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Prologue
The kid stayed between the two of you as the barrel of your blasters were aimed at each other’s foreheads. You knew you wouldn’t shoot though; he was covered in Beskar, it would only bounce back and hit yourself.
That begged the question of him—why the fuck wasn’t he shooting at you?
“What? Got nothing to say?” you spoke once more, furrowing your brows at him with subtle confusion but a whole of adrenaline. It was all you could feel, buzzing through your veins.
When his modulated drawl finally sounded, your heart stopped. It was one word, one static and strong word that doubled up as a question that you’d never thought you’d have the opportunity to answer to again.
Your name. He’d just said your real name, not your hunter alias that might as well have become your true name. He’d said it in a tone that got across how hesitant he was about it as well, but he’d still said it.
“What?” it came out as a whisper, and that’s when your wrist started shaking. Never in your years of hunting had someone got to you so fast. One fucking word—one fucking name. How the fuck did he know it?
He repeated your name, stronger this time. “That’s your name, isn’t it?” more of hid modulated drawl, but this time it sounded more perked up, as if he was hyped up on caf and not asking an utterly impossible question.
You almost stopped breathing, tightening the fumbling grip on your blaster until your knuckles turned white.
“Who—who the fuck are you?”
I
Two bounty hunters walk into a bar; it’s customary that only one will leave.
At least, that’s what the puck in your hands was instructing you to do. You’d never killed one of your own kind before, nor had you even realised that bounty hunters themselves could have bounties on their heads. That naivety almost made you want to blast yourself in the temple when you were assigned this mission.
A Mandalorian.
That’s who you had to kill.
You’d never seen one, only heard of them lurking in the shadows and living for their religion. What he’d done to garner this fate, you had no idea; and you wouldn’t stick around for long enough to find out.
The only good thing about such a quarry was that it was easy to find him. With shining Beskar and a helmet over his head at all times, the Mandalorian wasn’t exactly hard to identify. That, and the added fact that you knew where his home base was, courtesy of some hunters that you called acquaintances.
Nevarro was a fucked up planet, more fucked up than the one you’d called home for over five years. The hunters were larger, more brooding, less welcoming to others of their kind if they weren’t well known around these parts.
You were the only woman the Guild base bar had seen in a long time. You could tell just from the stares you got as you entered through the circular door, ignoring the loud whoosh of hydraulics, and keeping your fists balled tightly.
Making your way to the bar, you spotted the trailing eyes of a man who looked far too happy to be a hunter himself. He smiled at you willingly, raising his drink to you as you passed by, ignoring him after sending him a stern grimace.
“You’re a long way from home,” he said, and you stopped abruptly just beyond his booth table.
You cleared your throat, keeping your cool. “What’s it to you, old man?”
He let out a singular laugh that almost made you flinch. Curiosity got the better of you as the man kept chuckling to himself—you turned around and returned to his table side, peering down at him threateningly.
“You’ve got spunk, kid,” he let out breathily, shooting his gaze to your stone eyes. “Where’d they drag you up from, huh? Bespin? Li Coran?”
Bespin. He’d guessed on the first fucking try.
Though, Bespin had never been your true home. Nothing would ever amount to where you’d been born, where you’d got to spend the first five years of your life, before it was razed to the ground.
Separatists. Murderers.
You didn’t reply as anger tore through you immediately. You wanted to pummel this man, beat him to a pulp, but you knew better. There was a rule within the Guild—don’t harm other members, unless they betray the code.
The Mandalorian must have betrayed the code really badly.
“You’re here for Mando, aren’t you?” he said plainly, no hint of a joke on his lips after he calmed down. You shuffled on your feet uncomfortably.
“They often hire the best to kill the best,” you replied, prompting another scoff from the man before you. Maker, did this man ever stop fucking laughing?
“Take a seat,” he offered, gesturing to the seat opposite him. If you were in any other position; a position where you had the information you needed to hunt down this guy for whatever crime he’d committed against the Guild; you would have left after clipping the old man in his amused jaw.
But you needed intel. You sat opposite him silently, not dropping your guard for a single second.
“The name’s Karga. I’m the Guild contact around these parts,” he finally introduced himself. “And, you are...?”
“In a hurry,” you hit back with immediately. Karga didn’t press you, knowing not to push your buttons. “What did he do, then? What got him on the wrong side of the Guild?”
