Private the past doesn't stay away for long enough

[Rynar Solde]

For a moment after she pulls him back into bed, he just blinks at her.
Processing.
Slowly.


His breathing steadies under her hand. His arms come up again automatically, wrapping around her like this is the most obvious place they've ever belonged.


Then he squints at her.
Really squints.
His hand comes up, brushing along her cheek with exaggerated concentration.
"…Are you an angel?" he asks seriously.
A beat.

"…Because you descended very professionally during the Garment Incident."
His thumb traces along her jaw like he's confirming structural integrity.
"You glow a little," he adds thoughtfully. "Might be concussion. Still evaluating."

He shifts closer, which should be impossible because he is already pressed fully against her, but he manages it anyway. His nose brushes along her temple, then down to her cheek.

"I like you this close," he murmurs, voice softer now. "Stay in this radius."
His arm tightens around her middle as if measuring said radius.


Then, abruptly:
"…Do we have children?"
He looks genuinely concerned.
"Other than Cupcake," he clarifies quickly. "Cupcake does not count. Cupcake would overthrow us."


He studies her face carefully, as if waiting for devastating news.
"Because if we do," he continues solemnly, "I have been a very bad example tonight."
His brows knit slightly in drunk distress.
"And if we don't… then I think we're doing fine."


When she reminds him he doesn't outrank the suit and that it has seniority, he stares at her in stunned offense.
"…Why."
The pout is immediate. Subtle, but there.
"On what grounds does the garment possess seniority."
He props himself up slightly on one elbow, wobbling but determined.


"I was born before it."
A pause.
"…I think."
He narrows his eyes suspiciously toward the armor rack.


"Has it been here longer than me?"
His gaze returns to her, wounded pride flickering.
"You're taking its side."
Then, quieter, not accusatory, just small:


"You're supposed to be on my side."
But the words lack heat. There's no real edge in them. Just the fragile echo of earlier disorientation.
He exhales slowly and drops back down against her, pressing his forehead into her collarbone.
"…Okay," he mutters. "You can be neutral."


His fingers hook into the fabric of her shirt again, grounding himself.
"But if it tries anything else," he adds drowsily, "I expect loyalty."
Another pause.
"…Angel."
His voice is fading again now, heavy with exhaustion more than alcohol.


"You fight better than armor," he murmurs. "Armor just stands there. You stay."
His breathing deepens, slower, steadier this time.
One last sleepy thought drifts out:
"If we ever do have kids… they're not allowed near sleeves."


And then he settles fully, cheek against her chest, arm locked firmly around her like gravity itself depends on it.
The chaos quiets.
Only the hum of the Vigo remains.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean listened to him with the quiet patience she seemed to possess in endless supply, her hand still resting over his chest where his breathing had finally begun to settle into something steadier. The dim light of the bunk room softened the sharp lines of her face, and when he studied her like she might be some celestial apparition sent to rescue him from aggressive clothing, she allowed the faintest trace of amusement to reach her eyes.

"An angel," she repeated softly, as if testing the word and finding it somewhat improbable.

Her fingers brushed lightly through his hair, which had fallen messily across his forehead during his battle with the flight suit, smoothing it back with slow, absent motions meant more to soothe than to tidy.

"No," she said gently after a moment, her voice warm but certain. "I am very far from an angel."

Her thumb traced along his temple, grounding him again when his thoughts began wandering into new territory.

"And if I descended during the Garment Incident," she added quietly, "it was only because someone needed to prevent a decorated Mandalorian from losing a duel with his own sleeves."

When he asked about children, the concern in his voice drew that small crease between his brows, and she watched him for a moment before answering.

"No," she said simply. "We do not have children."

Her tone carried no hesitation, no regret, just the calm certainty of fact.

Then her hand shifted slightly on his chest, her fingers spreading there as she studied his face in the dim light.

"But now I am curious," she continued softly. "Do you want any?"

It was not a challenge and not a trap. Just a question, asked the same way she asked most things that mattered to her, directly and without decoration.

When he protested the seniority of the suit and accused her of siding with it, the faintest smile returned, small and tired but genuine.

"I am not taking its side," she assured him, brushing her knuckles lightly along his jaw. "I am merely acknowledging that it demonstrated superior tactical positioning."

