#dyn: lance squared

[tessasarrowverse]

adverse selection :: the canary sisters

“we make each other stronger that ain’t ever gonna change”

taglist: @perfectlystiles @randomfandoming1 @witchofinterest @ocmerunning @the-october-reviewer

[celticvampriss]

Established Rhythm

A/N: could not get this fic out of my head after watching the latest episode. Once I saw that he could take the helmet off, it set off this idea of well, would it count as being off if he’s in complete darkness? Wanted to take advantage of that idea where he could still kiss without necessarily sacrificing his religion.  Thus spawned this fic. I paired him with an OC I’ve been sort of building since starting the show and no ship in canon so far has me that excited so I decided to stick with my ofc.  (please excuse inaccuracies, I’m not the most versed on Star Wars lately and I’m not even sure if the Way thing is religious or whatever, but that’s what I’m going with.)  Hope you enjoy! **This fic stops shy of mature themes, but if anyone wants mature themes, I may decide to write either an altered ending to this that’s *wink* nsfw or write a sequel, whichever comes to me, but only if people want that, cause I kinda like leaving it soft and more PG/PG-13**

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Against odds, better judgement, and a few near catastrophes the ship had settled into a mutually agreed rhythm. It was crowded, holding two extra passengers--guests, not bounties which were more easily stored vertically and comatose--that required their own space, meals, beds, personal items, and demands upon the notably solitary Mandalorian’s attention. 

The Kid had a small cove of treasures accumulating in a drawer that used to hold spare ammo--now moved to a more secure and kid-proof locker--and if ever there was a thing to find, then it was in that drawer.  Anything that could be unscrewed or rattled loose or bitten off: handles, switches, the plastic face plates to various buttons or indicator lights in the cockpit.  The Kid spent most of his time in the cockpit and it was clear to everyone else that this had everything to do with where Dyn spent most of his time.  

There wasn’t the space for proper quarters and the Kid had rejected the crib--carefully assembled and tested over several torturous hours--in favor of a high shelf that no one had ever actually seen the Kid reach, but knew he was there because he’d constructed, for lack of a better word, a nest.

Adjusting to the Kid had been simple and painless, the third addition to his ship, less so.  Kira Skye had marched onto his ship with a lofty raise of her chin and squared shoulders for her rather unassuming size.  If she hadn’t been unreservedly kind to the point of selflessness he would have written her off as spoiled and snobbish.  When she arrived, it changed the entire atmosphere of the ship, reshaping the established landscape like worlds in the wake of natural disasters. 

Most notably, sound.  Talking was part of her job--or so he figured based on the little he knew or cared to know--so it made sense that she required constant practice.  Silence would last only a few hours, because she talked even in her sleep.  Or sang.  If she wasn’t talking to him about this interesting fact or that new discovery or random detail or minor realization then she was humming, whistling, or singing in various languages.  And it was a small ship.  Sound carried.

Not that he ever complained--to her face, there was the odd moment of fed-up where he’d tell the Kid he might just pay her for a full 24 hours of silence--but more often than not, he found he’d lose himself for a few moments, even enjoy it.  Her voice was pleasant, high, but sweet, and resonated.  He’d go hours without actually noticing, where her voice became just another part of the ship.  There were a few times when he’d perched on the ledge of the cockpit, one leg dangling, eyes drifting closed beneath his helmet.  She’d almost caught him once, heading his direction and getting too close before he realized with just enough time to pretend he’d been climbing down anyway.

