DAMAGES

It took four men from the village to get the Mandalorian off the ship and into the settlement, and he woke up several times as they carried him, growling and even hissing at them in indignant fury and obvious pain. Omera had him brought into her own house and put him in her bed, which she knew would have everyone's tongues wagging, but she didn't care.

It took a good bit of undoing of straps and all kinds of strange buttons and clips to get his armor off, and then it was quite a struggle to get his undergarments off, and he grumbled when she removed his helmet. Finally, she was able to check him over for other wounds, and was pleased to see only old scars—and there was a lot of them—and a few fresh, raw scrapes. His blood and sweat stained her sheets, but that didn't matter to her. Sheets clean easily enough. Injuries are much more complicated.

It was rather nice to see all of him—he was certainly well built, being lean and strong, with hard muscles, and everything was very nicely… proportional. Omera washed him thoroughly with towels dipped in hot water, ignoring his growling and sotto voce curses in Mando'a and other languages, as she carefully sluiced blood and sweat away into a basin and doing her best to be matter-of-fact with regard to where she had to touch him.

His head wound had put out a lot of blood, so that took the most time, but after several rinsings and letting him growl at her as he pleased, the water in the bowl on the bedside table was finally clear.

He looked considerably less miserable and uncomfortable, though it amused her to watch a man scowl in his sleep. With his wounds properly cleaned, she placed a bandage over the wound, which had been sealed with what seemed like a bacta spray. It was only a little raw, and the spray had done a good job of preventing any sort of infection, but she didn't want it to become irritated under the helmet. The bandage and her own bacta spray and herbal compositions would help prevent that, and so the helmet was best left off for now.

She knew she was tempting fate and possibly his wrath, by leaving the helmet off, but recovering from injuries seemed, in her mind, to trump his creed and the helmet would not help in his healing. If he didn't like that… well, she would cross that bridge when she got to it.

Omera sat down in her rocking chair to begin repairing a hole in one of Winta's shirts. Tradition was a fine thing, she knew, and old customs were often quite helpful and served as a means of binding communities and families together, but sometimes they had to be put aside for practicality and perhaps even for sheer survival. She respected his devotion to the vows he had made, but his life was more important than any oath.

Besides, you can't keep oaths when you're dead.

He stirred a bit, then mumbled something that sounded a little like 'jet pack' and tried to move onto his side, so Omera was satisfied that he was sleeping comfortably. She expertly shifted him around and removed the stained sheets, then covered him up with a warm blanket. She started a good blaze in the fireplace, set a pitcher of water and a glass by his bed, and went out to retrieve the child.

Winta and her friends were playing with him, and the child looked utterly happy with them, but when he saw her he toddled over and looked up at her and then at her door. "Come along now, sweetie. We'll put your crib by the bed. How about that?"

The child cooed and made a strange kind of chirping sound, and she carried him inside after shooing the children back home and telling Winta to go stay with her cousins for the night. She put the child on the bed beside the Mandalorian and retrieved the crib, settled a thick blanket in it and put him on the bed for a moment, to reassure him that Mando was alive and just a bit unwell. The child cooed and waved his hands, looking pleased, and touched Mando's face, gently patting him and burbling softly.

"Your Papa is going to be just fine," Omera told him, moving him to the crib. "He just got a really bad knock in his stubborn head, didn't he?"

"Papa." the child said, and she smiled.

"That's right. He's your Papa. Are you hungry?"

The child cooed and made that little chirping sound again, so she suspected that was a 'yes'. She moved him to the crib, gave him a little ball to play with, and went to the kitchen and found some sweet fruit and some leftover grinjer meat, and returned to find him up on the bed again, beside his father.

"How do you do that?" she asked, gently putting him back in the crib. "You love your Papa, hm? He's a good Papa?"

The child smiled up at her, showing tiny teeth, and she gently stroked his head, which made him wiggle and squeal happily. Omera fed him the fruit and meat, and after his meal he lay down without any urging at all and went right to sleep.

It was early morning, a rumbling in the northern sky promising rain and cold weather. Omera was resting by the fire, watching the child chew on what appeared to be a tiny steel animal skull, when Mando suddenly gasped and tried to sit up.

"The kid! Where's the kid?!" Then he grimaced with pain and fell back onto the pillow, his hand on his forehead. "Oh, God, I think my brain just exploded!"

"He's over here, and I think you're being a little dramatic," Omera said gently, rising to fill a glass with cold water. The child was standing up in the crib, watching them with great interest and reaching his hands out towards him. "Calm down. He's just fine." She gave Mando the glass, and she wasn't surprised when he drained it down in one gulp before looking around the room, a hunted expression on his face. He was clearly frantic, and he tried to get out of bed, regardless of his headache, but Omera pushed him firmly back into place. "Stop that. You're naked, you know, and he's fine. See?" She pointed to the little crib and the child squealed and gurgled happily.

"Stop yelling at me! How… how did I get… oh, my God, my head is killing me… and… I'm naked! How did I get naked?! What did you… somebody… where am I?" he demanded, wild-eyed and agitated.

"Good Lord, you do panic rather spectacularly, don't you? You're in my house. You have been rendered naked in the same way anybody ends up naked—you were undressed. It took four men to bring you here, and no, none of them saw your face. It was like trying to carry a Zabrak that had been on a spice bender—you growled and fought them every step of the way. Quite embarrassing behavior from a grown man, however grave his injuries, I must say." Omera said with some asperity, moistening a washcloth in the basin and handing it to him. "You're also a mess, really, but I think you'll recover very well if you'll be still and behave. How do you sleep in that thing, anyway?"

"I… I'm used to it," he answered wearily, settling back against the pillows again, but he was still tense. "My helmet… you… took it off…"

"Hush. It was off when I found you in that hulking monster of a ship of yours. And I wouldn't want to have to get used to to wearing that thing, and getting wound up about it now won't make your head hurt any less," she said, putting the still rather pinkish washcloths into a basket to carry out for washing later. Omera worried now that perhaps he had lost a bit too much blood. He was still incoherent, and quite weak. Good meat and rest would be the best medicine for him, she decided.

She couldn't help but think that it would be very… primitive, but entirely satisfying, to take advantage of his current state, but if their roles were reversed, that kind of thing would be unforgiveable, and besides, it would totally destroy his trust in her.

"That thing and all that armor can't be anything better than uncomfortable, however much it may shield you, and you need rest, not itchy clothes and armor." She shook her head, tsking at him.

He was silent for a long time, and she knew he was thinking, or at least trying to think, but Omera knew a concussion made stringing words together painful and wearying. When he started to get up again, she pushed him firmly back into place and making him gasp and growl at her again.

"Stop that. You need to rest. You've clearly suffered a very pretty nasty blow to your head, helmet or not, and I seriously doubt you can stand up for long without tipping over and throwing up all over my clean floor. Plus you've lost a good bit of blood, which is a going concern, but head wounds are like that, and can be very scary at best. Right now, it's water and hot tea, and then it'll be rest, good food and quiet for the next few days. So go back to sleep."

"I don't… "

"Shhh! Stop being stubborn—that doesn't work with me. You think you're hard-headed? Try dealing with Winta when she's on a tear, and not even she's been able to beat me. You won't either. So sleep. I'll take care of your boy. He's already eaten two frogs this morning and several dozen fish. I swear, he's gonna turn blue soon."

"Yeah, sounds like him." The Mandolarian settled back on the mattress, and within moments his breathing slowed. He mumbled in his sleep, and Omera blushed when he said her name, though it sounded like he was arguing with her in his dreams. If his expression was any indication, however, that battle of wills was a losing one as well.