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They haven't talked about it.
It's been three weeks and neither of them have brought it up. Din doesn't know what he's feeling more: relief or disappointment.
Relief, because he had been emotionally reacting on instinct when he had made the decision to remove his helmet — something he doesn’t take lightly. He isn’t sure what he would say, should Corin bring it up.
Disappointment, in himself. He’d asked Corin not to speak in that moment and he had the silence then, but failed to explain that he didn’t have to remain silent about it. Corin hasn’t brought up the moment again, and why would he? It was a show of trust that night, and he was respecting it.
A hush falls over the ship sometime after Corin worked on getting the kid to sleep and Din had mapped out a route to an out-of-the-way moon, the autopilot idling. It feels unnerving to just sit there, his hands empty and aching. They itch for something to do, so he makes his way down the ladder to the deck below.
He pushes in the access code rougher than necessary and the armory door swings open; it’s been a while since he’s had his hands deep within the intricacies of his weapons. After a moment of contemplation, he cleans off a table and fixes a cloth over it. Din lets out a sigh and begins to take various guns and parts down from the top rack, double-checking that each one was still disarmed the way he had left them. He moves weapons onto the fabric and with cleaning fluid and a stained rag armed to his person, he sits down on the stool and gets to work. Phasers are tricky to work with and clean, but his hands are gentle as he presses into grooves and tight corners.
The quiet, meditative work makes it all too easy for him to think, however. He thinks about Nevarro and the Clan that took him in. To have an aliit, a family, of his own has become an increasingly strong desire since taking the Child in. He has been unable to keep away from the kid; those bright, inquisitive eyes, so full of trust. They spoke to him on levels beyond what he could have begun to fathom; the tiny three-fingered hands that grip on his clothes like his life depended on it; the little cooing vocalizations, once a minor annoyance and now a source of comfort. Somehow, the Child has become an integral part of his life.
And Corin...Corin confuses every part of his being. The longing within him for aliit intensifies every time he sees him and it’s getting increasingly difficult to crush the need down.
He aggressively polishes the barrel of his pulse rifle as his thoughts continue to drift to Corin. He lets his thoughts go where they please - from recalling the first time Corin had touched his bare wrist, to the man’s infuriating habit of throwing himself into danger. He comes to a realization while recalling the feel of the ex-trooper’s hands on his face: Corin really hasn’t said anything about that moment since it happened.
He hadn’t allowed Corin to speak in that moment; Din had been afraid to hear what he would say back to him when he took off his helmet and it ended the same way. Having his hands and his face freed after so long abiding to the Creed he had been taught, but not by the truthful one, had been overwhelming. He hadn’t felt the touch of another on his skin since the day his parents had died. It had been too much.
Why would he not say anything? Removing his helmet had been a monumental thing to him and it had felt so right. It still did. For the most part. Did Corin know that? Understand the intent? It wasn’t like he had taken the time to talk to him after he had left to tend to the Child.
Maybe he’s just been reading the whole situation wrong.
He doesn’t notice that the number of weapons that needed to be cleaned has lessened until he reaches the last piece; it causes him to hover. The itch for something to fidget with is still there, and Din groans in frustration, his hands rolling into fists.
He finishes off his task, failing to not nitpick over the already cleaned weapons to find another distraction. He’s reluctantly proud of his job well done when he can’t spot one flaw in his work, but he’s disappointed that he’s out of things to shine.
The stool creaks as Din gets up to put the weapons away. He realizes that the armory has...seen better days. Soot and unidentifiable biological material cake up in the grooves and crevices of the old ship’s flooring and walls. He gets ahold of the rag again, rubbing it against the surface of the armory walls only to make a face when several layers come away with it. It invigorates him to wipe the whole damn thing now.
Haar’chak , he curses internally, when was the last time I cleaned this?
It takes pressure for him to wipe down to something that looked almost metallic again, and he finds himself grunting when he realizes he has to do the whole thing now to completion. It’s not like he has anything else to do before they reach the moon though, so he sets to work. He gets about a quarter of the way through when the rag becomes too filthy to keep using and a new one is sorely needed.
Din looks at it absently as it sits in his hand, throwing it in the direction of the disposal shoot and heading over to the supply storage. He halts in his steps as the door slides open.
