"I have a cook kit," she panted as she lugged herself up the mountain behind him.
"So do I."
She was just staring at him when he turned around to glance at her.
"Then why are we still cold camping?"
"Because hunting leaves a trace."
"You let Mird hunt every day!"
"Yeah…" He paused. Braced his hands on his hips. Tried to suck oxygen into his lungs.
The view was spectacular. They were higher than the canopy now and the sun was clear and bright. Hotter than hell, despite the fact that the humidity should have been lower. He could see the mist from the waterfall they were making for. See the birds and bats or whatever the hell they were flying over the trees.
Yeah. Spectacular view. The payoff had better be worth the hike in.
He turned to look at her again.
"Mird takes down an animal and it looks like something with teeth and claws took apart prey. You or me? Looks like somebody cleaned a kill then jointed and roasted it. Let's take a look at this bunker and when we get back down in the lowlands we'll have something better. Okay?"
She looked up at him. Nodded morosely.
He couldn't blame her. He was tired of the dried, rehydrated bread and non-perishables they'd been eating the last week or so. At least there'd been fresh fruits to supplement until they hit the peaks. Up here… there was stuff, but they'd have spent as long foraging and preparing the edible roots and nuts and things as they did actually making miles toward their goal.
"Is that smoke?" she asked, pointing.
He frowned. Pulled his rifle to take a better look through the scope. Unlatched it and handed it off.
"It's a storm."
"Are you worried?"
"About getting caught out here? Not especially." They'd hiked through the afternoon showers every day. "We're not in a gully."
"But we're kind of exposed."
He nodded. Accepted the scope back and checked again.
"We'll keep an eye on it. It might track past us."
It didn't. He cursed his luck. Helped her set up one of the tents. Released Mird to go hunting and then laughed when the strill just scurried through the flap. He was kneeling in the opening—she thought of it as his lord-of-the-manor pose—with his hands on his hips watching the sky darken when the first of the raindrops started pelting the few scraggly deciduous trees.
"Fek it," he hissed bitterly.
She looked up in confusion when he started shucking his plates and tossing them toward his rucksack. He dug through it, pulling out his toiletries bag and a towel, then pulled off his shirt. It was the first time she'd seen him strip down at all. They usually washed up in a stream and he swore his armor was comfortable enough to sleep in, which he proved regularly.
"I want a real krifffing bath," he told her, reaching for the fasteners of his pants. She watched the lithe musculature of his back as he arched forward, freeing himself from his pants legs and cetare and his thick, protective socks. He jerked his chin and gestured toward the heavier rainfall. "Nature's providing the high-alt 'fresher. Wanna wash your hair?"
She laughed when he slid back out the opening. Propped open the door and admired the shape of him. For fifty he kept in shape. He'd kept on the snug, square undergarment he'd worn beneath his kute and she couldn't help thinking that he wore it well.
"Your daddy has hot legs," she told the complaining beast who sidled up to her on its belly.
Vau laughed over his shoulder at her. Foamed his soap into a lather and attacked his hair. Wondered if she'd be shocked to the tips of her pink little toes if she knew he'd entertained himself many a time on this little trek of theirs with the very same thought. The woman's ass had surely been shaped by a god who loved men and those long legs of hers were meant to be admired.
He decided they didn't know each other well enough for him to return the complement. Yet. Instead he just snickered and turned back away from her.
She made a face. Decided to throw caution to the wind. Ingrained warnings not to be the highest point in a storm swept away at the temptation to scour every single inch of her skin in the warm summer shower. Mird yawned and yodeled at her as she skipped across toward the same rock Vau had chosen.
"Here…" she offered, reaching for the cloth he was using to slop soap suds over his back.
He arched and rolled his spine when she braced herself on his arm and scrubbed the spot between his shoulder blades that he could never quite reach on his own.
"Good?"
His response was a grunt of pleasure.
She kept on, down toward his lats and then back up his delts.
"I take back every bad thought I've ever had about you," he hissed.
She laughed. Slapped the cloth back over the front of his shoulder and pulled out the band that secured her bun. Used his soap since it was already in hand before passing it back to him to rinse her hair.
"Want me to do you?" he asked, turning faster than she could counter and pushing her sopping mane to the side with the intention of washing her back.
She felt his hand falter and hunched back around, meeting his stricken look for just a moment before glancing away.
"I… I forgot," she murmured.
His absolute horror at the skin on her back couldn't have been any clearer.
"Oh, holy gods."
