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From the beginning, you never knew what to call this, this thing that you and Mando are doing. You wear his necklace, and Mando sleeps with you, but the finer points of your attachment to one another are by no means concrete.
It was fine, for a couple of months. You fell into a steady, easy rhythm with Mando. Nothing about your life together is routine, but you like to think that the two of you reached a point of almost-normalcy. Mando would take bounties and collect his earnings, you’d care for the baby while he was gone, and then all three of you would make the most of your time together when he finally came home. That was nice all on its own, the sex and everything else just the cherry ton top of what felt like the family dynamic you’d been craving for as long as you can remember.
Doubt started to creep in on Nevarro, though, the seed planted and tended to by two of Mando’s fellow Guild members. They’d sidled up to you in the cantina, made brave enough to speak by alcohol and the fact that Mando was thirty feet across the room. It was insinuated that you’re paid so well because you, quote, “tend to all of Mando’s needs,” and though the comment was immature, you thought about it long after the two dickheads staggered off. Days later, when Mando upped your cut from fifteen percent to twenty, you thought you were going to have an anxiety attack.
“You deserve it, cyare, really,” is all he’d said, pressing the money into your palm when you tried to give it back.
It’s not like Mando said the extra five percent was a direct payment for fucking him, but… but you’re worried that it might have been. You worry that Mando thinks he has to buy your company, that all this is something you do for personal gain. Worse yet, you worry that he’s fine with that, that he’s fine with all this being nothing but a transaction. Everything you’ve done, you’ve done because you genuinely care for Mando, and to think that he might not feel the same way is almost too much to bear. But you don’t have time to overthink about all of this, not right now. There’s work to be done, a bounty to be hunted— your feelings will just have to wait.
Wherever the three of you are, it seems like a nice enough place. Mando’s on the trail of a bail jumper, just some dumb kid facing charges for a petty crime, and you think it makes sense that he would come to a safe place to hide out. Regardless of the quarry’s motives, you’re happy to be somewhere nice— you’re in no state to be looking over your shoulder every five seconds, especially not with the Child in tow.
Mando takes you to an inn near the city center, doing all the talking as you linger in his shadow. The man behind the counter is friendly, chittering about how he’s never met a Mandalorian before as he gets things squared away. His eyes linger on you for a moment before he turns back to Mando, hands poised over a data terminal.
“And what sort of room can I book for you and your…?”
“Crewmember,” Mando finishes, not a hint of hesitation marring the word.
“Crewmember,” the clerk affirms, and it takes everything in you not to let your face show how you’re really feeling.
Had you expected Mando to gush and call you his darling, his sweetheart, his everything in front of this man? Absolutely not, nor would you ever want him to. But crewmember? The impersonality of it all makes you feel like you’ve been punched in the stomach. The stoic, rough-and-tumble people of the Outer Rim aren’t always keen on terms like “girlfriend” or “lover,” but they still find something to call the women they sleep with. “That’s my girl,” some of them say, “that’s my woman.” It’s possessive and a bit coarse, but you wouldn’t mind it, not from Mando. But you suppose that’s not what you are to him, so why should be address you that way?
The room you’re given has two beds, and something about the look of them makes you want to cry. They serve as a stark reminder of just how separate you and Mando really are, how he’ll only have you on the Crest where no one can see. In the beginning, you liked that, the secrecy. It made you feel special, like Mando was keeping you tucked close to his chest because you meant that much to him. You see now that you’re probably more of a dirty secret than a precious treasure, though, and that makes your skin crawl.
Night falls, and Mando finally leaves to begin his hunt for the quarry. Left alone with the baby, you get dinner, bathe, and then tuck yourself in bed, melancholy under the covers. The Child is asleep within minutes, supremely tired after an evening of snacking and running around your lodgings. Rest doesn’t come so easily for you, however, and you find yourself lying awake thinking and thinking. After some time, the dam breaks, tears streaking down your face as you try to stifle any noises you might make. You’re not sure if you have any right to be upset, but you decide not to worry about that now, letting your emotions ebb and flow until you feel better.