Etyc!
Din curls his lip in derision as he stares down at the absolute mess on the floor and the shelves on the wall.
Have I neglected my ship that badly? Has this ran unnoticed by them for this long? No more of this , he decides with finality.
He finds the rags quickly -- they had been discarded on the floor nearest the door. He grabs the wad, knowing full well he will need more than just one to make it through his entire task.
----
It takes four more rags to be rendered useless for the armory wall to have its full metallic sheen back and half of a rag for the hooks that the weapons had rested on, to be in the same state. He puts his weapons up in their correct locations with only minor adjustments to the placement he’d made the first time around. Satisfied with himself, he nods as he pulls the doors shut. He winces when the hinges squeak but forces himself to not think about it. Din had other things that required his attention more so, like the way his skin crawled.
He feels considerably warm for the work he has just done; his armor is insufferably close to his skin now, smudged beyond belief. It doesn’t take much thought for him to start removing pieces of the armor.
Din starts with the vambraces and leaves his gloves on in the process. He then begins to move up his arms; the pauldrons go onto the fabric on the table next, then the thigh and shin guards follow in close pursuit. When the cuirass comes off last he can finally take a proper breath and his chest can distend. His armor will always be his home, his anchor of being, but it doesn't make it any less constricting at times.
Din stretches his arms out and rolls his neck to relieve the tension that had built up in his shoulders. He sits down on the stool again, its groan morose.
Settling into this new task, his mind once again begins to wander. How could he even begin to bring this up to Corin? Talking about these types of things wasn’t exactly something he was accustomed to. Hell, he wasn’t even sure about these things to begin with. He knows that there are unwritten rules and customs that are learned in hushed tones and behind closed doors, but he wasn’t born into the Mandalorian way of life.
He knew the importance of wearing the armor; it was one of Resol'nare, the Six Actions. It was disgraceful for your helmet to be removed by an enemy or rival, or for you to remove it in front of someone else. He had never even seen the faces of his caretakers when had been taken in by the Death Watch. They were a clan whose members never revealed their faces to anyone after they were given their first buy'ce as a rite of passage into adulthood at the age of thirteen. It was their way or no way, and Din had stood by the rules of their teachings until he was old enough to know different.
By now, however, the threat of being deemed dar’manda for the removal of his helmet for anyone was too ingrained in him. Din had learned from the covert’s armorer that among other clans, it was okay for families to see the faces of their loved ones. It would take time for him to become comfortable with the notion, but he is determined to try. If not for himself, then the kid. And Corin.
A thought occurs to him and he pauses for a moment, staring vacantly at the vambrace he was polishing. There was no way to determine when the Child would be of age, given the drastically different way his species aged. Din is secretly grateful for this, as he cannot imagine covering those bright inquisitive eyes and curious fingers, never to see them again.
He banishes the thought as quickly as it came; to not raise his child as mando'ade was to break one of the Resol'nare . Perhaps it was best that he had not yet officially claimed the child as his own.
That thought leads to a deep ache in his chest and he stubbornly pushes the pain aside and gets back to polishing the pauldron in his hands. It’s hard for him to stop thinking entirely in the soft rumble of the ship, so he lets his mind drift to more pleasant things, at least.
He recalls how Corin’s hands felt against his face; how the rough texture of his hands spoke of the hardships he worked under for years. He recalls faintly trembling as Corin swept his thumbs over his growing stubble.
The way he had to tilt his head up just slightly for their foreheads to meet properly -- it wasn’t something he had really thought about before this moment.
The way he had held both of his hands, his pulse quick and staggering as Corin’s hitching breaths hit his bare skin in barely contained huffs. He wished he had his own eyes open, that he had watched Corin's face and expressions. He hadn’t pulled away and didn’t seem like he had any intention to until Din had become too overwhelmed with sensation and pulled away. He almost regrets it now, but he knows that any longer would’ve been too much for him to handle.
Din has an intense need to know how Corin felt about that moment. How he might feel about it now. His hands pick up speed in their wiping motions against his armor as he tries to figure out how to even begin asking him about how he felt. Would that be too intrusive ? Until he has some sort of answer, whether direct or indirect, however, he cannot bring himself to remove his helmet again-- Not even under the same circumstances as the first time.There was too much at stake. But he knew the longer this was drawn out, the more doubt Corin was inclined to feel after the way he had pulled back so abruptly.
