RECUPERATION

Omera was stitching a net and keeping an eye on her daughter and some other children roughhousing near the paddys, and when a group of birds suddenly came rushing out of the woods, she stood up, alarmed. Oh no… please, not the raiders again! She reached under her seat to find the rifle the Mandalorian had left her and was pulling it out of its hiding place when she saw the child emerge from the inky darkness of the woods. He was toddling towards her, ears up and eyes wide with excitement and anxiety. When he saw her, he squealed and waved.

She rushed out to him, crouching down to examine him anxiously. "Where on earth… how did you get here?" she asked. She picked him up and carefully patted his body, checking for injuries, but he was obviously in excellent health, but she noticed that his little brown cloak was a little singed.

Cooing anxiously, the child made a gesture towards the woods behind him. Omera immediately headed into the woods, the child making more cheerful noises, so that as she walked she grew calmer—if the child wasn't in a panic, then she suspected she shouldn't be either, but clearly the child's minder needed help.

Omera knew there was a small clearing not far ahead, and she picked up her pace as she walked, looking back to note that the children hadn't followed—they had not yet seen the child, which was probably a good thing. Keeping them all together and focused was often like herding lothcats. She rushed on, familiar with every fallen log, root and stone along the little game trail, until she got to the clearing and saw the hulking silver Razor Crest. The child gurgled and pointed a little clawed finger at the ship, looking expectantly at her as she expertly cradled in him in the crook of her arm.

Cautiously, Omera walked up the ramp and entered the ship, the child wiggling in her arms and pointing up. She carefully settled the little one on the floor and gave him a firm 'stay here or else!' look before climbing up.

The Mandalorian was unconscious in the pilot's chair, his helmet off. There were bloodstains on the garment beneath his beskar steel, and blood and sweat was staining the seat. His hair was sweaty and caked with blood, and dried blood streaked across his face. Omera hesitated, not sure how he might react to being seen without his helmet, but her instincts were already kicking in—she had to help him, regardless of the consequences.

The helmet was on the floor beside him, and she carefully picked it up, setting it on the other seat behind his, and gingerly turned the pilot's chair towards herself. For a brief, horrible moment she thought he was dead, but his eyes suddenly opened and he was staring at her, dark eyes wide and confused and… frightened? "What… Omera… where… where's the kid…"

"Shh. He's all right. You've been injured." She touched the back of his head and felt the closed wound, but she knew a concussion when she saw one. The wound wasn't seeping any more, at least, but Omera knew that head wounds bleed a lot, and it was clear he had lost quite a bit of blood, possibly not just from wounds on his head. His injuries were clearly quite serious, but treatable, and he would require a good bit of care before he stopped seeing double and passing out every time he stood up.

"Helmet… "

"Forget about the blasted helmet," she said sternly. "You look like you've been chewed up and spat out by a ganjuko."

"Dreaming… I'm dreaming. Nice to sleep… an' see you… get to… like it when you don't resist…" His speech was slurred, and if it were not for his scars and bloodstreaked face, she would have thought he was drunk. He winced and squeezed his eyes shut against the sunlight pouring into the cockpit. "Nice to see… both of you.. didn't know you had a… a twin. I don't swing that way… prefer just one… of you… you're enough… "

Omera sighed, flattered and exasperated. He had had his bell rung, and very badly, because she couldn't imagine him saying such things while in his own right mind. "You need rest and quiet, that's what," Omera said. "But can you sleepwalk? I think it'll require more than just me and my twin to get you out of here."

"Omera… so beauti—" His eyes closed again and his head dropped back against the seat, and she sighed, knowing there was no way she was going to get him to his feet. She stood back, hands on her hips, thinking and studying him. Clearly he had been through a terrible ordeal, and had suffered more than a few injuries.

For all that, he was an impressive sight. Not handsome, really, but striking, and there was nothing remotely pretty about him. He was extremely male, with dark hair and dark eyes and rugged features, with a Roman nose and a firm chin, both of which indicated a strong will. Omera had never liked a weak-chinned man ("A weak chin equals a weak character… and he'll be lousy in bed, too," her grandmother had once told her, in her usual terrifyingly blunt way), and had always appreciated men who weren't afraid to be men. She knew how to handle them properly, too: just offer food, praise and sex (or at least the idea of the third item—flirting a little usually did the trick when it came to bartering at the market) and they were perfectly happy. She and her husband had developed a rather fun routine: supper in bed, followed by sex and then a round of applause. Needless to say, they had laughed a lot together.

Her husband had definitely appreciated her cooking and her ability to be encouraging, and he had raved about her uninhibited skills in bed, and their marriage had been happy. She had gone to his bed a virgin, but neither she nor her husband were prudish, and they had enjoyed a vigorous and satisfying physical relationship. She had no regrets about him, and nothing had gone unsaid before he had left.

And she damn sure missed sex. Until now, she hadn't felt any particular urge to go beyond the necessary flirting to get a good price on grinjer meat. Ever since she had met this carefully controlled, reserved man, however, she had been having some vivid and quite erotic dreams, and they certainly didn't stop at flirtation. She sensed that he was also very inexperienced, and that made her dreams even more heated and exciting. To initiate a strong, fearless warrior like him, who was so clearly capable of tenderness, would be… well, delightful. And to now know what he looked like… well, the masked-man fantasy could be replaced easily enough with that face. Not that the helmet didn't have its good points…

She heard a giggling sound behind her and looked back at the child, who was standing in the doorway, head cocked to one side, eyes bright and cheerful. "You little scamp… you're very naughty for disobeying!"

The child didn't seem concerned. He toddled to the Mandalorian and touched his leg, cooing and looking up at Omera with the same expectant expression on his face. She sighed and retrieved the helmet. "You needn't tell anyone I saw his face," she told the child, putting aside inappropriate fantasies for now. "I won't tell anyone, and I don't think he really knows—I think he's taken quite a knock to his head, so frankly I'm not sure if he'll even remember. So neither one of us needs to say anything about it. Deal?"

She settled the child on his lap, then gently brushed Mando's sweaty hair back from his forehead and touched his cheek and looked down at the child. "What happened to him?"

The child had no answer. He just cooed and made that strange and adorable purring sound that he made that had every female near him wanting to pick him up and cuddle him.

It took some careful maneuvering, but she finally got his helmet back on, muttering about how it couldn't possibly be comfortable. "Stay with your Papa. Nobody hurts your Papa again, right?" she said, gently stroking the child's fuzzy little head.

The child nodded and snuggled against the Mandalorian, tiny claws scratching lightly against the beskar, and Omera knew he wouldn't budge until she came back.