The story was long, but in truth, you were hooked onto every word. A client hired Mando to retrieve a fugitive, someone special, someone powerful. Mando did as he was instructed, bringing the quarry in and leaving with his payment—but something made him go back.
Something made him go and steal the fugitive back.
It didn’t make any sense at all.
“He and the fugitive flew away in his ship, the Razor Crest. We haven’t seen them since, but we know they’re on the run,”
“Wait, wait, wait,” you cut him off. “He’s still with the fugitive? He didn’t kill them?”
Karga’s smile was grim enough to curdle blue milk. “Find him and you’ll see for yourself,”
The Nevarro sand erupted into the air as soon as you took off, heading for wherever your puck beeped the loudest. If what Karga said was true, you were after two beings—not just the one.
Though, killing Mando would probably mean you could bring the fugitive back to the client; hopefully for a hefty reward.
The thought of all of those credits gave you enough incentive and motivation in itself. As you blasted your humble ship through hyperspace, you weren’t worried about where the hell it would spit you out—
You only thought of muddying all that shining Beskar.
II
The forests were so... green. You hadn’t seen this much green since you were young. The smell in the air was sweet, tinged with this mossy, musty scent that invigorated your lungs, unlike the metallic twang of Bespin and the other planets you hunted down quarries from.
It was easy to land your ship in a secluded part of the planet, surrounded by enough greenery to keep her hidden until you could drag the body of Mando back and fly away.
The closest settlement was small, but the glowing puck in your hands hadn’t shut up since you’d arrived on the planet. He was definitely here, somewhere. You just had to sniff him out. You entered the central hut of a tiny village, noting the absence of Guild members on this side of the galaxy. It made you stick out like a sore thumb immediately, blaster at your hip and face covered in standard hunter fashion.
You needed a disguise. And you needed one quick.
A poncho was all you could find. One made from woven bits of tree bark and grass that scratched incessantly at your skin. You’d opted of the innocent krill farmer look, letting down your hair and removing your mask altogether. The poncho allowed you to hide your weapon easily.
You almost looked... normal. Like a normal girl, instead of the cut-throat killer you’d trained yourself to be years ago. After everyone you’d ever loved was killed before you, it seemed more than fitting to spend your life hunting down others who did wrong.
It wasn’t revenge, but it was enough to make you feel some sense of retribution for what had happened to yourself, your family and your friends.
You left the small hut, rounding its circular exterior and taking in your surroundings. There were small stables, for cattle and bluurgs; a water trough; a feeding station; the occasional spare part for repairs from the tiny mechanic’s stand. For a second, you imagined what it would be like to live here—
Away from violence, away from constant danger. This was an undamaged part of the galaxy, this was paradise as far as you were concerned. It almost reminded you of home; the small bunting hanging from erected poles; the choppiness of the buildings, though your village had never been made from wood huts—the houses had been sturdy, built from stone and red brick with red rooves and sweet doors.
You let yourself indulge for two seconds, before going back to your mission. The puck buzzed in your hands, faster and faster, until you were picking up your defence and getting ready for a fight to break out. Any second, any corner, and he could be there.
Sucking in a breath, you rounded the final curve of the hut, fingers already on the trigger of your blaster—
You immediately calmed when you saw him.
He was green, not a bright green, not like the moss or trees, but like swamp water. The hairs that covered his tiny bean body made him look old, despite the clear mental age you could gage. This small bundle of green skin and hair and massive fucking ears was a baby; a baby boy, dressed in what looked like an old sack for Melioorn fruit.
“Maker...” you whispered, peering down at him as his giant eyes met yours. Maybe he smiled, or maybe he felt sick. You didn’t know. “What are you?”
You weren’t expecting an answer at all. What you got instead was the unmistakable sound of his giggles, bursting from his tiny weeny chest and out of his gremlin mouth until they hit you in your gut. Babies had never been your thing, and never would be, but this guy... there was something about him that made you want to pick him up and cradle him until he fell asleep.
When he started stumbling closer to you, you froze with your hands up. No, this was getting too cute now. “No, no—where’s your mama?” you said frantically.
The gremlin gurgled. Your heart broke.