He sighs at the impasse he has put himself in. He can't move forward, but he also can't take his past actions back. Not that he even wants to take them back. Definitely not.
Ni mirsh solus.
Wishing he were better at non-life or death communication, he briefly recalls Cara's comment regarding his blunt way of addressing the village's plight on Sorgan. He groans, knowing well the smirk and teasing comments Cara would be making if she saw him now.
The Beskar cuirass shines back at him accusingly as he polishes it for the second time in a row, and he sighs in defeat. Determination flowing through him, he puts the pieces of his armor back on in record time before making his way to the sleeping area; his adrenaline spikes when he notices that Corin and the Child are not there. Din wavers at the sight, looking at the twisted blankets as if they were offending him by being empty.
He climbs up the ladder and again pauses when he makes it to the top. Taking in the sight before him, his anxious energy fizzles away as warm relief floods his chest. Corin is reclined in the pilot chair, soft snores pouring out of him as the Child lays sprawled out on top of his chest, deeply asleep. One large hand rests gently, protectively, across the little one's back.
Din wonders how they got back up here without him noticing, as he’d been the last one up there.
Not wanting to wake the two up, he turns to go back down the ladder, but his heavy footfalls have already caused the other man to shift in his sleep. As he slowly comes to, Corin looks soft and sleep-weary, his eyes opened but unfocused.
Din stiffens slightly when he realizes he’s just standing there staring at him.
He breaks his silence with the first thing that comes to mind. “When we land on the planet, we’re burning the ship.”
Corin blinks up at him blearily and responds with a muffled yawn, “Okay.”
It takes a second or two, but Din watches as Corin reconsiders what he said. His eyes are wide when they cut back to him. “Wait, what?”
Holding back an amused snort, he replies, “Go to bed. You’ll hurt your neck.” Leaving no room for answers, Din stalks right back down the ladder.
He can hear the Child coo as he departs and he has to fight himself to keep from turning back around.
----
It’s a day and a half before the ship reaches its destination: Giawei. It’s more...watery than he had expected it to be. There are sparse scatterings of trees at his chosen landing site, but it was largely all...sand. And water. He can hear Corin sigh from behind him, and Din quirks his eyebrow at the noise. He’ll have to find out whatever that was about at some point, but for now he focuses on taking the ship off autopilot and beginning their descent to the surface. It’s just a tad rough breaking through the atmosphere, and the Child squeals in glee even as their landing leaves something to be desired.
“What happened there?” Corin unbuckles himself, rubbing at the back of his head as he stands up. Din can’t help but stare at the way his hand rubs down his neck before snapping himself back into focus.
He stands as well, passing him, “Razor Crest is an old ship. She’s doing her best.”
Din heads down first to open the walkup, allowing fresh air into the ship as Corin follows with the Child in tow. Din turns to face him, presenting him with a broom and a small, thick-bristle brush.
Confusion etches Corin’s face as he sets the kid down, his head cocked as he asks, “What are you…?”
Putting them directly into his hands, he states, “We’re cleaning. I told you that the other day.”
He blinks, staring at the tools in his hands, “Oh! I thought I imagined that…must have, since I thought you said we were going to burn the ship?”
“I have spoken.”
“I didn’t say no!”
“Good.”
“Good!” Corin looks at him in mock contempt, sticking his tongue out before pausing, “Wait.”
Din looks back at him questioningly and he continues, “Where do I start?”
He leads him to the walls of the main living area of the ship, demonstrating quickly how filthy the walls were from the grime and he says simply, “Start here.”
Leaving Corin to his own devices as the man stares at the wall in trepidation, he decides to start making headway on the supply storage. He didn’t want it to get bad enough that they could not reach anything inside of it, especially when something in particular was needed in an emergency. He figures it's also a good time to take stock of their meager supplies.
He starts by the door as he can’t get any further than that without having to step over something, and begins throwing the items he deems trash or scraps into a pile.
Din completely empties off one wall of shelving and cleans the surfaces thoroughly of dust that had collected over time. He’s methodical as he puts items back up where they were prior, checking expiration dates on disposable items and food. The pile of disposable goods gets up a little too high for his liking, so he makes a mental note that they need to pick up supplies at their next stop with a town.
