prompt: (Y/n) sees Mando's face for the first time

warning: mild language

word count: 2525

pronouns: gender-neutral

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second-person point of view. . .

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Asking about the culture of Mandalore had felt like walking on eggshells. You had feared appearing ignorant, or worse offending him with a stupid question. Your curiosity had triumphed over your fear that day and you had started the conversation.

Surprisingly, Mando had been gladly willing to entertain you. He had been open regarding The Way, answering every musing you had without making you feel inferior. He had shown he trusted you. That conversation had been a benchmark in your relationship.

He had said it was an unbreakable vow; a promise he could never break no matter what it cost him. He had told you if he were to ever violate their sacred code, he would be excommunicated from his culture permanently. He would have died before he took that beskar helmet off.

At least, that was what you had thought until the day came when The Child was stolen from him in a violent firefight. The Empire, or what shambles were left of it, found the ancient Jedi stones you had visited. You put up one hell of a fight, but in the end, you lost. You lost the fight, you lost the Razor Crest, you lost the kid--you lost everything. 

Now homeless and childless, you and Mando were calling up every ally that could possibly come to mind. You were frantic and ready to do whatever it took to have the little goblin back in your arms safe and sound. It brought burning tears to your eyes when you dared to wonder what they were doing to him.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. And that was precisely what led to you, Mando, Cara, Fennec, Boba, and a recently borrowed from prison Mayfeld infiltrating a highly unsafe Imperial refinery on Morak. Retrieving the coordinates to Moff Gideon's cruiser was the only way to rescue The Child. 

"Since we can't trust Mayfeld in there alone," you let out a cornered sigh, "I'll go with him."

Desperate measures. Even though you were no master combatant nor a weapons expert, you were the only other person who would not trip the alarm so you volunteered to accompany him without a second thought.

"You're not going in there," Mando asserted, his tone unwaveringly decided on your behalf. "It's too dangerous."

The intention behind his words was clear, he might as well have said: I can't lose you too. Mando, having fought the criminal himself, knew Mayfeld could not protect you if things became dire. So Mando insisted he went along too, clearly with some plan to hide the beskar that covered him from head to toe.

How jarring it was to hear his familiar voice come from a foreign Imperial trooper's helmet. Not only did the uniform look like the embodiment of mud, but the get-up did not fit him properly. It was too tight around his arms and legs, but loose around his torso. Your disguise did not fit you perfectly either, but it still made you laugh.

"Are you done?" Mando wondered almost judgementally.

"Ignore me," you waved your hand dismissively. "Just trying to commit this image to my long-term memory."

That laugh was the last you would have in a while. After a particularly rowdy ride into the facility, one you barely managed to survive, Mayfeld pursued a terminal inside what looked like a break room. Bland tables of benches littered the half-empty room. 

It appeared your job would be to stand watch as Mayfeld retrieved the information you needed, which was a relief to your near-trembling form. Then Mayfled came marching back out of the room, shaking his head.

"It's Valin Hess. I used to serve under him. I was just a field operative, but I'm not takin' the chance. It's over. We have to abort, I'm sorry," he explained.

"No, we can't," Mando stated firmly. "If we don't get those coordinates, we'll lose the kid forever. Give me the data stick."

"(Y/n) has to take it," Mayfeld pulled something from his pocket and handed it to your discretely. "In order to access the network, the terminal has to scan your face."

You clutched the data stick tightly to your chest with a small nod. You cautiously entered the grey room ahead of you. The sound of your slow footsteps pounded in your ears, along with your rising heart rate. The sound of your steps doubled and you realized someone was behind you. You looked over your shoulder, which was easy now that you removed the obnoxious trooper helmet.

Mando was right beside you, guiding you with the courage you lacked. He had a habit of doing that. Together, you crossed the room to where the terminal was installed, keeping your heads down and lines of sight focused. You plugged the data stick in and hit a few buttons. A strange projection of lines hit your face as the terminal scanned your anxious face. Its screen suddenly turned red.