Her voice softened again when his pride faltered, and he muttered about neutrality.

"I am on your side," she told him quietly, leaning down so her forehead rested briefly against his hair. "Even when you are losing strategic engagements with clothing."

Her hand resumed its slow, steady pattern against his back as his voice grew heavier and sleep began reclaiming him.

When he called her angel again, she exhaled softly.

"You are concussed," she murmured. "That is the only explanation."

Her lips brushed his temple in a gentle kiss as he finally settled fully against her, his cheek pressed to her chest, and his arm wrapped around her with the stubborn determination of someone who had decided letting go was no longer an acceptable option.

"They will stay away from sleeves," she whispered, answering the last drifting thought he had managed before sleep took him again. "If they exist at all."

Her fingers moved slowly through his hair, the rhythm matching the quiet hum of the Vigo beneath them.

"Sleep," she added softly.

And this time she did not move at all, letting him hold her exactly where he had placed her, steady and real while the ship carried them through the quiet hours before morning.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar made a quiet sound somewhere between a thoughtful hum and a sleepy grunt as Dean's fingers moved through his hair. The steady rhythm of it seemed to pull the last of the fight out of his shoulders, his body slowly melting into the mattress and into her hold.
For a moment he just lay there, blinking slowly at the dim ceiling like it was personally responsible for organizing his thoughts.
When she asked the question, "Do you want any?", his brow furrowed with the intense concentration of someone attempting philosophy while thoroughly drunk.

"Kids…" he mumbled, the word rolling around in his mouth like he was inspecting it for structural integrity.
His eyes drifted back down to her.
"Yeah," he said after a moment, nodding with surprising seriousness. "Someday."
His finger lifted lazily as if making an important tactical point.

"After I conquer the uneven floor," he added gravely.
A pause.
"And defeat the flight suit that tried to eat me."
His head nodded again, satisfied with the order of operations.
"Then kids."

The solemnity of that declaration lasted approximately three seconds.
Because suddenly his attention drifted back to her face.
Or rather… toward where he thought her face was.
His eyes softened again with that warm, unfocused affection that alcohol had loosened into the open.
"You're really pretty," he informed her again, like this was critical new intelligence.
Then he leaned forward with determined enthusiasm.

Except.
He completely missed.
Instead of Dean's lips, he caught the pillow beside her with a very sincere, very committed kiss.
There was a long pause.
Rynar blinked.
Then blinked again.

Slowly, he pushed himself upright like a man who had just uncovered a great conspiracy.
"…This trick."
He pointed at the pillow with drunken accusation.
"You moved."
Satisfied he had solved the mystery, he huffed quietly to himself and turned back toward her.
But the sudden burst of investigative energy had already burned through the last of his coordination.

He tipped sideways again with all the grace of a collapsing crate and landed squarely against her chest, his head settling there with a soft thump.
He went very still.
Then shifted slightly.
His cheek pressed into her, testing the position.

Another small adjustment.
Then a deeply content sigh escaped him.
"Mm."
A beat passed.

"Pillow comfy."
His arm slid around her middle automatically, hugging her with sleepy determination as if securing his newly discovered bedding arrangement.
He nuzzled slightly, already halfway to unconsciousness.
"Goodnight, pillow," he murmured softly.

And just like that, the great Mandalorian conqueror of treacherous floors and hostile garments fell completely asleep, sprawled across Dean with his cheek tucked against her chest and one arm stubbornly wrapped around her like he planned to hold onto that "pillow" for the rest of the night

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean listened to his slow, meandering reflections on the concept of children with the same quiet patience she had maintained all night, her fingers continuing their steady path through his hair as if the motion alone could keep the galaxy from intruding for a few minutes longer.

When he announced that children would come only after he defeated the uneven floor and conquered the hostile flight suit, the corner of her mouth curved faintly.

"That seems like a reasonable campaign plan," she murmured. "One battle at a time."

His attention drifted again, his gaze warm and unfocused in that way she had come to recognize as the early warning sign of incoming nonsense.

"You've mentioned that," she replied gently when he informed her, for the third time, that she was pretty. Her tone held no embarrassment—only the resigned amusement of someone who had accepted that compliments delivered in this state were both sincere and completely unfiltered.

