They were camping on a quiet desert world today, a small fire going. Winta had been given the instructions to not let the baby fall into the fire, and then Omera walked over to where the Mandalorian was sitting and seemingly staring at the ground.

She sat next to him and waited, giving him time to collect his thoughts and admiring the night falling around them, the slight chill as the sun set and the moons rose, the chirping and humming of creatures around them.

"I know where I can get a job," he said after a while.

"Oh? Well, that's good news."

He shook his head. "Not with these people. I...used to work with them, before. A few years ago. A while ago, actually. Right when I started bounty hunting. They're...well."

Omera scooted a little closer. "They're what people usually think of when they hear 'bounty hunter'?"

He huffed out a little laugh and turned to look at her. "And what do people usually think of bounty hunters?"

She hummed in thought, then said, "People without morals, I suppose. People who don't care about anything in the galaxy but themselves."

He sighed. "Yeah, that's them. They're not really...bounty hunters, though. And the group is always changing. They sort of do whatever odd job comes up, and more often than not, it's well-paying but hardly worth the price."

Omera shifted and pulled her arms around herself as the chill of night deepened. "So, you've found us a dangerous group of people with a dangerous job that may or may not be worth the risk."

"Well, when you say it like that," he replied in his driest tone of voice, wrapping his arm and cape around her and pulling her close, "it almost sounds like a bad idea."

Omera smiled and leaned against him. Her Mandalorian had a sense of humor; it just took some time to shine through.

They were quiet for a while, watching the children play. Winta was telling a story, using her hands to act it out. The child watched with wide eyes that seemed to reflect the billions of stars above them.

"I don't know what else to do," the Mandalorian said after a while. He spoke in a whisper, quiet enough that the children couldn't possibly overhear. "I don't know where else to go for work. Going back, though...it feels like…" He sighed, his head bowed, and Omera didn't dare move or speak in case she interrupted this vulnerability. "It feels like defeat," he said, even quieter than before. "Like a starving dog crawling back to an abusive master."

And that was one of the most difficult parts of being responsible for someone else—when could pride and dignity, self-respect, any of that, be more important than the needs of your family? Risks you wouldn't take for yourself, you'd take for the ones you loved. Work you wouldn't choose to do on your own, you'd do to feed your child. It was humiliating and possibly harmful to you, but it had to be considered, and difficult choices had to be made.

Omera reached up to cover his hand where it sat on her shoulder. What could she possibly say? He knew this struggle well, no doubt, since he had once been a provider for his clan. He knew how to weigh the pros and cons of a situation. He knew this situation, these people, better than her.

And he was sharing what he felt, which was wonderful but, in this specific instance, sad. Biting her lip, she turned to face him, reaching up to move his head to look at her. Then she gently, deliberately, bumped her forehead against his heltmet. "We are with you," she whispered back. "If you think this job is worth taking, we will take it. If you think we should look somewhere else, we'll do that." She pulled back a little. "Besides, I may have figured out something for weaving. Next stop, I'll have something to sell." She nudged him and grinned. "We can see if anyone besides my Mandalorian likes my work."

He nudged her back. "I'm sure they will. There's a lot of idiots out there, but we can find some with the good sense to appreciate your skill."

I could say the same to you, she thought, and they sat and enjoyed the quiet together.