xiv. the drop.

(warning: mature content)

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Zoya doesn't think she'll be able to sleep, knowing how close they all are to Death, who stands on the other side of the door, scythe in hand, waiting for the metal to snap, but she does, and does so deeply. Her dreams are the same as they have been for months: swirling with fire, a red-hot tempestuous abyss, a voice that calls her name. But there's something new, too, something that slices through the darkness, bright and surrounded with a soft ivory aura: a young girl with hair the color of a warm night, eyes dark, soothing brown. She meets Zoya's eyes, and her gaze is filled with hope, an unanswered question. Her lips part, as if to ask it.

               It's the last thing Zoya sees before she wakes.

               The question remains unasked, floating shapelessly within the void, curling into the air like smoke as it dissipates, nothing left to remember it but the sharp acidic taste in her mouth.

               Who was she? she wonders to herself for a moment, before coming fully into her body and realizing that the child is staring directly at her, something like confusion etched upon his small face, eyes wide and reflecting the starlight.

               She stares back for a moment, confusion and the remnants of sleep making her foggy and slow.

               Then realizes with abrupt, cold shock that her hand is stretched out, and inches from her fingertips, her blaster hovers in the air, vibrating with the same energy that thrums through her veins like a heartbeat, the same energy that reverberates in the scar on her thigh, pulsing and humming with volcanic heat. Her eyes widen, and the blaster plummets immediately, crashing to the ground.

               Din lurches up in his seat and whirls, hand going to his hip. "What—" he begins, but she's already jumping up and crouching to scoop up the weapon, mind whirring at hyperspeed.

               "Dropped my blaster," she mutters, cheeks burning, heart aflame. The child saw. The child knows. Panic surges catastrophically in her chest before Zoya reminds herself that he can't speak their dialect, can't give away her secret. Still, though, when she rises, she cannot even glance at him, his small, all-knowing stare.

               The weight of the Mandalorian's gaze rests heavy upon Zoya's face as she straightens, and she forces herself to look up.

               "Zoya?" he says, her name an oath, a promise, a question all at once. He sees right through her, as he always has, sees right to her bones, cut through with the black rot of fear and doubt. Her lower lip trembles despite her attempts to school her features, and Din stands, taking the small step forward to narrow the space between them. Beneath the ambience of the Frog Lady's soft snores and the creaking of the Razor Crest, he steps forward and takes her into his arms.

               For a moment, Zoya just stands there, frozen, but finds herself clinging to him within the next breath, the movement so easy, so natural, like accepting a part of herself she'd lost. As his arms wrap around her in return, something fractured becomes complete, whole, a star finding its place in a broken constellation.

               "It's okay," he murmurs, voice soft and gentle, comforting in the way only he can be. "It'll be okay."

               She doesn't know if he thinks she's still out of sorts from the krykna attack, or if he can see the storm roiling within her chest, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is the space between his arms and the soft breathing she can hear through his helmet's modulator, gentle and comforting and how it hitches slightly when she digs her fingers into his shoulders.

               The words rise to her lips. I love you. She almost says it, too, almost releases the maelstrom swirling in her chest. But she doesn't know what will follow it, what will become of them after, and so she reigns it in, keeps it close. Because what happens if he sees it in her eyes and pulls away? What happens if he does not feel the same? It's an old fear, one that has scarred her one too many times.

               So, when finally they part, Zoya keeps her eyes on the ground.

               But Din knows her, and his gloved fingers find the curve of her chin, gently tip her face up his. "What is it?"

               Her brows draw close. "I—"

               The display glows bright red then, and an incessant beeping fills the cabin, not loud enough to drown out everything but enough to wake the others, who stretch and yawn and groan away the stiffness of sleep, and the moment passes.

               Din does not drop his hand right away, keeping his visor tilted down towards her, not until she releases a breath and says, "What does that alarm mean?"

               "We made it," he replies, and turns, giving her full view of the windows and the enormous planet behind. "Get ready for landing." His voice is quiet as he releases her, returning to the pilot seat to fiddle with the controls. At first, it seems like all is well . . . until— "Dank farrik! The landing array isn't responding. Without the guidance system, it'll be a manual re-entry. It might get a little choppy. Once we're through the atmosphere, there should be just enough fuel to slow us down. If we don't burn to a crisp."

               "Perfect," mutters Zoya.

               "Sorry," says Din. "Just being honest."