After months of running around the galaxy, dodging trouble here or there--cause if it wasn’t that damn bounty on the Kid, it was whoever was trying to kill Kira, who was only on his ship because the Mandalorian’s had asked him to keep her safe--their rhythm had been established.  Kira’s voice drifted or echoed from wherever she currently worked.  The Kid was either toddering around the cockpit or disappearing and reappearing with more unearthed treasures for his collection.  Dyn was in the cockpit, trying to keep them one step ahead of their pursuers.  At night the Kid could be heard snoring from his shelf, a green ear poking over the edge.  Dyn and Kira would sit around the table while she ate and talked, the passion and soothing cadence in her voice almost making him care about the life cycle of a Bursa.  His food was specifically warmed and plated once she finished--a gesture he hadn’t failed to note as incredibly considerate--he’d thanked her the first time and attempted to assure her it wasn’t necessary, yet without fail she would get up from her meal, prepare his, then place it down and leave.  

He could still hear her, obviously, even when she was gone.  Lately she’d started reading aloud from her sleeping area--a cot drilled into the wall in the middle of the main gallery, as there was only one small cabin and she’d refused to use it--and he’d set his helmet down, hearing her voice unfiltered as he ate.  He’d finish and put his helmet back on before asking if she needed anything--the answer was always no, but thank you--and he’d head off to get some rest.  

And again the next day.

And the next.

Their rhythm might have continued indefinitely--provided they were all still alive and uncaught--except for one minor detail that threatened to disrupt their balance.  An undercurrent trickled unbidden throughout each day, contaminating with growing abandon simple moments and gestures.

Her fingers might linger too long when she handed him something.  She’d tell a joke and laugh at her own cleverness and the sound would lance into his chest like a spear.  He still never laughed, but somehow Kira could see him smile.  Not physically see, that was impossible, but she knew.  

A shared look and suddenly there was a full array of conversation happening without a word--a testament for her, a problem for him.  She was starting to read the gestures and silences, the tilt of his head, the tone of whatever few words he used, to astute accuracy.

Tension, building and building and building.  Any spark might set it off.  But there was not really any future there, not long term.  This whole thing was a temporary situation.  With the Kid, well, he’d grow up some day and take care of himself.  And, once the threat was eliminated, Kira Skye would have to move on, go back to her life.  She wasn’t built for...for the whatever came after he was done taking care of the two of them.  The ship wasn’t built for it.  She was sleeping on a cot with no privacy and nothing of her own except a single bag with some clothes and a data pad filled with books.  None of that was even taking into account that he was a Mandalorian.  

Being with her, or anyone really, meant trading one for the other.  This was all he knew.  The Way was all he knew.  It had saved him when he had nothing.  Turning his back on that was not something he could do just because of some butterflies in his stomach.

At least, that is what he told himself before.

They had just out maneuvered a rather persistent tail through an asteroid belt, bunking down in one of the craters while the danger passed.  Dyn had turned off all unnecessary systems while they waited out their pursuers.  The oxygen was at the lowest tolerable, the engines off, and even the lights had been dimmed to almost blackness.  He’d left on a few track lights for Kira and the Kid, but he still heard her stifle a curse as she’d slammed a knee into something solid.

“Where’s the Kid? Is it bright enough?”  He asked, because with his helmet correcting the visibility for him, it was hard to gauge and the Kid might be scared.

Kira let out a huff from her seat, still rubbing her knee.  “He’s sleeping.  Doubt he’d wake up if we were blown to pieces.”  She looked up, those dark eyes dancing in that way she had, as if she were sharing a private joke.  “Thanks, by the way.  You were pretty great.”

He nodded.  

“So, how long do we have to sit?”

“Not sure.  I’ll check in an hour and see if there’s any movement.”

Kira shuffled her feet, high boots gripping her ankles and calves.  When she first arrived, she’d worn frilly dresses and skirts and had her dark hair in all sorts of arrangements.  Now she opted for pants and shirts--that hugged and gripped every angle and curve of her--with a bolero jacket for warmth.  His gaze returned to her face, meeting a knowing stare.  Caught.  Even in the low light, she zeroed in on his failure, somehow knowing that he was staring and staring straight back, her posture growing more rigid.  

It was a very dangerous game to play, those moments--and there were so many on a small ship in the middle of space--where they found themselves alone and unoccupied.  Where, hell, anything might seem like a good idea to ease the boredom.  