---
Some time passes and Din finds a beat-up crate that he only vaguely remembers seeing, though he cannot recall where or when. Frowning slightly, he cracks open the lid, then huffs out a breath at the contents.
Omera must have snuck the box on the cart when he left the little village on Sorgan. There are a few pouches of dried krill -- the kid will be delighted , he thinks -- a few bottles of spotchka, blankets and clothing for the kid, one of Winta's toys, and a small bundle of precious paper.
Gingerly, the Mandalorian picks up the papers and shuffles through them. There are a handful of drawings done by both Winta and the kid, along with what appear to be letters addressed to “ my friend " in a child's messy scrawl. Chest tight, Din carefully places the papers back in the box, letters unread. They were for the kid and he doesn't feel he has the right to intrude on his privacy, infant or no.
Shifting the items in the box a little more, Din finds a stash of raw textiles and a well-stocked sewing kit. Canvas, krill-blue dyed linens, impossibly fine yarns -- all materials the village would not have parted with lightly. Again, he feels something in his chest tighten and ache. Had he a choice, and if he was honest with himself, he probably would have stayed on Sorgan.
But then you would not have met Corin, his thoughts whisper to him, leaving the ache in his chest to spike painfully.
Worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth, Din decides to pull out the sturdy canvas and linen along with the sewing kit.
About time I put together a sling to carry the Child in, isn’t it?
Decided, he sets the items down so they were not out of his sight and he would remember to grab them after he finished his current task.
His determination to get the cleaning done so he could move on to his next project is steadfast. He moves to clean off the rest of the storage in the room and places items not meant to be on the floor onto the shelves. The crate from Sorgan is a little too big to fit on or under the shelving, so he leaves it be, promising himself that he’d show the kid at some point. The actual cleaning that needs to be done in the room isn’t all that much. Its contents were just in sore need of being organized.
He manages to get several boxes empty as he finishes the shelves and he looks at all the items he needs to throw out with uncontained disgust. Disgust with himself for not doing this sooner. Had he really collected so much junk since the Jawas stripped his ship bare? Or was it merely that he has had less time than usual to tidy things up until now?
The room is so much easier to walk in, especially since the shelves were able to lock items in place to avoid them getting knocked around during space travel. Din moves the discarded junk into the empty boxes and lines them up against the door so it’s easy to toss them out later.
He picks up the fabric and sewing kit before his eyes sweep across the room with finality and nods. He could stand walking into this room now. Exiting the supply storage, he walks back into the room that Corin was working in.
He stops in his tracks almost immediately upon seeing the other man. He is still cleaning the walls, a lot of the metal paneling already cleaned to its former shine. However…
He looks around to find Corin’s shirt discarded on the table before looking back at the man himself. He takes in the toned muscles of his back, unable to help himself. His skin is sunkissed from their time on desert planets, freckles dusting his shoulders and down his back before disappearing into the bodysuit tied low on his hips. Sweat makes his skin shine in the poor lighting. Corin’s past as an ex-trooper is written in pale scars; they litter his skin, caused by sharp-edged weapons and blasters hitting through his shitty old armor. None of them are new besides the few scrapes he got a month back, thank the stars for that . At least, none on his back; Din can clearly imagine the starburst scarring on his abdomen.
Corin turns around as if sensing him, pushing back sweat-slicked hair before he grins, “How does it look?”
Din can’t seem to take his eyes off of him, utterly speechless as he tries to keep his eyes on his face. Instead, he gets distracted by the way Corin's damp hair curls along his neck and around his ears, the faint trace of crows feet at the corners of his eyes that only appear when he smiles.
Din's death grip on the cloth is unnecessary, but grounding. Because... stars save him.
“Mando?” Corin's grin falters, but he fights valiantly to keep it in place.
Din snaps out of it and forces his eyes away, clearing his throat to not sound terse, “It looks--it looks good. Keep it up.”
The man was going to be the death of him.
The Child appears from...somewhere, and starts to stumble down the boarding ramp. Din takes that as his only chance of escape, following right after him and leaving Corin to his own devices once more.