Hours later when Mando returns, you don’t turn him away from your bed, no matter how much you know you should.
---
The hunt lasts two more days, but Mando bags the quarry with relative ease once he uncovers the man’s location. Takeoff is smooth, and soon enough, your little family is speeding through hyperspace once again.
You’re still not over what happened in the inn, a deep sadness lingering over you. Try as you might, you think your attempts to hide how you’re feeling aren’t working very well. The baby’s been extra clingy lately, a telltale sign that he’s picked up on your mood, and Mando’s not exactly paying you no mind. You’ve decided to just brush it off if he asks you what’s up, thinking that it’s best you don’t complicate things or ruin the trip. The journey back to Nevarro is a long one, and two days spent in tense, awkward silence sounds like a nightmare.
In his usual fashion, the Child passes out shortly after Mando kicks the ship in to hyperdrive, lulled to sleep by the smoothness of the ride and the ebbing excitement of travel. You set him down in his pram, fussing with his blankets before you click the lid shut.
As if on cue, Mando comes down from the cockpit the second your get the baby down, boots clanking on the rungs of the ladder. You brace yourself for what’s sure to come, steeling your resolve, gathering all your nerve to tell him no before he so much as asks the question.
“Kid’s asleep?” Mando asks, talking softly in the dimness of the hull. All you do is nod, willing yourself to be strong as he comes closer, one gloved hand lingering on your arm.
“I’ll go take a shower, and then we can go to bed for a while?”
You hate him. You really, truly do hate Mando because even though he hurt your feelings, even though you cried because of something he said, the word “yes” is still right there on the tip of your tongue.
Stepping back, you shake out of Mando’s gentle grasp, dropping your eyes so that you won’t have to stare at your own reflection in the blackness of the visor. When you go to speak, you’re floored to find a lump in your throat, tears stinging in the corners of your eyes. You feel absolutely pathetic after that, made weak and powerless by your own emotions in front of a man who’s so in control of his.
“Maybe later, Mando,” you blurt, proud of yourself for not letting your voice crack.
“Alright,” he says at once, and fuck, why does he have to be like that? Can’t he just be a demanding asshole like every other man you’ve ever met? “Everything okay?”
You nod, not sure you have it in you to carry on a conversation for much longer. All you want is for Mando to go up to the cockpit so you can lie down, you want him to go away before you do something stupid and show your hand.
“You sure?”
Fucking hell.
“Yeah, Mando, I’m good,” you say, and the way you’re almost sniping at him makes you cringe. The tone isn’t lost on Mando either, obviously, and even with the helmet on, he looks visibly taken aback.
“You don’t seem good,” Mando says slowly, “not when you’re talking to me like that.”
You can’t help how the lump in your throat thickens, how the tears begin to track down your cheeks. Mando notices that too, no matter how much you want him to ignore you in his moment.
“What’s wrong, mesh’la?” he asks, calling you one of those words you don’t understand. The leather of Mando’s glove is cool on your cheek, and this time you can’t bear to pull back from his touch. “Have I done something to upset you?”
“No,” you say, lying because you know that all of this is ridiculous. Crying over a Mandalorian, yearning to have even just an ounce of his heart— what were you thinking? “It’s just— You just—”
“I just what?”
“I don’t want to have sex with you anymore,” you blurt, voice breaking as you finally pull back from his hand, “not if you won’t claim me. I don’t know what it’s like for your people, but—”
“What do you mean ‘claim you’?” Mando cuts. “What are you talking about?”
You huff for breath, trying to find the words. “I— In the inn, when the man at the counter wanted to know who I was to you, you called me your crewmember, Mando. It was stupid, but I just— I thought I was maybe a little more than that. But now I know that I’m not, I don’t— I’m not going to do this anymore.”
Mando stands quietly, just staring at you, and you go on raving like a lunatic.