               And then the ship decends.

               The Razor Crest rattles and groans, as if trying to fold in upon itself. The walls tremble, alarms begin to ring in the cabin, and the view out the window is soon obscured by flickering flames. Zoya's already out of her seat and moving towards Din when he says, "Come up here, I need your hands!"

               "Where?" she yells, eyes searching the panel.

               "This lever"—he indicates it in a group of others on his right—"needs to stay back."

               She curls her fingers around the handle. "Got it."

               "Keep it steady. Here we go."

               The darkness of space behind the window brightens to blue sky and wisps of fluffy white clouds, though the beauty of it is somewhat marred by the fire that Zoya knows is coming from the bottom of the ship. The lever strains against her fingers, and the muscles in her arms flex as she grits her teeth.

              "You got it," Din says.

               "I know."

               She risks a glance back to the child, cowering in his seat, and the Frog Lady, who clutches her pod of eggs close.

               A voice comes over the comms: "Razor Crest, this is Trask flight control. Please reduce your speed to port protocol."

               Din nearly snarls, "I'm trying my best."

               Because obviously, they would be plummeting towards the planet so fast that the bottom of the damned ship catches fire if they were able to slow down.

               "Engaging reverse thrusters, brace!" he says as he reaches forward and hits a small red button on the console. "Hold on!"

               Everything else is a blur, and all Zoya really knows is that she feels like her heart is coming out of her throat, viscous and bloody and tearing in half, because the velocity of the Razor Crest plummeting is nearly ripping her out of her seat, digging the restraints so harshly into her skin she knows there will be marks. The sound of the comm and Din snapping back fades into the roar of the engines, and she nearly releases the scream building at the back of her throat when their freefall comes to an abrupt halt. She slams into her seat, eyes wide.

               "There we go, nice and easy," says Din.

               Then the Razor Crest shrieks in protest and careens over sideways, splashing into the water below.

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On the dock, Zoya stares up at the water pouring from the ship, arms wrapped tightly around her torso. The sky is cold and vast, clouds the color of wet stone. The scent of a storm weaves through the cool breeze that brushes Zoya's dark hair away from her face. She closes her eyes for a moment, breathing in the brief serenity, closing out the bustling sounds of the dock and Din talking to some mechanic-looking creature that approached as soon as their ship was pulled from the waves.

               It's quiet enough, a respite from the terror of the krykna and their freefall mere moments before. A soft hand on her shoulder pulls Zoya out of her thoughts, and she turns from the sea and the distant horizon, looking up into a familiar visor.

               "You okay?" he says quietly, and everything else fades.

               She pulls a grin onto her face that feels more like a mask than anything else. "Of course."

               Though she can't see his face, Zoya gets the feeling that he frowns beneath the helmet. The expression is clear in his voice as he smooths a stray strand of hair behind her ear and tells her, "The frog wants to find her husband. He should be around here somewhere."

               For a brief moment, Zoya can't move, even as Din turns to follow the Frog Lady, still feeling the phantom brush of his gloved fingers across her cheekbone. Though it seems foolish, given what they've done before, the small touch stays in the back of her head as she follows the others across the dock.

               It doesn't take long to find the Frog Lady's husband, and after allowing them a private moment, Din gets straight to business. "I was told you could lead me to others of my kind."

               He turns and gestures, speaking in the same language the Frog Lady used during their journey.

               "The inn?" asks Din. "Over there?"

               A sound of affirmation, and the amphibian crouches beside the Frog Lady to peer upon their eggs and fix it once again to her back, leading them towards the cluster of buildings that makes up the small town. It's crowded and draped in shadow from the gray clouds clustered above, and Zoya feels like a fish caught in one of the nets draped over the doorway of a small cantina that they duck into, the smell of salt and brine and sweat becoming more apparent in the enclosed space.

               Once sat at a table, Din orders, the words nothing but static in Zoya's mind as she scans the room, each patron, wondering which could turn on them, which could be concealing weapons. Her heart begins to beat faster, ramming so hard and frantically against her ribs that she wonders if it presses visibly against her skin. Power builds in her chest, and all of her focus goes to restraining it.

               Zoya barely notices Din slide a few coins across the table to the barkeep in the dim light, barely hears his question Have you seen others that look like me, barely hears the barkeep's response. She doesn't notice much of anything, including the fact that she's absolutely starving until a bowl is set in front of her and is filled to the brim. She blinks down at it, unsure if she'd ordered.