The star near this planet is beginning its slow descent, so he sets his sewing kit and fabric on the sand near the ship and starts off towards a patch of green grass. The Child follows inquisitively and he keeps a close eye on him. When Din starts to pick up fallen twigs and sticks, the little one follows his actions by picking up loose leaves and other foliage.
Din smiles back at him gently as the Child stumbles with ease over big rocks and sticks in his way.
Going back towards the ship, he double-checks that the Child can still easily follow him. He then drops the sticks as he kneels down and begins to dig a hole to make a pit. The Child puts the leaves next to the sticks before looking between him and the spot of sand he was digging into.
The kid’s eyes close in a familiar way and Din’s motions come to a halt as he watches a tiny hand raise and twist. Particles of sand slowly began to lift and float straight up before coalescing into a turbulent ball as the amount of sand increases. He doesn’t say a thing as the pit reaches an ideal size, watching as one dark eye pops open in concentration and the hand pushes away . The sand moves with it, maybe a bit too forcefully. It shoots off into the near distance and the Child gurgles and does a little wiggle.
Din can’t help his uncontained smile this time, either, and he's gentle as he pats his shoulder with the palm of his hand, “Good job, ad’ika . Let’s make a firepit, okay? Want to help me find some rocks?”
He chirps up at him and Din takes that as a yes and stands up only to let the Child walk ahead of him. They go back into the green foliage to find enough dry rocks to encircle the pit. This time the rocks were too heavy for the kid to carry a few at a time, so every time he finds one perfect for their pit, he holds it up for Din to carry. He ends up carrying every single one of them, including the small ones he was sure the kid just wanted to play with.
When they come back to the pit, the little one helps him set it up by rolling the rocks over to the edges of the circle as Din places the sticks inside in a high pile. He’ll have to go back to grab another armful, but they’d grabbed a decent amount to begin with. It was a long process, but they have a proper fire pit now. He dusts off his gloves on his pants and helps the child do the same with his hands.
Din looks at him in consideration. “Close your eyes, ad’ika .”
The Child pouts at the order, but does what he was asked. At least for a moment. He sees the way his eyes start attempting to open a little.
“What did I say?”
He squeaks at being caught, his eyes squeezing together tightly now. Din’s flamethrower flicks open as he fires out a quick spray at the pile of wood in the center and when it’s closed again, he says, “ Jate . You can open your eyes now.”
The Child opens his eyes one at a time and tentatively coos, mesmerized by the fire flickering gold and red. His little hands begin to reach out towards the warmth, but he looks up at Din one more time.
He nods for him to go on ahead. “Just don’t touch it. It’s... copikla , but it stings. Yeah?”
His adiik nods in understanding, plopping right down on the coarse sand. He stands up and leaves him to it as he trusts that he’ll know better than to try touching the fire now.
He walks past Corin on his way back to the supply storage. Studiously doing his best to ignore him the moment he sees the shine of sweat on his skin, he grabs the blankets and towels from the place where he’d left them. On his way out, he moves past Corin again just as quickly as he had the first time. Once to the boarding ramp, he lets out the breath he was holding and sees that the Child is still sitting where he had left him, unmoved.
As he draws closer, long ears twitch at the sound of his boots thumping against sand. He puts the pile of blankets down before taking them one by one and refolding them into sizable squares for each of them. When he attempts to give the Child his own to sit on, he chirps comfortably with his eyes shut, content with where he's already sitting. Din smiles and sets the blanket next to him.
With the help of his helmet, he picks up on soft footfalls padding down the boarding ramp and he tenses slightly as he turns to look. He relaxes almost immediately when he sees that Corin has put his white tank top back on; he’s relieved that he no longer needs to carefully keep his eyes away from him with every waking thought. It was getting difficult to keep training his eyes away when all he wants to do is look at him.
It is a mild annoyance here, but if it continues to be an issue, he might have a problem. They’re being hunted by too many dangerous people right now to be able to afford such distractions. He wants Corin, and the kid, safe. Not dead.
Hearing a drawling whistle, he turns to look at Corin fully as the man places his hands on his hips, “Nice work,” he says, taking in the firepit and blanket pads.
Din nods, “Yeah, the kid helped out.”