Then he leaned in.

And missed.

Entirely.

The pillow received his very earnest kiss, and Dean simply watched it happen with the composed stillness of someone who had learned long ago that intervening in moments like this only encouraged escalation. The pillow, to its credit, bore the affection with dignity.

When he accused it of moving, her brow lifted a fraction.

"I see," she said quietly, as though the pillow's treachery were a matter of record.

Gravity reclaimed him a moment later. He tipped sideways and landed against her chest with a soft thump, settling there with the determined satisfaction of a man who had discovered the single most comfortable surface in the galaxy and intended to remain on it until forcibly removed.

She adjusted automatically, one arm sliding around his shoulders to steady him as he nuzzled into place with the stubborn insistence of a large, affectionate starship cat.

When he murmured goodnight to the pillow, her fingers paused briefly in his hair. A quiet breath of laughter escaped her before she leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss into the top of his head.

"Goodnight, blanket," she murmured.

Her hand resumed its slow, soothing motion as his breathing deepened almost immediately. His arm tightened around her waist in a way that made it abundantly clear he had no intention of relinquishing his chosen "pillow," no matter what the actual pillow thought about it.

The Vigo hummed softly around them.

Cupcake shifted once in the bunk above, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like judgment before settling again.

And sometime in the quiet hours before morning, Dean drifted off as well, still wrapped in the arms of the large, stubborn Mandalorian who had apparently decided she was his preferred bedding arrangement.

Morning arrived with considerably less grace.

The sharp, insistent chirp of Rynar's comm unit shattered the quiet like a blaster bolt fired directly into a meditation chamber. It went off once. Twice. Then continued with the relentless determination of a device that had absolutely no respect for sleeping arrangements.

Dean's eyes opened immediately. Her awareness snapped online with practiced efficiency, even as her body remained firmly pinned beneath a still‑sleeping Mandalorian sprawled across her chest like a very heavy, very warm blanket that refused to acknowledge gravity or responsibility.

She stared up at the ceiling for a moment, blinking once.

The comm chirped again.

Cupcake chuffed irritably from the bunk above, clearly offended that anyone would dare disturb her beauty sleep.

Dean exhaled slowly through her nose.

"Rynar," she murmured, her voice low but carrying the calm authority of someone who had already accepted that she was the only conscious adult in the room.

The comm chirped again.

She nudged his shoulder lightly, careful not to dislodge the man currently using her ribcage as a mattress.

"Your comm is trying to reach you," she added.

The device chirped again from somewhere on the nearby table, persistent and unapologetic.

Dean tilted her head slightly toward the noise.

"If you do not answer it," she said with quiet patience, "I will."

Her hand moved through his hair again, steady and grounding, even as the comm continued its campaign of morning harassment with the confidence of a machine that had never once been thrown across a room.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar groaned, the sound muffled as he rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Ugh… why does my head hurt?" he muttered, blinking against the dim light, voice thick with sleep and last night's ale. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as the motion pulled at his ribs. His hand fumbled for the small comm unit, lifting it to his ear.


"What the hell do you want?" he demanded, voice still rough. "Identify yourself."
The voice on the other end was calm, professional, but carried weight. A Mandalorian medic, stationed at a forward operating base on the Outer Rim. "Rynar solde," the voice said, clipped and precise, "you are needed at the FOB. Korda Veydran requires supervision."


Rynar's brow furrowed, still fogged with sleep. "Supervision? He's fine. The guy's stubborn, sure... but he's fine."
The medic's tone softened fractionally, carrying just enough respect to cut through Rynar's grogginess. "He's doing well, but he's being reckless. Deep gashes across the chest, broken nose, rib fractures, internal bleeding… he survived, yes, but he's stubborn about taking care of himself. You need to come oversee him. Make sure he doesn't overexert."

Rynar let out a long, drawn breath, rubbing at his face with the heel of his hand. "Figures," he muttered, voice low. Then, after a moment, he straightened, shoulders stiff as he tested his balance. "Fine," he said gruffly, still half-drunk and half-awake. "I'll go. Someone's gotta keep him from making stupid decisions… and apparently that someone is me."