“I’m not your mama, little guy,” you said, getting overly worked up as the kid got ever closer to you. He fumbled a bit as he finally reached your foot, promptly falling to the ground to wrap his little fingers around your ankle.
You let out a groan, one that could only mean Maker, why me? but it was also laced with the softness you were feeling. This kid liked you. What a made decision he’d made.
Slowly, you stretched your arms down and grabbed the little guy. You lifted him up, hovering him out before you at an arm’s length away. You didn’t grimace, it’s like your face was incapable of scowling at him, despite the hair and the wrinkles and the massive eyes and ears that the kid donned.
Instead, you tilted your head, squinting at him and trying to gage what species he was. You’d never seen a creature such as this in your time across multiple galaxies.
He gurgled once more, shuffling in your grasp. He stuck his hands out towards you, with fingernails as small as grains of rice and palms no bigger than a credit coin.
You pulled him to your chest, before scanning the surrounding area. “Where’s your guardian, huh?” you questioned, not realising that you’d started bobbing him up and down gently. He was silent, scanning your face while you wondered what the fuck to do with him. He’d come to you—if he was alone, could you really leave him?
“Who’re you here with, bud?” you pressed again, wondering if he could even understand a word you were saying. Now, you were getting panicked.
You had a Mandalorian to find; the guy could be around any corner; yet here you were with a fucking green baby in your arms. Well, at least the kid ensured you looked even less like a hunter. Now you looked like a nanny, or a mid-wife.
You shuddered at the thought.
Suddenly, his ears perked. The gremlin shuffled in your arms, being alerted by a sound somewhere around the corner and out of sight. Your heart dropped slightly, afraid that he’d fall out of your arms. You got back down to the ground, placing him on the floor safely.
He just stood there, ears still perked and waiting.
“Is your mama shouting for you?”
Slowly, his little legs started shuffling forward. You stayed in place, slowly coming back to the reality of the beeping puck in your pocket— the beeping—
It was getting louder and more frequent.
The beeps were coming in faster bursts now, more frantic, and with every second that went past they got more so. The Mandalorian; he was here; and he was very fucking close.
Suddenly, you lunged forward to try and get to the kid. “We gotta get you out of h—,”
“Kid?”
A hulking frame covered in chrome rounded the corner of the hut like some kind of sick circus act. The beeping puck in your pocket erupted into a wailing alarm the volume of a taking off ship, and you barely had the time to roll out of the way and raise your weapon before Mando could get to his too.
The kid stayed between the two of you as the barrel of your blasters were aimed at each other’s foreheads. You knew you wouldn’t shoot though; he was covered in Beskar, it would only bounce back and hit yourself.
That begged the question of him—why the fuck wasn’t he shooting at you?
“What? Got nothing to say?” you spoke, furrowing your brows at him with subtle confusion but a whole lot of adrenaline. It was all you could feel, buzzing through your veins.
He stayed silent and as still as a tree, but you were getting restless from his absence of haste.
When his modulated drawl finally sounded, your heart stopped. It was one word, one static and strong word that doubled up as a question that you’d never thought you’d have the opportunity to answer to again.
Your name.
He’d just said your real name, not your hunter alias that might as well have become your true name. He’d said it in a tone that got across how hesitant he was about it as well, but he’d still said it.
“What?” it came out as a whisper, and that’s when your wrist started shaking. Never in your years of hunting had someone got to you so fast. One fucking word—one fucking name. How the fuck did he know it?
He repeated your name, stronger this time. “That’s your name, isn’t it?” more of his modulated drawl, but this time it sounded more perked up, as if he was hyped up on caf and not asking an utterly impossible question.
You almost stopped breathing, tightening the fumbling grip on your blaster until your knuckles turned white.
“Who—who the fuck are you?”
You took a step backwards, blaster still raised. Mando was practically frozen, breaths pouring out of his modulator as he acted just as confused as you were. Slowly, he inched his blaster down, putting the safety on and clipping it back onto his belt.
The anger spread through you immediately.
“Who are you, huh? Is this some kind of joke before I have to take your ass back to Karga on Nevarro? How the fuck do you know that name?” as the words spat from your mouth your blaster waved around his body, mimicking your frantic gestures.
Mando stayed silent. If he hadn’t repositioned himself in a neutral stance, then you wouldn’t have known anyone was actually in the suit.