One of his eyebrows twitch upward. “He did?” He leans closer. “Really?” he asks, a teasing tone in his voice.
An indignant chirp makes them part from their closeness, and Din looks down to see the Child squinting at Corin. “He helped plenty. Made the pit, in fact.”
Corin crouches down, grinning, and Din backs away a bit to give them space. “You did a great job, kid.”
He gets a chirp and a few flicks of the Child’s long ears in response. Corin’s face lights up in surprise when he also hears a soft rumble.
“Wha-,” He looks around before looking at the Child mock accusingly, “Was that you? Are you hungry?”
The Child reaches both hands out towards Corin as if wishing to be picked up, so he says in return, “I take that as a yes.” He looks up at Din, “Do you know what we…?”
Din cuts in, his voice terse from watching the scene before him, but he manages to sound mostly normal. “I’ll go look. I’m sure there’s something I could make for all of us. Do you mind keeping him entertained?”
Corin grins between both Din and the Child respectively before picking the little one up as he stands. “How ‘bout we go stick our feet in the water, huh? I bet it feels nice.”
Glad his helmet contains the expressions on his face, Din turns away to go back up the boarding ramp before he can watch any more of their interactions. He digs through their communal kitchenette area, placing any items he deems usable and not expired on the table for his consideration. He goes through the supply storage as well, snatching up a few untouched Mandalorian spices he’s been itching to use for a while now.
Din wonders how Corin would react to spicy food, if he even likes it at all. An idea forms in his mind, and he reminds himself to make part of it less spicy for the Child’s limited palette of...raw and usually amphibian meats. He grabs items off the table that he knows are usable for what he wants to make now, and heads back down. He finds Corin with his pant legs cuffed almost to his knees, and the Child with his robe rolled up just enough to show his tiny legs and three-toed feet.
It’s tempting to just stand there and watch them play in the gently rolling waves, but Din submerges that thought somewhere deep, heading back over to the fire pit. He fixes the discarded sewing kit on top of his seat so he won’t forget about it, and begins to make a traditional Mandalorian dish. He’s probably a little heavy-handed with the spices, but it’s what he ate and adjusted to as a foundling. The casserole starts to look appetizing once he gets all the ingredients in and the smell of spices filter through his helmet, making his own stomach rumble.
It’s peaceful for only a moment before Corin yelps loud enough to hear from a distance, “No, no, don’t eat tha-...Okay. Eat that... fish , I guess.”
Din looks back just in time to see the Child swallow the tail of what was probably a respectably large fish. He huffs out a resigned chuckle and stirs the contents of the metal pot every few moments before deciding to sit down. Picking up the sewing box and the uncut fabrics, he settles into work. He looks between fabrics to find the one better suited for the sling and begins sketching out a pattern with a piece of charcoal.
----
"Hey, Mando?"
Din grunts but doesn't look up from the fabric he is carefully cutting.
Corin takes the sound as an indication to continue from where he's standing. "When are we going to stop going to desert worlds?"
Din rolls his eyes. "This isn't a desert planet, Corin. There's an ocean right there." He makes a lazy gesture towards the gently rolling waves.
"Yeah, but. Sand. Can we at least stop going to places covered in the stuff? I don't know how you stand it."
Corin's voice sounds closer and Din looks up to see him struggling with the kid, who is dangling from Corin's bare forearm, his little feet kicking in the air. He giggles every time Corin brushes his other hand against him, knocking sand out of the copious folds of his now damp robes.
Din smiles before containing it as quick as it came; he was getting soft. Then he clears his throat, checking his tone as to not sound too sentimental and says, "I wouldn't bother dusting the kid off right now. We're going to be here a while."
They still needed to refill their water tanks -- the filtration system would handle the salts and minerals -- and restock on food. The moon wasn't home to many settlers, which suited them fine, but Din figures that means they'd do their own hunting while they stayed here. Their clothes and linens needed to be cleaned, too.
Really, they're all convenient excuses for the fact that Din just needs a break. As do Corin and the kid.
"There might be some lightweight clothes made for the kid in one of the storage boxes, though," Din continues. "I thought I saw some amongst the supplies a--," he pauses for a split second, trying to figure out what word he wants, "a friend sent along with us a while back. It’s all in a crate, back in the supply storage." He focuses intently on his project, acutely aware of Corin's curious gaze.