               "I knew you'd be hungry," Din says. "You had that look." Misreading the look on her face, he adds, "I know it doesn't look the best, but you need to eat."

               "Thank you," she murmurs.

               "He said he knows someone that could lead us to more Mandalorians," Din says quietly, tilting his chin at the server walking away from them. He stops at a table wedged in the corner, and soon enough one stands and crosses to their table. Zoya eyes him critically, spoon clenched tight enough in her hand that her knuckles turn white. Beneath the table, Din's hand finds her thigh.

               "You seek others of your kind?" the stranger asks, voice low and gruff.

               "Have you seen them?" Din's thumb performs a slow sweep across her leg. Zoya finds that his touch does the opposite of what he likely intends; her body locks up, and she cannot relax, not with the memories his touch brings to her mind.

               "Aye. I can bring you to them."

               "Where?"

               "Only a few hours' sail." His grin turns menacing. "It'll cost you, though."

               A few minutes and they have a bargain. The next day at dawn, they'll meet at the dock. Half the money is exchanged on the spot, and the stranger takes his leave. The entire conversation, Zoya stays silent, telling herself it's because this is Din's mission, not hers, and not because his hand has crept slowly higher, not because it has begun stealing her ability to speak and breathe.

               Finally, he turns to her. "We'll stay here tonight."

               The inn has a spare room, big enough for the two of them, and a half-enclosed alcove with a sling fashioned for any youngling to sleep. Din eases the child's cradle inside, sliding the lid closed, the child already fast asleep and snoring softly. The door he cracks, leaving a small opening in case he awakes and cries out for them. The room is draped in shadow, the only light eases through the window, spilling from the twin moons hanging low in the sky.

               Zoya eyes the singular bed, remembers when it would have scared her. Now, all she can think of is his hand on her leg, the quiet comfort of his voice, the ability he has to pick up on every single one of her thoughts.

               When she turns, he's waiting, quiet and ready.

               The walls around them seem to heat, flames licking at the low, slanted roof. The sound of waves comes through the window, and Zoya's eyes catch on Din's visor. Unbidden, a flush rises to her cheeks, and she remembers what it was like to see her reflection within it as he held himself above her.

               "I've been thinking," he says quietly.

               She tries to be patient, she really does. But knowing he's standing there, just looking at her, Maker knows what kind of expression on his face, Zoya can't stop herself. "About what?"

               His voice is so quiet she almost doesn't hear him. "Kissing you again."

               This is the real drop, the freefall she'd experienced earlier in the Crest but a thousand times more intense. The world careens to a stop, time slows, then speeds, and all she can do is stare. And blink. Her mouth opens, and closes, and still she does not know what to say.

               "I made you something."

               He pulls something from a pocket, and it catches the light, silky and black and narrow, the color of the night sky. She isn't sure it's what she thinks it is, until he pulls it taut between his gloved hands. Her mouth goes dry, her heart beating erratically. Din looks at her, and does not say anything else for a moment, taking in her expression, the desire that darkens her soft brown eyes.

               "May I?" His voice is made of the same silk, and she nods.

               "Please."

               She did not know her voice could sound that way, soft yet rough, pleading and trusting, the color of a rose spread open towards the sun. The petals fall on her lips, the apples of her cheeks, and she turns as he approaches, releasing a shuddering breath as he carefully places the blindfold in front of her eyes and fastens it behind her head, smoothing her hair beneath the knot, ensuring it doesn't get caught.

               She can feel her heartbeat as it quickens.

               Then his hands are on her shoulders, gentle, and he's turning her around, sliding his fingers to her wrists, raising her own hands up, up, up, until they meet the cold beskar she instinctively knows is the edge of his helmet.

               "May I?" she whispers, echoing his words from moments before.

               He mirrors her reply, and it sounds nearly the same. "Please."

               Din's hands cradling her wrists, Zoya lifts his helmet, her world a sea of darkness, flecked by stars that she knows must be the moonlight coming in through the window, and his breath is brushing her lips, she can hear his shuddering inhale as he takes the helmet from her hands and sets it somewhere with a soft clang.

               And the first thing he whispers is her name, his voice unburdened by the modulator, bare in the shadows of the room, nothing but her ears to catch it. She can feel the moment he leans forward, and she tilts her face up, waiting, simmering, trembling, but his mouth finds her cheek first, then the other, then the angle of her jaw, and his hands slide down to the lowest curve of her back, pulling her close against his beskar-covered chest.