"It's not working," you mumbled, panic beginning to bubble up inside you. "Why isn't it working?"

With quick hands, you began cluelessly pressing the old buttons. You had no idea what would make the error screen disappear, but inputting everything you had to find it eventually. You were standing there for too long; you were looking suspicious.

"Ten seconds to system shutdown," the machine's voice calmly told you.

No, no, no! Your breaths were coming quicker and quicker, shallower and shallower as the panic consumed you. If you could not get the terminal to stop you would never find the man who took Grogu. If you could not fix this you would never see the kid again. 

You were pushed to the side carefully. You stumbled, your mind racing too swiftly to process what was occurring at first. Mando stood before the terminal's electronic eye. Without hesitation, his hand lifted to the cusp of the stolen helmet he wore. He took it off.

He took it off and the machine scanned his face. You watched in shock as he pressed a series of buttons and flicked a switch. The terminal went quiet and he withdrew the information you had come for. If you were capable of raising a hand to your skin, you would have pinched yourself, mistaking the events playing in front of you for a dream.

You had dreamed a great many times of the face that was always hidden from you. To finally see it was surreal. With your mouth ajar, all you could do was stare. Stare at him--at Mando--in pure awe.

Your first thought was not about what his actions meant for his creed. It was not about how his sacrifice made clear just how deeply he cared for The Child. It was not about how difficult it must have been, or how vulnerable he must have felt. Your first thought was solely concentrated on how handsome the bounty hunter was.

His hair, a dark drown, was messy as it stuck up in some directions but was matted in others thanks to the helmet. It sprawled across his head, dipping down to touch his forehead and curled at the nape of his neck. It looked soft. Unwashed, but soft. Hair of the same color lightly trailed across and pronounced his jawline. It reached under his hooked nose and over to his chin. It looked unkempt but suited him so well.

His skin was aged by time and the stress of the job, but it was the color of warmth itself. Much like his hair, it too looked soft to the touch. His lips that were drawn tight in a straight line appeared dry, but that did not deter the desire to press them onto your own.

But above all else, his eyes captivated you the most. Deep-set, a rich and beautiful hickory they were, like endless, comforting, voids. For a brief second, those eyes flickered in your direction with the subtlest tilt of his head. Just a little further and they would be pouring into yours. Alas, the moment you had dreamt and fantasized over was postponed.

"You two!" A man called out confrontationally.

He stalked over to the terminal slowly. You took the opportunity to step in front of Mando, preventing the Imperial officer from seeing as much of him as you could. You faced the man, holding his stare as confidently as your body was able.

"What's your designation?" His voice was accusatory.

You could feel Mando turn to face the officer from behind you. You had no answer, in fact, you had no idea what the term meant. Your head was too dazed to think of an excuse, all your coherent thoughts were swimming with the features of the bounty hunter behind you.

"Transport crew," Mando spoke. "My designation is transport copilot." He raised a hand to gesture at you. "The same."

It struck you like a bullet--his voice. Unfettered by the modulator of any helmet, it nearly made you faint on the spot. It was as grounded and firm as it always was. Under the helmet, it was merely painted in black and white, but now you could hear every shade and hue he had to offer. His voice was just as beautiful as he was.

"No, son," the officer spoke condescendingly. "What's your TK number?"

Neither of you had an answer to this one. Before you could fumble too badly, Mayfeld stepped into the conversation with a quick save. Through some silver-tongued bullshit, he convinced the officer to believe his falsehoods. You were drug along by the officer who insisted on rewarding the valiant behavior you had lied about.

And everything went to hell after that. Most of it blurred by in a flash of gunfire, shouting, and adrenaline all of which were par for the course when traveling with The Mandalorian. There was not a moment to catch your breath until you were safely inside Boba Fett's ship again.