The kid coos interestedly.
Corin swings the Child into his arms and holds him to his chest. “Okay, little one. Let’s go see if we can find you something to wear that won’t collect as much sand, yeah?” The Child’s babble fades away as the two make their way into the ship.
After he finishes cutting the fabric and begins to piece the parts of the sling together, Din quickly runs into a problem. While the bone needle Omera had given him was sharp and sturdy, it was much too delicate for his thickly gloved hands. When he had to do any sort of repairs that required sewing in the past, he'd been alone; he had gotten used to sewing without his gloves on. He flexes his hands now, feeling just how much the gloves constrict his movement from doing what he needs them to.
He pauses for a moment before taking a deep breath and unbuckling the clasps on his gloves. He pulls them off, rubbing his bare fingers together, relishing the feeling of the cool breeze on his skin. He gets back to work and loses himself once more to the rhythm of the stitching. The trembling of his hands is almost nonexistent against his intense focus, concentrating loosely on where he bridges the needle with each row to make sure they were even and sturdy.
The thread leaves something to be desired, and he finds himself wishing he’d thought about getting Beskar thread made the last time he had sparse amounts left that couldn’t be used for full armor pieces. He makes a mental note to get some the next time it comes up as payment for a bounty.
His mind drifts with the easy flow of threading bone needle into cloth, and he recalls the way Corin reacted to seeing that the planet contained mostly sandy shores like their past few stops.
He wonders if Corin just isn’t a big fan of planets on the hotter side. He had been stationed as a snow trooper, after all. Had it been a choice or an order? With the way he tends to huff every time they begin to land and he sees sand drifts, he hopes that it is the first one. Din will have to sit down and actually talk to him about it when he gets the chance to ask without feeling like his heart is stuck in his throat.
He reconsiders that idea, wondering if Corin would even admit to not liking their past stops. He can only imagine seeing the Child react to seeing proper snow for the first time without the threat of being caught hanging over their heads. He smiles and is a little surprised at just how much he wants to see that uncontained wonder. Din can picture the Child light up in delight as Corin shows him how to create a figure out of snow.
He decides that their next few destinations should have a variety of different planetary conditions just to see how the other man reacts. Was it the heat of the desert he disliked or just the sand? Would being somewhere cold again make him happy? He had no preference for where they made their stops, as his armor could brave most weather conditions and he had always went where the bounties led him. Maybe he doesn’t have to seek out icy planets in particular, he considers, but ones with noticeable winters that they could stay for.
Din hears small feet shuffle down the boarding ramp and heavy ones following quickly after as Corin attempts to get the kid to stop moving.
“Wait, wait! It’s on backward!”
He can tell the exact moment that Corin notices something different by the way his footsteps falter. Din tries not to tense his hands up at being noticed so quickly. His gloves are right there and more than tempting to grab and shove back on, but he quells the urge. He wouldn’t be able to get any work done if he puts them back on now, anyway. So he resists the self-conscious feeling and stomps the urge back down.
Corin doesn’t say anything about his hands, but instead asks, “What do you think?”
Din stops moving the needle and tilts his head in his direction to see the kid squirming in front of him, loose teal linen clothes hanging from his tiny frame. He nods. The kid would have to adjust to the new feeling, but it would be worth it.
“It looks to be his size,” Din says before asking, “Did he put up much of a fight?”
He gets an eye roll in response from Corin and the Child waves his now freed arms around.
“I almost gave up when his ears wouldn’t go through the neck hole, but the kid got the idea and flattened his ears for me. Anyways,” He clears his throat as he lifts up a few familiar trinkets. “I found some stuff for the kid in the crate, I figured I could...teach him some stuff while we’re here. I tried to let him read one of the letters but he didn’t quite understand it. Plus I...think it’ll mean more to him if he can read it himself.”
Din’s quiet as Corin speaks about the letters before nodding. “That sounds like a plan. He’s a smart adiik . He'll catch on quickly.”
“ Adiik ?” Corin sounds out. “What’s that mean? If it’s alright for me to know, of course.”
Looking at his bare hands, Din says, “It means child in Mando’a. I don’t...feel comfortable calling him anything else, besides that and well, the kid.”