               He says her name again, murmurs it like a prayer against her collarbones, the arch of her neck, until she cannot wait any longer and slides her fingers into his hair, tilts his face towards hers, blind, though somehow she has never seen clearer, her power gliding over the room, over the planes of his face, and she finds his lips with hers.

               Din's breath shudders as he exhales, pulls her even closer, and he makes a sound at the back of his throat that sounds close to a whimper. Zoya winds her fingers through the soft silk of his hair, imagining the strands he'd once told her to be dark brown shining against her skin.

               Her hands are urgent as she finds the buckles of his armor, but he is slow, devouring. She thinks she will burn from the inside out.

               Again, he moves to her neck, and when she moans a little, tries to lift him back to her, he threads his fingers through her hair, close to the base of her skull, and pulls her head back to continue his exploration of the curve of her throat. And maybe she whispers "Please," and maybe it sounds a little like begging, but all Din does is make a sound deep in his throat, murmuring against her skin, "I've been waiting to do this for a long time, cyare. I'm not done yet."

               His other hand takes liberties Zoya gladly gives him; leaving trails of fire in their wake, his fingers glide over her hip, her lower stomach, over her trousers, hovering above the place where she needs him the most.

               "Are you going to make me beg?" she whispers against his mouth, his tongue. It's half a plea, half low and alluring.

               "Maybe once more," he says softly, brushing his lips close. She can feel the smile upon his mouth, but he is not close enough. Not yet.

               "Please." Its breathless. The brush of a feather.

               "Anything," Din replies, and frees her hair, using both hands to pull at the hem of her shirt.

               It's clumsy and messy and they both trip over his helmet once as their clothes are shod and beskar is discarded onto the floor. He falls first onto the bed and pulls her after him, cushioning her fall with the breadth of his bare torso and broad hands, warm and strong as they splay across her back, and it's everything she wanted it to be and more, warm and soft and full of the love she feels with every beat of her heart.

               Skin against skin, starlight glowing upon the curve of her waist; her world is dark, yet he fills it with moonlight, billions of galaxies erupting beneath her eyelids as his mouth presses against her collarbones, her shoulder, the valley of her sternum, the curled, ugly scar on her thigh.

               A thousand worlds and constellations glow beneath her skin; a glorious star burns where her heart should be. And finally, they come together, close enough that she can barely breathe, then closer still. It's everything she's wanted, everything, everything, everything.

               "Maker, you're beautiful," he whispers.

               She clutches his shoulders, the back of his neck, his skin warm and real and smooth beneath her fingertips, and she gasps out his name, the syllable a blooming rose upon her tongue.

               Time becomes malleable, all that Zoya knows is Din; everywhere she can feel him, all she can hear is the pace of his breaths and when they begin to tremble, the soft moans he releases into her mouth, her neck, and all she can think of is him, laughing with her, protecting her, living by her side.

               The blindfold begins to slip, and Zoya is given a split-second choice as she feels it start to pull down over her nose. Despite her longing, her curiosity, she closes her eyes tightly shut.

               Din sees, of course he sees, and his thumb strokes over her cheekbone as he moves atop her. "Zoya," he whispers, the sound broken, brushing his lips over hers, the curve of her ear, his voice soft and strained, full of the same release Zoya feels herself. The cliff looms ahead, terrifying and high enough to brush the clouds. "Zoya," he says again, "say my name. Say my name."

               It sounds like he's begging, almost, but he would never have to beg her for anything. "Din," she breathes, her chest rising and falling, labored as the pressure builds, and the words fall out easily as rushing water: "I love you."

               And this, this is the drop.

               The sound that comes from his mouth is broken, and his movements become faster even as they begin to curl together, even as the galaxy blooms bright, and then it's just blinding light and love and warmth and everything Zoya has ever known, and Din whispering the words over and over as they reach the end as one.

a/n: after not updating for actually almost a FULL YEAR ..... take that in. i'm sorry. ......i thought i'd give y'all something spicy to make up for it 🤭 below is a meme for your trouble.
hopefully that kind of makes up for it, when i realized how long it had been i was Incredibly shocked.. no wonder so many of u were worried ab me 😭 i'm very sorry for the wait it won't be an entire year before i update again i promise