He smirked faintly, though it was heavy with lingering sleepiness and the memory of last night's ale. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, already swinging his legs to stand, one hand brushing against her shoulder briefly. "I'll make sure Korda doesn't make a mess of himself. Someone's gotta do it."


Dean let out a quiet, almost imperceptible hum of acknowledgment, settling back into the warmth of the blankets as Rynar grabbed his gear. Cupcake chuffed in the bunk above, apparently aware that the Mandalorian had begun his morning routine.
Even in the slow, groggy movement of the Vigo, the quiet, tethered bond between them remained, stretched across sleep, warmth, and duty.

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean remained quiet through most of the call, not out of disinterest but because she had learned long ago that the fastest way to understand a situation was to listen first and ask later. The comm unit crackled with voices she did not recognize, their tone professional and clipped, and although she could not hear every word clearly from where she sat, she did not need the full conversation to understand its shape.

Something had happened.

She pushed herself upright slowly, the blankets shifting around her as she sat on the edge of the bunk and watched him rub at his face, still caught somewhere between exhaustion and the lingering fog of last night's ale.

When the call ended, and he announced he was going to deal with Korda, she did not question the decision.

She simply studied him for a moment.

"You are going to a rendezvous," she said quietly, more observation than question.

Her voice was calm, the same tone she used when confirming a flight path.

"They will take you the rest of the way from there."

She rose from the bed and crossed the small room, retrieving a shirt from the locker and pulling it on with efficient movements. Her eyes returned to him once she finished, measuring the stiffness in his posture, the lingering heaviness in his expression.

"You look like someone who slept three hours and lost a fight with a flight suit," she added mildly.

Cupcake shifted above them with a soft chuff, apparently supportive of the assessment.

Dean stepped closer, brushing a hand briefly over his shoulder as she moved past him toward the small console near the doorway.

"If the call came before sunrise, it means they believe the situation cannot wait," she continued, her tone thoughtful. "Which means whatever Korda did, he probably should not be walking around yet."

She did not ask for details.

Rynar would tell her if he wanted to.

Instead, she rested one hand against the edge of the console and looked back at him.

"We will take the Vigo to the rendezvous point," she said simply. "They can collect you from there."

Her gaze softened slightly, though her posture remained composed.

"I will keep the ship ready."

That meant more than it sounded like.

She would maintain orbit. Monitor communications. Be there when he returned.

Her eyes lingered on him for another moment before she moved toward the cockpit.

"Try not to get into another fight before breakfast," she added quietly over her shoulder.

Then, after a small pause, she glanced back at him with the faintest hint of warmth.

"And if Korda attempts to ignore medical orders, remind him that stubbornness is not a treatment plan."

Cupcake thumped her tail once in approval.

Dean reached the corridor leading toward the cockpit and began preparing the ship for departure, the Vigo slowly waking around them as systems came online and the next task of the day settled into place.

Duty had arrived early. But they were used to that.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar sat on the edge of the bunk for a long moment after the comm went quiet, the small device still hanging loosely in his hand. His head throbbed with the dull, pounding ache of cheap Mandalorian ale and interrupted sleep, each pulse behind his eyes reminding him that three bottles had probably been two too many.

He rubbed his face with both hands and let out a long breath through his nose.
"Yeah," he muttered quietly to himself. "That tracks."

Across the room the Vigo hummed awake under Dean's careful hands, systems coming online one by one. The familiar vibrations ran through the deck plates beneath his feet, grounding him more than the water he had splashed on his face moments earlier.

He pushed himself up with a grunt.
"Alright," he murmured. "Let's go check on the walking disaster."

The armor rack waited where it always did, the dark Beskar plates catching the dim morning light filtering through the bunk room. Rynar stepped toward it and began pulling on the pieces with practiced familiarity.

Flight suit first.
This time it did not attempt to assassinate him.
"Good," he muttered suspiciously, tugging the sleeves straight. "Learned its lesson."

One by one the armor locked into place. Greaves. Belt. Chest plate. The worn gauntlets that still bore scratches from more fights than he could count. His helmet remained on the rack for now as he reached for his sidearm and checked the chamber out of habit.