“Answer me!” you screeched, dropping your eyes to the kid on the ground. He turned around slowly, peering up at you and putting his ears back. Maybe your shouting was hurting him. You swallowed down some of your rage and forced yourself to calm down. “Sorry,” you mumbled once, all too aware that Mando had definitely just seen you apologise to a little green gremlin for being too loud.
“You were here with him before,” Mando spoke up, reminding you of the stance you were in; gun still raised. This would look stupid—only you raising your weapon while he stands around without a care.
“Before I drop my weapon, tell me how you know that name,” you tried to change the subject, but the hunter before you either hadn’t heard, or chose not to listen.
“Looked away for one second and he’d run off. He found you,”
“Tell me,”
“But you’re not here for him, are you? That puck in your pocket doesn’t belong to him,” you gulped as he continued talking; he was talking about the fucking gremlin. He was the fugitive? “I’m not naïve enough to not expect that others would be after me too, but sending you...” his voice trailed off as he tilted his gaze to the sky for a moment.
You caught a look at his neck, the only portion of him that wasn’t covered. His skin was tanned, olive. Many people on Aq Vetina had had that same complexion. The soft stain of the suns upon their skin from working the markets.
Maker, I’m going crazy. It can’t be.
“He must know,” Mando said finally.
“Who must know?” you questioned, despite him not responding to your other demands.
“Moff Gideon,” Mando said clearly. “I knew larger types were getting involved, but I didn’t realise he knew—”
“You’re making no fucking sense,” you let out, and Mando finally looked back down at you, as if remembering that he still had a gun to his chest.
“Who sent for you to kill me?” he asked plainly, and immediately you returned to your hunter roots.
“None of your concern, Mandalorian—,”
“It was someone from the Galactic Empire, wasn’t it? He approached you and said one of his superiors needed a job done,” Mando gently took a step forward; your entire body tensed. You raised your other hand to your blaster, holding it steady with both palms.
“Don’t come any closer,” you said strongly. Mando obeyed, stopping abruptly.
“It wouldn’t have been Gideon himself, that’s beneath him,”
“If you know I’m here for you, why did you put your gun down?” that made the chrome covered man stop for real. He took in a deep breath, exhaling through the modulator as he flexed his fingers uncomfortably.
“They hired you for a reason, you know,” he said.
“Yes—to kill you,” you replied. Mando let out a scoff.
“No,” he shook his head slightly. “Because they knew I wouldn’t be able to harm you,”
It was a gut feeling that made you drop your weapon. You dangled your arms by your sides, blaster hanging on by your index finger, as you finally gave up on trying to understand the man before you. He was talking crazy, he had to be suffering from some type of forest sickness.
“This is... just—what the fuck?” you muttered to yourself, trying not to let out a laugh while you took in this entire conversation. “Are you sure you’re the Mandalorian I’ve been sent to kill?” you asked, though you weren’t expecting a coherent answer from him.
“You’re smarter than this,” he started, before ending the sentence by saying your name again. Your expression dropped back to a scowl. You wanted to throw up by the time you felt tears welling in your vision.
It’d been so long.
So long since someone knew it, called you it, said it.
“How do you—,”
“Work it out,” Mando pressed you, taking another abrupt step forward until his chrome visor was fully peering down at you.
Maker, work what out?
“I know it’s hard,” he continued, upon seeing the cogs try and fail in your brain. “You can’t see my face, can’t hear my voice. It’s been so long. We were only children,”
You inhaled sharply as the penny finally dropped. A mixture of embarrassment and amazement and hurt—pain so deep rooted within your chest—hit you like a rogue TIE fighter.
That day came back in flashes. Flashes of red as buildings erupted around you and people fled to find safety. Only a few children survived; you were huddled together in some abandoned mechanic’s shack when the clean-up operation had begun, but you’d been separated from him to start with.
You thought he’d died, thought he’d been trampled by a walker or shot dead like his wonderful parents; same as yours.
In flesh and blood, he was still standing.
“Din?”
III
The breath in the back of your throat hitched when his name fell from your lips. It was a name, like yours, that you hadn’t thought nor spoken of since your entire village had been destroyed.
You’d mourned for him. You’d spent months wondering if he was still alive, trying not to focus on the horrible way he could have been killed. The grief was still there, buried beneath layers of dirt and blood and bodies that you’d shot to the ground—
The grief of your past life, that had barely even begun when it had been forced to end.