“I know you don’t care what people think of you, but I care what other people think of me, alright? I’m a grown woman, and I shouldn’t care, but I do. Where I’m from, people would think differently of me if they knew what I was doing with you. Nobody ever bothers you about anything because they’re afraid of you, but I don’t have that luxury. The last time we went to Nevarro, these two guys from the Guild told me that you only pay me the way you do because we’re fucking. Everyone knows what’s going on, even if we don’t tell them—”
“Cyar’ika,” Mando says gently, but it’s like you barely hear him.
“I refuse to be someone’s whore, Mando, even if I care for you. Even if—”
“Cyar’ika,” he repeats, hands on your arms now. “Cyar’ika, you’ve misunderstood.”
This is enough to quiet you, your body shuddering as you try and get yourself together. Mando remains gentle with you, stroking your cheek, brushing your hair back from your face.
“First and foremost,” he begins, “you are my crewmember. That’s what I hired you to be, and that’s why I give you your cut every time I collect a bounty.”
A fresh wave of anxiety rolls over you at the sound of that, but Mando’s quick to continue soothing you.
“That’s why I said that to the man at the inn,” he declares. “However, a lot’s changed since you decided to work for me. We’ve changed. And I want you to understand that we have nothing to do with the terms of your employment. I don’t pay you extra or pay period because you’re fucking me, alright? And I certainly don’t have sex with you just because it’s convenient, mesh’la, if that’s an idea you’ve invented in your mind. Whenever I put distance between us in public like that, it’s for your protection. There are a lot of people who would like to see me in pain, and not just the physical kind. I don’t want strangers thinking that they could use you to get to me, that’s all. You wouldn’t have that necklace if I didn’t care about you, understand?”
You nod, much calmer even though you’re beginning to feel stupid all over again. Of course Mando cares, of course he’s just working an angle. The man won’t so much as show people his face or tell them his first name— why would he treat the contents of his heart any different?
“Good,” Mando affirms, punctuating the word with a nod of his own. “And I don’t want you to listen to what anyone has to say about your life, alright? Especially if it’s a member of the Guild spouting shit in the cantina. You’re an adult, I’m an adult, and neither one of us is participating against our will, so what we do is nobody’s business but ours.”
Mando pauses, drawing in a deep breath, and all you can do is study him as he studies you. He reaches out again after a quiet moment, tracing the line of your jaw, the plane of your cheek...
“I’m sorry,” you say softly, “I didn’t think of it that way. Any of it.”
“No,” Mando declares, shaking his head, “I’m sorry. You deserve to feel cared for you. You are cared for.”
And though you’re not brave enough to say it, the words linger on your tongue, the ones that some hold in such high regard. You’d die to hear them fall from Mando’s lips, though you think they may already have.
You let the conversation trail off, and Mando does go take a shower like he said he was going to. He’s gone just a few minutes, but it’s still enough time for you to set up your bed on the floor. Sometimes you wonder why you dismantle it at all, seeing that you and Mando lie here together almost every night.
The sex is sweet and slow, each movement soft and deliberate. Mando has you on your back, and you’re glad for it, the smell of his clean hair all around you as you clutch his back and hold him close. He apologizes two more times in the middle of it all, but you absolve him of all wrongdoing without hesitation. The whole thing seems so silly now, your doubts and misgivings smothered by the darkness, by the press of Mando’s body.
Sometime later, after you’ve straightened the blankets and cleaned yourselves up, you remember to ask the question that came to your earlier.
“What does it mean?”
“What does what mean?” Mando asks, gathering you up in his arms. He sounds tired enough, but you aren’t sure he’ll stay with you under the covers once you’re asleep.
“That phrase you say to me sometimes,” you explain, "the long one in that language I only hear you speak.”
“It’s Mando’a,” he tells you, “and I would speak it more if we ran into other Mandalorians.”
You nod, knowing he can feel it. “But what does it mean? You only say it before you leave. Is it like a goodbye?”
Mando is quiet for a long moment, long enough to make you think he fell asleep. But then he shifts, tucking you close against his chest as he speaks.
“The opposite.” He kisses you, a long press of his lips against your crown. “It means… It means you aren’t my whore, cyar’ika. Not mine or anyone else’s.”