…It has excellent choke discipline."
He paused.
Then, suspiciously:
"…Is this your doing."


Under all of it, though, beneath the absurdity, beneath the drunken logic and flailing, there was something softer.
He had woken disoriented.The dream had clawed at the edges again. And his instinct, even intoxicated, had been armor.

Defense.
Protection.
Control.

Instead, he had found fabric.
And now he was losing a fight with it.

He went still for a second, breathing heavier under the suit.
"…I do not like being stuck," he admitted quietly, voice small in a way he would absolutely deny later.
Then louder again, because pride reasserted itself:
"Stand down, garment. I outrank you!"


And he tried, with tremendous determination, to pull the suit off, succeeding only in spinning himself another half turn.
A Mandalorian warrior.
Defeated by sleeves.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean lay where she had fallen for a moment, staring up at the underside of the bunk, her hair half in her face and one arm still tangled in the blankets. The impact had been more startling than painful, a dull thud cushioned by fabric and familiarity. She exhaled slowly, the breath somewhere between a sigh and an exhausted laugh.

Of course.

She rolled onto her side just in time to watch him blink at the ceiling and accuse the floor of betrayal, and despite herself, a faint smile tugged at her mouth. Even disoriented and half-drunk, he could commit to a narrative.

When he squinted at her and questioned their "vertical alignment," she pushed herself up onto one elbow, her expression calm but her eyes warm with restrained amusement.

"We are horizontal," she informed him gently. "The universe remains intact."

But by then he was already moving.

The moment he fixed on the armor rack, something in her shifted. She saw it beneath the wobble, beneath the slurred bravado and theatrical suspicion. The instinct. The reflex to cover himself. To protect. To regain control before the disorientation could settle into something sharper.

He reached for the flight suit.

Dean sat up fully now.

She did not rush him immediately. She watched, assessing, giving him just enough space to attempt dignity before it fully unraveled into fabric-based warfare.

When the suit twisted over his shoulders and swallowed half his head, she rose gracefully to her feet, stepping toward him just as he began accusing it of treason.

"No," she said calmly, her voice steady and low as she approached the spinning, partially consumed Mandalorian in front of her. "It is not initiating countermeasures. You are simply wearing it incorrectly."

She reached him as he declared the garment's choke discipline impressive.

Her hands came up without hesitation, gentle but firm, catching his wrists to still the flailing before he managed to strangle himself with a sleeve.

"Stop fighting it," she murmured softly. "You are escalating the situation."

She moved closer, her body steadying his as she carefully peeled the neck seal back off his head and untwisted the trapped sleeve with patient precision. Her touch was unhurried, grounding, and deliberate in a way that contrasted sharply with his dramatic resistance.

"There," she said quietly as his face emerged from the fabric. "You are not being consumed."

She tugged the sleeve free and stepped back just enough to look at him properly.

His breathing was heavier now, not just from the struggle with the cloth.

She saw it again. That flicker. The edge of something that had followed him out of sleep.

Her hands slid from his wrists to his upper arms instead, steadying him as much emotionally as physically.

"You are not stuck," she told him, her voice dropping into something deeper and more intimate. "You are in our room. On our ship. And the only thing attacking you is your own poor coordination."

One hand moved to cup his cheek, her thumb brushing lightly along the line of stubble there.

"You do not need armor right now," she added gently. "There is nothing here to fight."

She leaned in just slightly, resting her forehead against his for a moment, anchoring him the same way she had earlier in the kitchen, the same way she had in bed.

"I am not the enemy," she continued softly. "And neither is the suit."

Her fingers slid down to lace with his.

"If you want protection," she said, guiding him carefully back toward the bed, "you can borrow mine."

When they reached the mattress again, she sat first and pulled him down with her, easing him back into the blankets that had betrayed them minutes earlier. She wrapped herself around him before he could reach for anything else, one arm firm around his shoulders, one hand pressing flat against his chest.

"There," she murmured near his ear. "Secured."

Her tone warmed just slightly.

"And for the record, you do not outrank the garment. It has seniority."

She let the faintest smile curve her mouth before her expression softened again, her thumb tracing slow circles over his sternum.

"You are safe," she said quietly. "And you are not alone."

Then she held him there, steady and real, until the need to armor himself dissolved back into something quieter.

Rynar Solde