Something about the chemical properties of a Trandoshan's keratin-claws seemed to react with human skin, making marks from them turn an awful dark ochre color. She had circles… punctures. The creature that had caught her had gripped her so hard he'd left perfectly clear puncture wounds marking his hand holds. Both shoulders, her upper arms. He glanced lower. Saw a partial set on her hip. More of the browned claw marks down her thighs, near the backs of her knees.
No wonder she never stripped down in front of him. Kept the long-sleeve body glove on even when she shucked other layers for lighter pants.
She stepped away from him so fast she nearly lost her footing.
"I owe you an apology… I wasn't thinking. I shouldn't have reached for you like that. I didn't… I didn't mean to startle you. I should have asked before I grabbed at you."
"I forgot what it looks like," she said again. Jerked up her dry-cloth, knocking away her own soap. "I know it's ugly."
He reached for her again. Slid the wet hair to the side and touched the healed-over scars.
"N'Dara. You think it's ugly?" He turned her chin up to him. Forced her to look at him. Firmed up his own face before she did. "You think it's ugly. I think it's mandokarla. Daryc talyc kotyc kar'ta."
"I don't know what that means," she whispered up at him.
"I do," he murmured. He pulled her to his chest. "Mando don't have a word for hero. It would be better if we did, sometimes."
He knew she could feel his heart racing, feel the tremble that ran through his arms.
Everything in him wanted to go jare'la ram'ika. His anger wouldn't serve this wounded warrior in front of him. He was so grateful the rain hid his own tears as she shuddered and the sob broke loose from her chest. It drowned out the great, gulping sounds of her heartbreak as she clenched her fists and shuddered and shook and screamed out against him.
He just held her, rocked her back and forth, and petted the welts under the rents in her skin that tracked down her shoulders to disappear beneath the tight bandeau she wore. Murmured words that meant nothing to her, telling her in his chosen tongue how strong she was and how much he admired her. That the scars made her more precious, more valuable, and that the pain would fade and make her even stronger.
Eventually her weeping subsided to sniffles and her quaking turned to shivers.
"Come on," he whispered. Goosebumps covered both of them, their temps dropping despite the warmth in the air. "We need to get back under cover."
She nodded. Covered her face with both her hands.
He tugged on her hair before she could frame any reply or explanation.
"It's cathartic," he told her. "I've been there."
"You have scars, too."
"I do."
"What gets through beskar if even a lightsaber can't cut it?"
He pulled her close to his side for just a second and pressed his lips to the part in her hair before answering.
"My father."
.
.
He left his arm around her as he steered her toward the tent, Mird's tail thrashing worriedly as it followed them. He wondered idly if the strill had come out in response to his distress at her treatment or in response to the woman's tears. Didn't care when it offered the distraction of her fussing about the wet hair, taking up his towel to rub down the animal so it didn't muss their bedding.
"Do you want to make a few more miles today?" she asked him when he'd finished drawing on his kit.
He looked up, huffed out a breath. "Let's pile up here for a little while. Crap out if you want. I'm going to go set up the perimeter alerts. I'll be right back."
"Vau…?"
He looked over his shoulder at her, half in and half out.
"I'm so sorry."
He snorted. "That's my line, doll face." He reached out. Chucked her under the chin. "I'll make it up to you."
"How are you going to make it up to me?" she asked, disbelieving.
"I told you. You may be jetiise, but you're ours now. Mandokarla. Aliit ori'shya tal'din."
"I don't know what that means," she complained.
He winked at her. "I do," he said again.
N'Dara looked down at Mird, who was wrapped in Vau's towel much like a baby and lolling on her crossed legs.
"I don't even know what to say to that."
She was pretty sure she heard him chuckle. Flipped him off and then tried to wipe her mind. Decided to give up on meditation and just rolled to her side, the damp pet snuggled into her like a child's plaything, and fell asleep to heal from the emotional purging.
.
When she woke she woke carefully. Evaluated the space around her, reached out carefully, just eddies in the force. Just in case. Nothing came back to her to warrant the wild racing of her heart. Vau was reclined, his book open with every tab in his HUD scrolling in the background. He held himself carefully still, despite the 350◦ views in his helmet and the sensors he'd placed immediately informing him when she shifted in the slightest.
"May I ask you something?" her tentative voice came to him.
"Of course."
"Will you answer me?"
He eased down and around. Loosened the strap of his helmet and lifted it away. The buy'ce was a burden in those minutes.
"I won't make promises I might not be able to keep. I won't lie to you. That'll have to be enough."
She nodded. It was a response that she could respect.
"Are you afraid?"
