WHO: The Mandalorian, The Child WHEN: Today WHERE: Mando’s room WHAT: Just some Deep Thoughts with Mando TRIGGERS: None
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The kid seemed content where he was seated at the head of the bed, nestled in a pile that consisted of blankets and too many pillows for any one human or creature to properly make use of. His stubby fingers worked at the plush of one of the blanket layers as he fascinated over how anything could feel so soft. Life hadn’t been much on luxury, and the tactile warmth and cushion had him reveling in the moment. The usual coo of delight mingled with a laugh. He teetered back into the pile and vanished almost entirely from sight save for the green tips of his wing-like ears jutting out.
“Just don’t get lost in there,” Mando mused. In a room of two beds, he was reclined on the second, merely taking in the quiet of their room as it was: sheltered away from the rest of the ship and inaccessible to the same.
Cara wasn’t here at the moment, which meant it was really just him and the kid. And, of course, a head full of thoughts that jostled every time he dared to ease back and relax.
This was the downside of this whole place: too much free time. It didn’t matter as much when he was flying his own ship or conducting his own business. Now? Whenever things were too still, he found himself back in a cycle of thought that he couldn’t chase off.
Time kept passing. It was what now? Past a quarter of a cycle all in. There were people among this Displaced group who had been here a full cycle, if not several. How long did they take to give up? When did they decide that this was life now, and it would be so for the foreseeable future? Did anyone really do that?
Mando tilted his head back, his beskar helmet sinking slightly into the pillow behind him. The free time didn’t matter as much to be left with his thoughts before speaking with Ahsoka and Sabine. No, their word wasn’t law by any means, but they both spoke of a Mandalore that sounded foreign to him. A Mandalore where no one feared to give names, show faces…
The leather of his glove traced along the bottom edge of his helmet. Mando’s gaze was distant, locked on the seam where ceiling met wall without really focusing on anything here in the room. His fingers pressed up against the metal, lifting the helmet a mere inch before some invisible force seemed to coax his hand away.
Among the pile in the adjacent bed, a small, green face emerged with wide eyes searching. Mando felt the presence as much as he felt the curious look. He turned, straightening up and collecting himself to his feet.