“How did you even recognise me?” you questioned, after a good ten minutes of silence had drifted between yourself and Din. The three of you sat in the central hut, soup warm and steaming on the table before you when you’d arrived, but now yours was cold. “I was five when they attacked,”
Din took a few moments to consider his answer. “Your eyes,” he said plainly.
You held your breath to try and avoid yourself feeling anything.
“The look you gave me as soon as I turned the corner and you were reaching for the kid, it was a mixture of fear and something powerful. It’s a look I saw a lot when we were young, whenever you’d join the older kids for supply runs or games in the square,”
“You talk about it like it was yesterday,” you said lowly.
“It feels like it, looking at you now,” he almost blurted it out, sending out a wave of awkwardness after he’d realised how his tongue had slipped. “I haven’t thought much of that day since I was found,”
You gulped away your fears. “What happened?” you questioned finally.
The thoughts had been battering your mind since you’d realised that Mando was Din. Was he really the same kid you’d been close with underneath that helmet all these years later? What the fuck had lead him down this path to becoming a fucking Mandalorian in the first place? It was extreme to you.
“A group of Mandalorian’s found me, my creed,” he began. “They took me in, taught me their religion, their rules, their livelihood,”
“Is it true?” you lowered your voice slightly, not wanting to overstep any boundaries. “That you can never take the helmet off? Never show your face to another?”
Din swallowed solemnly.
“This is The Way,” was all he said.
Maker, why did you feel so sad all of a sudden? The Din you knew before had a kind face, chubby cheeks and long eyelashes. You wanted to know what he looked like now, after years of solitude and killing and living within the shadows.
He recognised you from the get-go. You wanted to know if you’d have been able to do the same if he hadn’t donned the helmet at all.
Abruptly, you let out a chuckle. Din moved slightly in his chair, as if asking what you were thinking about. “It’s just—after the death and destruction we witnessed as children, our family and friends being killed in cold blood, we both went down the route of being bounty hunters,” it wasn’t funny. Not really. But you couldn’t stop chuckling to yourself lightly about that fact. “Even though we thought each other dead, we ended up this way,”
“We ended up together,” Din replied thoughtfully. “Gideon is good if this was intentional,”
“You believe the guy who hired me knows that we were both saved from Aq Vetina?”
Din nodded slowly. “They’re smarter than they let on, and you should have seen the guys that wanted the kid,” he tilted his head down to the kid then, and you could almost imagine a fond expression on his face now, but it was still muddied, still not the real deal. “I think they wanted to... experiment on him. Use him. Take advantage,”
Sure, you were a cut-throat killer that got paid to murder certain people, but that didn’t stop you from grimacing immediately.
He was just a kid.
You and Din had been, too.
“That’s fucked up,” you let out in a whisper, almost too disgusted to even think about it.
The two of you sat in silence then, just thinking, contemplating, while the kid continued to dip his gremlin hands into his soup bowl and play with the cooked krill. Gross.
It dawned on you then that this was a problem—you’d been sent to kill someone who used to be your best friend. You’d both grown, sure, but this was Din. He wouldn’t so easily give away him or your name. It was him, despite the Beskar keep you from him.
“I can’t go back, can I?” your brain landed on. The way that Din stayed still meant that he’d been thinking the same thing. “If I return without you dead, they’ll know I let you go,”
“Treason,” Din replied.
“Of which my head would pay the price,” you agreed.
“They’re after both the kid and me,” Din began, bringing a leather covered finger out to the kid slowly. He rubbed off a splash of soup upon the kid’s cheek. “I never expected for this to happen,” he added your name at the end in a soft tone that makes your heart hurt.
This is Din—your Din. Maker, you can hardly believe it’s been so long.
“He’s just a baby,” his voice gets softer the more he looks at his little eyes and massive eyes. “A foundling, just like me. In some ways, we’re the same,”
“Yeah, he looks like just you,” you let out, amused smile sneaking onto your lips as you catch Din turn towards you. His shoulders slump slightly and his chest bobs subtly; he’s laughing, silently laughing beneath his helmet.
“Saints, maybe I missed you,” Din let out. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms as you let out a long breath.