It was quiet while you traveled, but everyone's mind had some storm or another brewing. You were lucky enough to find a corner away from everybody else. You had been flying with Mando for a while, yes, but close calls with death still shook you and you needed time to yourself in order to decompress. Steady footsteps brought you back to reality.

The heavy boots stopped directly in front of where you sat curled against a wall, with your knees trapped by your arms against your chest. Your eyes trailed up the very familiar reflective plates of armor all the way up to the top, where his helmet sat.

"We'll be there soon," Mando informed you.

It felt a little... disappointing to hear his altered voice after witnessing the real thing. And his face? You were certainly going to miss looking at that. It was dangerous to dwell on such things, though. Odds were, you would never get to see him again. You wish you had not seen him at all. Perhaps it would be better to live the rest of your life wondering what the sight was than to only see it once.

"Thanks," you muttered, praying to The Maker he could not hear the gloom lace your words.

He did not move and you feared your prayers had not been answered. Eager to prevent a confrontation, you went on,

"For everything. As you know, I'm not good at this sort of thing, so you, uh, you really saved me back there."

Mando turned so he could sit on the crate you were seated next to. He intended to stay longer and you worried it was to pry. His forearms rested on his lap laxly.

"You've done so much for me," Mando spoke genuinely. "It's the least I can do to repay my debts."

"You don't owe me anything," you chuckled sending a small smile up to him. "You never asked me to come along or to do anything but stay put. Besides, friends don't keep track of debts."

Friends was misleading when your heart fluttered the first time you heard him laugh. Or when you were so mesmerized by him that you nearly blew the most important job you had ever been assigned. Or when your body had a real reaction to hearing his unfiltered voice. To describe what you had as a friendship was misleading but still true.

"They also keep secrets," your playful attitude found you again just in time. "So I promise I won't tell anyone what I saw."

"Thank you, I know you won't," his tone hinted at a similar good nature.

He never fully gave in, you noticed; there was always a hint of sarcasm or irony, just a sliver of humor woven in. It was a treat when you would catch onto the little traces, like a game you both played. He knew well the smile you would wear when you won, that was the reason he kept playing.

"I'm sure you get this all the time, but you're very handsome," only the first half of your sentence was sarcastic.

He did not react. In fact, he froze in place. You swore his chest did not rise like it did when he was breathing. Had you crossed a line? This has never happened before. As if breaking out of a trace, his helmet turned in the other direction. His fingers, hanging off the side of his thighs twitched. He wondered what he was supposed to say in response. He shifted awkwardly on the crate as he looked back at you.

"Y-You too," the words fell over each other in a manner that you had never heard come from him before. 

He saw the way your eyebrows raised slightly and instantly he feared he had done something wrong. How was he supposed to know what to say? No one had ever complimented his appearance before. Hell, compliments on anything but his ability to kill were few and far between. Damage control, he thought.

"I mean to say that--that you're quite... nice to look at," The deadly hunter continued to fumble over himself in an attempt to return the simple praise. "More appealing than most. O-Or anyone I've met, for that matter."

He was clearly overcompensating for what he assumed was a mistake. It was cute to see him get so worked up, stuttering, and trying his absolute best to tell you he thought you were pretty. A warm feeling flooded you, one you could not resist, one that reach the tips of your ears and settled in the deepest parts of your core. He truly had no idea what he did to you.

"Gosh, thank you," you told him with an uncontrollable grin. "Feared bounty hunter, handsome, and sweet? You really have it all, don't you?"

Your little comment only worsened his already debilitating condition. He very quickly found the confines of the helmet to be suffocatingly hot. If he could take it off again, he would. To breathe and to quell the strange feeling that wrapped around his face. And perhaps to finally look at you without the filter of the visor's gaze. To really look at you so he might better describe how he felt about you.

As you found joy in his flustered struggling, it seemed there were some vows that could be bent in the name of love. Perhaps one day he might bend them again, and you be so lucky to witness it. Until then, however, you found contentment in imaging what expressions might lie beneath The Mandalorian's helmet.