His rifle followed a moment later, slung over his shoulder with a quiet metallic click.
"Korda…" he grumbled under his breath as he worked, tightening a strap along his forearm. "You stubborn kriffing idiot."

He shook his head, already picturing it.
"Broken nose. Ribs busted. Internal bleeding…" he continued, voice low as he ran through the medic's list again.
Then he snorted.
"Which means he's probably already walking around."

Rynar grabbed his helmet and finally turned toward the corridor where Dean had disappeared toward the cockpit.
"Hey," he called lightly.
He stepped into the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame as he looked at her working through the startup sequence.
"Knowing Korda, they probably stitched him up and he immediately tried to leave the med bay."

His mouth tugged into a crooked grin.
"Man's got the survival instincts of a detonator with a timer stuck on zero."
A soft chuff came from above as Cupcake shifted in the bunk again, her fluffy head peeking over the edge like a judgmental supervisor.
Rynar looked up at her.

"Don't start," he warned.
The creature blinked slowly.
He squinted at her, thinking.
"…You wanna come?"

Cupcake tilted her head.
Rynar considered it for another second before raising a finger.
"Only if you don't eat Korda's pet snake."
He pointed upward.
"Oro. The fluffy hognose."
Cupcake's tail flicked lazily.
"Yeah," he said slowly. "That's not a convincing promise."

He sighed and shook his head.
"Nah. You're staying here."
He jerked a thumb toward Dean.
"Someone's gotta keep her company and cause chaos while I'm gone."
Cupcake huffed as if insulted by the suggestion that chaos wasn't already her full-time occupation.
Rynar chuckled softly and finished securing the last strap on his gauntlet.
Then he stopped.

Something about the quiet between him and Dean settled differently now.
He looked at her for a moment.
Really looked.
The cockpit lights glowed softly across her features as she worked, calm and steady like she always was.
And the realization hit him at the same time the thought slipped from his mouth.

"…You know," he said slowly.
He pushed away from the doorway and walked a few steps closer.
"This is gonna be the first time we've been apart for a while."
His voice was quieter now.

"Since you pulled my sorry ass outta that Diarchy prison cell on Bastion."
He leaned a hand on the back of her chair, his helmet still tucked under his arm.
There was a faint tightness behind his eyes he didn't bother trying to hide.
"I mean… yeah, I've done missions and stuff but…" he shrugged lightly. "…not like this."

His gaze drifted down briefly before he looked back at her.
"If they called me, it means Keira's not available."
He huffed a small laugh.
"Or she's doing that thing she does where she disappears off the grid for three weeks and comes back with a new scar and three bounties nobody asked about."

He rubbed the back of his neck.
"So I guess I'm the backup plan."
A crooked grin tugged at his mouth again.

"Either that or they figured the Mandalorian should babysit the Mandalorian."
He shook his head, chuckling under his breath.
"Keira would've kicked his ass the second she heard he got hurt and didn't tell her."
His gaze softened slightly as it returned to Dean.

"…I'll come back quick," he said simply.
Then after a beat he added with a faint smirk,
"And if he tries to walk around with busted ribs, I'll remind him stubbornness isn't a treatment plan."
He tapped the side of his helmet.

"You said so."
Then he paused for a moment longer before quietly adding,
"…Keep the Vigo warm for me, yeah?"

Deanez

 

[Deanez]

Dean did not look up immediately when he stepped into the cockpit. Her hands moved calmly across the console, bringing the Vigo awake one system at a time while the ship answered with its steady, familiar hum. Outside the viewport, the darkness of space stretched in every direction, but inside the cockpit, everything felt contained and orderly, the quiet rhythm of the ship grounding her in a way few places ever managed.

She listened to everything he said as she worked. The grumbling about Korda. The conversation with Cupcake. The quiet admission that this would be the first time in a while they would be apart.

Only when the last system confirmed green did she lean back slightly in the pilot's chair and glance over her shoulder at him. Her eyes moved over him once, taking in the armor he had secured and the helmet tucked beneath his arm before settling on his face.

"The Vigo will be here," she said simply.

Not a reassurance. Not a promise. Just a fact.

She rose from the chair and crossed the small space between them, stopping close enough to adjust a strap on his shoulder where the armor had shifted. Her fingers moved with quiet familiarity, straightening it without comment, the way someone does when they've done it a hundred times and will do it a hundred more.