He looked away.  “I’m going to check if they’re gone.”

In order to get to the cockpit, he had to move past her.  Even if she wanted to give him space, there wasn’t any to give.  He stopped just shy of brushing past her shoulder and looked down.  A. Fatal. Mistake.

“I know why you’re running,” She said, her eyes bold and direct.  She was so small a person, but so big in personality.  It wasn’t possible for Kira to do anything slight or half-way, and that would include...whatever this was.

“I’m not running,” He countered, though she was mostly correctly, “I’m trying to stop something that shouldn’t start.”

Her laugh was a powerful weapon against his resolve.  “Start?  We are way past that point.  What else do you suggest?”

“I don’t know.”

They stood side by side, him facing one way and her another.  All he had to do was twist and continue on his way.  

“I have a crazy idea,” She offered, face growing amused and snarky, “We spend most of our time fighting one battle or another, why not forfeit this one?”

He said nothing.  He knew what she was suggesting.  Her body radiated all kinds of suggestion.  He knew her heart rate was increasing and it was hard to ignore her tongue darting out to sweep over her bottom lip.

But this wasn’t something he could offer.  Not the way she wanted.  Because it would violate his entire religion.  He couldn’t remove his helmet.  

But she knew that.  Kira Skye was considerate to a fault.  And so it really shouldn’t have surprised him that she would be, even now.

Her eyes were dancing over his face--though he knew she couldn’t see through the visor, he felt like she could, he felt it everywhere--she turned her body and, without thinking, he followed her lead.

“What if I can’t see you?”

He blinked.  “What do you mean?”

Her smile turned wicked, devastating to whatever argument he had for shutting her down.  Any longer like this, and he’d be ready to jump out of the airlock if that would make her smile.  Instead of coming closer she turned away, shocking him a bit, a much needed shock.  She reached a set of controls along the wall.  

“I mean, I can barely see as is, so,” She shrugged and flicked a switch.  All light was doused from the room.  

Except, he could still see.  He watched her hand stretch out as she shuffled toward him.  Her hand was nearly in reach and he nearly took it, then quickly pulled away.  This entire situation was spiraling out of his control, into murky waters, pushed limits, and the edge of reason.  He may as well dive in.

He worked off one glove and then the other, then caught her hand.

Her intake of breath echoed off the walls.  She stopped moving, fingers slowly twisting in his.  Skin to skin.  He couldn’t recall the last time he felt warmth like this.  Gently, slowly, he guided her closer.  Her eyes were flickering, searching in the pitch darkness until her boots brushed his.  

They stood for several moments.  He didn’t know why she was quiet or why she seemed to decide to let him take the lead, but he needed a minute.  He needed to convince his brain that even though he could see, she couldn’t and that if he removed his helmet, she still wouldn’t be able to see.  Which, maybe, technically, still followed the Way.

He reluctantly let go of her hand.  Still lingering, stalling, torn between how much he wanted to take his helmet off and steal this moment with her and how much he needed to keep it on.

“Take all the time you need,” her voice was a whisper, full of understanding and tenderness.  

He eased his hands under the edge of his helmet, closed his eyes, and then lifted it free of his head in one motion. Better to do it quick.  When he opened his eyes and he couldn’t see, the room was too dark.

But he could feel.  Kira’s arm moved, extending, lifting, until he could feel the faintest pressure of her fingertips on his cheek.

He groaned.

“I’m sorry,” she pulled back quickly, “I’m sorry, too fast?”

He shook his head, but she couldn’t see, so he just guided her hand back.  Her fingers moved like feathers against his skin, drawing a path like fire--some sort of sweet, good fire that burned with a soft intensity and that he never wanted to stop--she traced his cheek, down his jaw, an ear, before raising her other hand and digging into his hair.