“Get used to it,” you said. “It won’t be long until I’m dead and buried,”
That comfortable but sad silence flutters over the table once more, as you try hard to accept your fate while enjoying the kid playing with his food. Din fiddles with his thumbs in a way where he thinks you can’t see, but you can definitely see.
He’s nervous, and he’s thinking, trying desperately to conjure up some plan that keeps all three of you alive until you can get off of the Empire’s radar.
A near impossible task—
For anyone else but yourself and the Mandalorian.
“Come with us,” he settles on finally.
You almost jump out of your chair. “Do you lose brain cells from wearing that fucking helmet all day or something?”
“I mean it,” Din cemented it, turning towards you in his chair once more. “It’s not just the only option, but it’s a good one,”
“I thought you were supposed to be smart, Din—,”
“I can’t think of anything that makes more sense than you, me and the kid being on the run together,” you stop in your tracks. The way he says it makes you believe that he’s right. He’s crazy, utterly deranged for even offering it to you, but maybe there’s a small part of that statement that’s correct.
“We can get jobs anywhere, even in hunting country. We can keep ourselves afloat,”
“And keep the kid safe,” you add.
“You already have a desire to protect him now, too, don’t you?” he questions. All you can do is nod, looking at him guiltily from lack of what to answer. He’s right—some strange feeling washed over you the moment the kid looked into your eyes. It was like he knew you, knew your thoughts, your feelings, and more.
Maybe he’d come to you because he knew that you and Din were from each other’s past.
But no—that really would be crazy.
“Come with us,” he repeats, and you find yourself clamping your eyes shut.
“I don’t know, Din,” you say painfully, bobbing your leg anxiously and balling your fists to keep yourself grounded.
Din shuffles in his seat, only to place his fingers over yours the next moment. You gasp as you realised, he’d tugged off the leather that covered his hands. His bare skin touching yours fills you with a feeling you hadn’t had in over ten years—familiarity, a softness reserved only for friends and family.
You hadn’t had friends for years, hadn’t had family for even longer. And now, like a spiralling TIE falling through deep space, Din catapulted back into your life in the strangest of ways.
You forced yourself to look up into his chrome visor, trying desperately to develop x-ray vision so you could see his face beneath. Maker, just seeing his eyes would be enough.
“I’ll never get to see your face? Ever again, for the rest of my life?”
Putting it that way, out loud, almost made your heart break in two. The one person you see again from your past, and you’re not able to lay your forehead against his own. Not able to see the eyes that saw the same destruction you did. Not able to hear the voice that would probably sound like music to your ears after so long away from it.
“This is The Way,” Din finally replied, his voice hollower and shallower and filled with something so gut-wrenching that not even his modulator would have been able to cover it up. His fingers squeeze your palm as he settles upon those words, as if he’s delivering some kind of silent apology.
But still—even after it all, after going through all the terms—
“Okay,” you said. “Three against the Empire,”
IIII
Three Months Later
The darksaber fits in his palm as if it was made for him. That’s what pisses off Bo Katan the most, you can see it just from looking at her bony face. But she can’t do anything about it; she can’t fight him to the death. Not now, maybe not ever.
The darksaber had slipped through her fingertips once more, forevermore.
Maker, you were secretly glad about it.
The ship is eerily silent as the battle comes to a close, but it’s even more eery because of the oncoming footsteps from a stranger that had connected his ship to join yours. The kid stirs in Din’s arms excitedly, and for a second you wonder if he knows who is approaching—
Until you look on the security screens.
“Din,” you let out, swallowing down your heart as you see it clearly. “That’s a lightsaber—he just tore those troopers apart as if it was nothing,”
Din stays glued to his spot, fiddling with Grogu’s ears softly.
He knows time has run out. All of these months spent searching, trying everything in his power to find a Jedi to train and protect the kid; his own kind; the drip has finally stopped.
You move back to stand at his side as the Jedi tearing through troopers continues on their journey to the bridge. It’s minutes now, maybe even just seconds, until they arrive. It’s as if you can hear the seconds counting down within Din’s head.
You frown as you turn to him, standing before the doorway where the Jedi will appear any minute. Slowly, you place your hands on his forearms. The Beskar is cold, as it always his, but you secretly indulge in touching him like this.