"If they called you in personally, they expect you to stay until he stops trying to prove he can walk on broken bones," she said, her tone calm and matter‑of‑fact.

Which, in Mandalorian terms, could mean several days. Possibly longer. She didn't need to say that part out loud.

Her gaze lifted to meet his.

"You are probably the only person he will listen to right now." There was no hesitation in her voice. To her, that part was obvious. "Which means your job is not to return quickly," she added. "Your job is to make sure he actually heals."

Cupcake's head appeared over the edge of the bunk behind them, ears forward, watching the exchange like a supervisor evaluating employee performance. Dean noticed the stare but chose not to dignify it.

Her attention stayed on Rynar.

"You do not need to rush back to the Vigo," she said quietly. "The ship and I are capable of surviving a few days without supervision." A faint flicker of dry humor touched her expression. "Even with Cupcake." The nexu huffed, deeply offended.

Dean's hand lingered on his shoulder for a moment before falling back to her side. "I will maintain my position in the system," she said. "Run diagnostics. Handle a few overdue repairs."

Then she looked at him again, and the calm steadiness in her expression softened just slightly, the way it only did for him. "And when you are finished there," she said, "you will come back." Not a demand. Not a plea. Just quiet certainty, spoken like she was stating the trajectory of a star.

She reached up and handed his helmet back to him.

"Go make sure your friend does not kill himself trying to stand up too soon."

Dean turned back toward the pilot's seat, settling into it as the Vigo's engines deepened into full readiness. Her posture was composed, but there was a subtle ease in her shoulders now, as though the decision had already settled into place.

"And Rynar," she added over her shoulder. There was the briefest pause, just long enough to make him listen. "Try not to get into another fight before lunch."

Cupcake thumped her tail approvingly, clearly confident that this was the most unrealistic instruction Dean had ever given.

Rynar Solde

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar listened without interrupting.
That alone was unusual.
He leaned against the bulkhead beside the cockpit doorway while she spoke, helmet tucked under one arm, the other hand resting loosely against his belt. The Vigo's engines hummed deeper now, a low vibration running through the deck plates that he'd felt under his boots a thousand times before.


Her words settled into him the way they always did. calm, steady, immovable.
When she finished and handed him his helmet, he took it but didn't immediately put it on.
Instead, he watched her settle back into the pilot's seat.

Then he huffed a quiet laugh.
"Yeah," he said, shaking his head slightly. "Korda listening to medical advice."
He pushed off the bulkhead and walked toward her.
"That'll be the day."
He stopped beside the chair and leaned down slightly, resting one hand on the back of it.

"You're right though," he added after a moment, voice softer. "If anyone's gonna make him sit still, it's probably me."
His mouth tugged into a crooked smile.
"Or Keira. But she'd do it by breaking the other ribs."
Then Dean told him not to get into a fight before lunch.

That earned a quiet snort.
"No promises."
Cupcake's tail thumped again in agreement.
Rynar shook his head and looked back at Dean.

And something in his expression shifted.
The humor stayed, but there was something warmer under it now.
He stepped closer.
"C'mere," he murmured.

Before she could ask why, his hand caught hers and he pulled her smoothly out of the pilot's chair. The motion was easy but decisive, the kind of confidence that came from years of moving in armor and knowing exactly how much space he needed.

The moment she was standing, his arm slipped around her waist.
Then he dipped her.


Not dramatically, just enough that she had to grab his shoulder for balance while he leaned down and kissed her.
Deep.
Warm.
Unhurried in a way that made it very clear he wasn't doing it because he was drunk this time.

The Vigo hummed quietly around them while he held her there for a moment longer than strictly necessary.
Then he straightened, pulling her upright again.
His grin returned, softer now.
"…Thought I should do that while the floor's behaving."

Cupcake made a low, approving chirrup from the bunk.
Rynar glanced up at the creature.
"Mind your business."
Then he looked back at Dean, still holding one of her hands.

A mischievous spark flickered in his eyes.
"You got a minute before your Mandalorian ships off to babysit a walking medical violation?"
He lifted their joined hands slightly.
"…Wanna dance?"

Deanez