Granted, it was difficult to cut and manage with his helmet on and he couldn’t exactly see a barber.  So he usually maintained the length on his own, with a knife, which left longer, thick chucks that stuck out whenever he took off the helmet.  What she was doing now with her fingers, grabbing, puling, scratching, was glorious.  

He attempted to stay cool, to not be too obvious just how touch-starved he apparently was, but the odd groan or rasp of breath escaped him anyway.  Once her fingers had ravaged his head, she brought them around to his face again, this time lingering on his mouth.

He felt her body shift, his hands had gripped along her waist at some point, and her breath puffed against his lips.  

Kira’s kiss was light, soft.  Easing.  She didn’t press beyond the barest touch, once again waiting for him to give the okay.  

He threaded his bare hand through her hair--a secret desire he’d been repressing for weeks--and drew her just that much closer, angling his head to embrace whatever madness they’d caught.  If he was going to get one chance to kiss this woman, he’d damn well make it count.

His actions unlocked the real Kira and there was no more hesitation or sweetness about her kiss now.  She moaned into his mouth, exploring with her tongue, passion taking over.  She pressed into him, forcing him back, grabbing at his armor which--damn it to fuck he was still wearing--and rubbing her body against him, squirming until he nearly lost his mind.

He did his best to keep up, but she was clearly the expert here.  Kira devoured him.  His mind began to shut down, riding pure instinct and acting on impulse, which was so against his nature.  Even now a voice screamed in his head to be aware, that weren’t they here because they weren’t currently, at this present moment, being hunted?  

That voice was tiny, insignificant, and easily ignored.  He let his hands wander everywhere, learning her shape, committing it to memory.  He brushed the curve of her ass and she hissed against his mouth.

She liked it.  Her fingers curled into a fist in his hair and yanked, just slightly, just enough to send a jolt shooting down, straight to where this new embracing of desire was pooling.

The next thing he knew she was climbing him, forcing him to catch her, hands squeezing her thighs.  His back had been slammed into a wall ages ago and now impulse wanted him to lay her down somewhere and never let go.

But everything ends.  Kira eased back, catching her breath.  He still cursed the fact he’d neglected the rest of his armor.  All the soft parts of her were flush with plates of steel meant to deflect sensations, good or bad.

He felt her smile against his mouth as she kissed him playfully, sliding back down until she was standing on her own.  Then her forehead nuzzled against his chin, an intimate gesture that, out of everything, was the one that nearly broke him.  He hugged her close, his mind returning and bursting with fears and questions and rationalizations.  

Finally, she pulled away and took every ounce of warmth with her.  

“I’m going to close my eyes,” She said, “Just tell me when I can open them.”

She stumbled away, then the running lights came on and he had cover his eyes with his hand.  Kira’s eyes were closed, as promised, and as his vision adjusted, he stole another unfiltered look at her.  Her hair was a mess, her shirt untucked, her smile dazed. She was beautiful.  

He put his helmet on, for the first time, with reluctance.  

“Can I open?”

“Yes.”

She met his eyes--though she couldn’t know that, he still felt she did--and smiled.  She sauntered over, breaching his personal space like they made-out every day.  It didn’t feel wrong, but he hadn’t expected it either.  She hooked her arm around his, leaning into him and resting her head on his shoulder.

“We’ll have to try that again soon,” She looked up at him and winked, “You can protest if you want, but I for one am not about to be satisfied with a taste when I could have the whole cake.”

Disagreeing with her right then seemed dangerous, so he didn’t.  And, to be honest, he didn’t want to.  He still felt, still knew, that this was not a long term arrangement.  Whatever they had, whatever he might feel, something would ruin it, something could end it.  Only difference was now he wasn’t sure he had the strength to deny her until then.  He surely didn’t want to, not when he knew how good she could feel, how good contact could feel.  He’d forgotten somehow, but it would be like a drug, he’d want more and more.  And there was a chance the detox would kill him.

Because he was fairly certain he was in love with her.