Have since you started travelling with him and the kid; the tiniest brush of clothes as he passes you to the Crest’s fucking tiny fresher; the subtle glimpses of bare skin after he gets himself shot or stabbed or, Maker forbid, decides to shower.
But this—you can feel how vulnerable he is, despite still being covered in armour.
“Look at me,” you say, because you know his eyes are stuck on the kid right now. When you feel his stare hit you, you continue. “You did it. You got him home. You saved him,”
“I know,” he replies, but it’s so sad sounding that you can barely hold it together.
The mechanical whir of the bridge lift arriving is enough to make you flinch. Maker, you know you have to accept this but you don’t want to. You don’t want to say goodbye to the kid, not after the months you’ve had.
The best months of your life. Next to the kid, next to him.
Din leans into you then, upon seeing the sadness all of your face. Gently, he plops the kid down in your arms, just as the doors open behind you. You can’t look, not while he’s in your arms and your heart is beating relentlessly and you’re fighting off the inevitable tears from your eyes.
Din places his hands on your shoulders, holding you close, despite addressing the man before him. “Are you a Jedi?” he asks.
He nods. It’s enough. Any person would know that he was a Jedi, even without verbal confirmation. You let out a inescapable sob as you clutch the kid close, burying your head downwards to rest your cheek upon the top of his wrinkly head.
Grogu gurgles in your arms; the sound alone makes you let out a wracking sob.
“Will you keep him safe?” Din asks again, just to stall for time. He doesn’t want this to end, the same as you.
He nods again. It’s over.
You go to move, to carry Grogu over to the Jedi, but Din stops you by squeezing your arms. “Wait,” he says. You stand still, heart grasping as your ribs. Grogu’s eyes never leave Din as he slowly inches his fingers towards the lip of his helmet.
When he starts tugging it off, you panic. You panic so hard that you hardly know what to do, but after your brain finishes short-circuiting, you stap your free hand over your eyes and keep them there. You keep them there so flush that you wouldn’t be surprised if your fingers nails impaled the skin by your temple.
You feel the kid move in your arms—finally, he sees his father, his guardian, his adoptive parent. You imagine it as such; Din’s leaning down so the kid can get a better look at his face, and Grogu’s already memorising the colour of his eyes and the slant of his chin and the crow’s feet around his eyes. He’s memorising it as fast as he can because he knows this is a one time thing.
Maybe you imagine it that way because you wish it was you.
You’re breathing heavily when a leather gloved hand pries the fingers from over your eyes. Maker, you stupidly clamp your eyes shut immediately. Despite every fibre of your body wanting to look, to see your old friend in the flesh for, probably the only time you’ll ever be able to for the rest of your life—you still keep them shut.
This is The Way.
Din says your name softly, and you almost crumble. He says it a few times, as his voice rings out around you and for once, you can hear the tone and the softness and all the familiar things that came alongside his voice as a child.
When you open your eyes, you let out a breath that can only mean relief.
He’s crying, so are you, and his eyes are so glassy and the deep hazel that you can remember so well. Here, they shine so bright that you can see specs within them, but if you were to look at his face elsewhere, they might look as dark as the shadows that he hides within. The stubble on his chin juts out in salt and pepper flecks, sitting upon his chin ruggedly and shaping his jaw attractively.
“Maker,” you let out, not blinking once while your eyes scour across his face. “It’s you,”
Din doesn’t reply, not even when Grogu lifts his small green hand to rest upon his cheek. Your eyes fill with tears as you look at the exchange, and you can’t help but copy the little gremlin by raising your own fingers to the other side. Din sucks in a sharp breath, but he doesn’t make any other indication for you to stop.
He lays his over the top of your own, circling his hand over your knuckles rhythmically. He likes it.
You think he’s going to put the helmet back on when he places Grogu on the ground. You think he’s going to as the two of you watch the kid shuffle in his little sack until he reaches the Jedi by the door. You think he’s going to when the Jedi picks up the kid in his arms and nods with a finality that can only mean one—
This is goodbye. This is the end.
Instead, he grabs hold of you hand so hard that you can feel his pulse beneath his flesh. You lean into his body, bringing your other hand to wrap around his Beskar clad forearm. His helmet still dangles from his opposing hand, just waiting to return to its rightful place.