"Oh, shab, cyar'ika." He reached out for her. Rubbed the hard knots of bone beneath the bumpy flesh at her wrists. Moved his hand almost too quickly for her to register the touch so that it was the strill who felt his caress instead.
All that blue. Her face was pale. Wan, not just pale, despite the warmth of the day and the exertion and outdoor lifestyle. Her cap was navy, the hair like a doll's left too long without care so that it clumped and matted. That uncanny blue of it—in here it was black again but he knew now how it looked in every angle of sunlight and in the cast of the moonglow, too. And now those eyes.
They were turquoise. Unshaded by the shooting glasses and their anti-glare properties, the color was unmistakable.
He wanted to touch her face.
Tapped her nose now and smirked.
"You'd be stupid to profess to be unafraid. Everyone's afraid of something. Every being can be brought low by some weakness, some chink in the armor."
"Is Sev yours?"
"He could be. I can't say I've dwelled overly on it."
She reached for his hip. "This was a gift. But the shape—it's a handprint—it's too small to have been made by one of my guys."
"No."
"Someone else, then?"
"Yes."
"A weak spot? A bias that might be leveraged against you?"
"No," he assured her after the briefest of hesitations. "Not anymore. Just a piece of armor. Sentimental only in what was between us when it was gifted but kept because of the thoughtfulness behind it and the honest usefulness of it as a tool. She was right to tell me I needed it."
"I like that it was a she," N'Dara told him. "It's proof that you're not just some warm-blooded droid-casing."
"I'm pretty sure you yourself just gave me credit for being hot as hell."
"When I said it was hot as hell I was talking about humidity and ambient temperature. Although, the bod, Sergeant? My complements to the chef." He had to laugh. "Your legs look like an anatomy model or some Alderaanian marble."
He could feel himself blush and rolled to his back to ponder the seam of the tent. She had one as well and had set it up a time or two. It was stupid, though, and counter-productive. Most of the time they found cover enough that the shelters were unnecessary but she'd been quick to jump on the suggestion of close-camping. His could be configured in a variety of formats that allowed them only as much overlay as they actually needed.
"What are you going to do if we find proof that he's already gone? That something happened once they had him detained?"
"I'm prepared for it," he swore. Lied, despite his vow not to do so. "It's what I taught him to do."
That, at least, was truth enough.
She rolled to her side and Mird came with her. The strill stretched out to lay it's head on his chestplate.
"Do you like being Mandalorian because pet hair just brushes off the armor?"
"Yeah, kid. That's the reason. I weighed the pros and cons and that was the thing that decided it."
She rolled up and began packing her things. When she got to her toiletries kit her hand faltered.
"Hang tight. I'll run and get our stuff."
"I can-"
"I'm dressed. And water-impervious."
She waited, accepted her things when he handed them through to her.
"Is it still raining?" It was hard to tell, the way the wind was blowing, if the droplets hitting the tent were from the stand of trees or small gusts of storm cloud.
"Just sprinkling. You won't melt."
She shook her head. Carefully situated herself so that her back was to him and started jerking at her hair.
"Why did you ask me if I was afraid?"
"You said it made me look strong. But I didn't rationalize it out, Vau. It was animalistic, surviving? I don't want you to think-"
"I'm not afraid of dying. The burden of an op is the people relying on you. Bubbles? If it's a dead end for me I'll help you track down your guys before we call it quits. I can make you that promise easy enough." He clasped her hand in the way of the warriors of his chosen clan. Thumbs hooked, palm-to-wrist to prove you'd the strength to haul a comrade to safety. "Ni'll hukaatir gar resol."
"And that means?"
"I've got your back. It translates roughly to I'll watch your six."
That pleased her.
She passed him the detangler, an odd egg-shaped thing that fit comfortably in his hand when he lifted it to brush his hair back from his face. The flexible plastoid cones that diminished to bristles felt good along his scalp.
"I like that."
"I knew you would."
She smiled at him with such superiority that he damn near just lit a brand and burned her and the entire mountainside down so he could walk away from the whole mess.
"Bad kitty!" she called when Lord Mirdalon took advantage of her brief distraction to poke through her cosmetics and hygiene items.
"Not a kitty," Vau intoned, happy feeling gone as fast as it had appeared.
"Pfft."
"Get your boots tied and let's see how bad the path is."
"Do you feel better now that you're clean?"
"Somewhat. And yourself?"
"Eh. So-so." Her hand rocked back and forth. "Really you're only as clean as what you're going to be putting on afterward, right?"
"I actually followed that, Great Darakaer of Irmenu."