When the Jedi steps back into the lift, you step forward instinctively, letting out a sharp breath. Din pulls you back, pressing you into his chest and raising his arm to drape around your shoulders while you both watch the gremlin wave in goodbye.
You laugh painfully, throat close to closing. “Goodbye, kid,” you let out, croaking through the syllables as each sound hurts your soul to actually speak.
And then he leaves. The doors whir closed, and the Jedi exits the way he came, through the debris of his fight against the troopers until he jumps back through his ship airlock and flies away to whatever planet he resides on.
Maker, your entire body hurts like it’s been tortured by the Empire.
It has. It has and it hurts more than that.
Din’s the first to face you as silence creeps back onto the bridge. You forget Bo and the others are even there, focusing everything you’d got left on the man before you. Because, Maker, he’s just a man. Always has been, always will be.
Even if you can’t follow the lines of his nose or scratch at his stubble or hear the sweetness of his real laugh—
But now, for these seconds, these minutes if you’re lucky, you get to see him.
“You saved him,” you repeat, not knowing which words to form from the thousands that you wish you could say to him in this moment. Din tugs off his glove quickly, by clutching it between his teeth and pulling, before placing his bare palm against your cheek.
“And you saved me,” he adds, and you relish in the way he sounds. You’re already shaking your head before he’s finished his sentence.
“No,” you say strongly, pressing yourself further into him. “I wouldn’t be here without you,”
“And I,” he says, while he gently swipes his hand across your cheek to your temple. He pushes a strand of hair behind your ear softly. Your entire body shivers involuntarily. “Wouldn’t be here without you either. You could have killed me,”
Maker, it makes you laugh. You scoff so abruptly that you’re embarrassed by it, but there’s nothing you can do to hide.
“I guess you owe me your life,” you joke.
“What ever will I do to repay you?” Din retaliates, and you can’t believe how much he’s enjoying this moment, despite it probably scaring the shit out of him. You can’t imagine how vulnerable he feels, but you can’t see the fear on his face either—
All you can see is your face reflected in his eyes and your fingers resting next to his jaw, thumb swiping along the edge in the hopes that it would cut through your skin, just so you could quip about his sharp as razors jaw in future.
All you can feel is his hand pressed against your cheek, his body close to yours despite how cold his Beskar feels from the outside, his eyes scattering across your face as if he’s also seeing you for the first time.
Maybe he is, not being behind a helmet screen.
“Never leave,” you say in response, too encased in him to even think about how needy or corny or bad it could have sounded. Din smiles, and your heart plummets into your gut.
“I don’t need to make a promise for something that I’m already going to do,” he says. “Pick something real,”
The words come from some uncovered part of your brain that you’ve been beating relentlessly for three months. “Kiss me,”
You think he’s going to stop, going to pull away and slot the Beskar back over his head immediately, but he does exactly as you instruct—
He slots his lips upon yours without hesitating. Bringing his hand to the base of your neck, he cradles your head fondly as you sink so hard into his embrace that you’re not sure you’ll be able to return.
He smells metallic, like the metal that he wears, and like petrol, from the fuel he pumps into the Razor Crest. They’re smells you like, so you don’t care, but mostly you like them because it’s Din. It’s Din, who was ready to murder everyone who wronged him after the kid was stolen and the Crest was blown up—
It’s Din, who didn’t even hesitate placing his lips against yours when you asked.
It’s Din, who’s face you’re memorising so fast because you know he’s going to put that helmet back on any second now.
You make it easier for him, as your slide your fingers down his other forearm until you reach the fingers that are holding his helmet. He lets you pry it from his fingers, deepening the kiss when he knows what you’re about to do.
He sucks in a sharp breath, inhaling you the way you’re inhaling him back, as you raise the helmet into the air line it up with the crown of his head.
“This won’t be the only time,” he breathes out softly, answering the burning question in your brain without you even needing to ask. You let out an upset scoff, not bothering to wipe away your tears as you slowly start to inch the helmet back over his face.
“I’ll be waiting,” you let out, trying not to stumble over your shaking words.
The Mandalorian stares at you bluntly, his chrome visor tilted down to your level, his hands still wrapped around you tightly. Din is beneath all those layers, lips that you’d just kissed and eyes that you’d just poured your soul to.
This won’t be the last time you see him.
And the next time you did, you’ll welcome him home all the same.