He needs a name, he thinks to himself, but I don’t want to impose him with one that he does not want.
Din doesn’t say it out loud, not wanting to sound so vulnerable in front of both of them.
The Child makes grabbing motions at the items in Corin’s hands. The former 'trooper still seems lost in thought before he visibly shakes it off and hands the little toys to him. Corin sits down on the blanket square that he’d made for him and grabs a piece of driftwood for the both of them. The child plays with the wooden toys for a few moments and Din takes that chance to stir both halves of the meal to check their progress. When the child gets bored, he sets down the toys and looks up at Corin inquisitively.
The smile Corin directs towards the little one is so tender that it makes Din’s stomach flip. The other man hands the child the smaller piece of driftwood, taking the time to teach him how to hold it in his three-fingered grip.
Asking him just to see if he gets the idea, Corin goes, “Do you know what my name is?”
The child chirps, slapping the stick against the sand before finding the right pressure to push around a bunch of lines and swirls.
"No, no. Like this, " Corin says, amusement coloring his tone. He sets the kid on his lap and leans forward slightly before scratching something out in the sand.
"See? C-O-R-I-N," he says, dragging out the sound of his name while writing out each character.
The Child coos and claps his tiny hands together, and then squirms his way back out of Corin's grasp. He uses the small stick with both of his hands, babbling away in his little voice, the stick still comically large in his hands.
Din chuckles softly as the kid awkwardly maneuvers the stick in the sand. He can’t see what he’s writing from his current vantage point, so he moves a little closer. The kid stops his scratching and steps back to look at his handiwork, his head cocked to the side and ears perked forward.
“Aahhdi,” he says solemnly. His ears twitch and he looks up at Din before throwing his arms up in triumph and exclaiming, "Aahhdiii!"
Corin looks over the kid's work.
"It's a good start, I suppose," he says graciously.
Din looks at the wobbly, incomprehensible lines in the sand with a raised eyebrow. "Nice work, ad’ika ." To Corin, he says, "I've been working on a birikad. It's a harness of sorts; like a sling for carrying small children. I need you to try it on with the kid." He gestures with his head in the direction of his blanket pad where he had left the sling.
Corin scrambles up to grab the bundle of fabric, the giggling kid clutched to his chest and Din turns back to the pot, giving each side a stir to check the consistency. A sharp noise, like an intake of breath, briefly catches his attention. It doesn’t register to him as a sound of panic or pain, however, so he manages to stay calm and keep to his task.
"Hey, this doesn't fit half bad." Din looks up a few minutes later to see Corin making his way closer while fumbling with the various straps and ties. The Child is resting snuggly against his chest, his little arm reaching up in an attempt to touch Corin’s jaw.
Din hums and leaves the pots alone to go help him get the straps correct. “Let’s see what we’ve got…” When he puts a hand on the skin near Corin’s collarbone and shoulder to shift him for a better lighting angle, the other man’s posture immediately stiffens. Din draws his hand back, wondering what--
Oh, right.
Corin is staring at the hand that touched him. The bare hand. Din flexes his fingers self-consciously and Corin shakes his head slightly before saying, “Oh, yeah. You...uh, forgot these...by the sling. Here.”
He pulls out Din’s gloves from where he had stashed them in his pockets, thrusting them in Din’s direction.
“I was going to give them back to you before but then I got distracted by the sling and…” he then trails off, biting his lower lip as he gently runs a finger along the top of the kid’s head and causing his green forehead to wrinkle.
Din considers the gloves in Corin’s outstretched hand. There really wasn’t any reason for him to keep them off at this point. Any adjustments the sling might need wouldn’t require the precision of needle and thread.
He takes the gloves, turning them around in his hands. He could put them back on, but…
Looking up from the gloves and directly at Corin, who is still looking at the gloves, Din deliberately tucks them into his belt. He watches as Corin’s brows begin to furrow in confusion before his eyes go wide and he looks up at him, gaze searching.
“Thanks,” Din says, feeling reckless.
His eyes slide down to trace the bob of Corin’s Adam’s apple as he takes an almost audible swallow.
He reaches out his hand again, but hesitates before moving forward. “Is this alright? I’ll have to touch you to make adjustments for the sling.”
It takes a moment for Corin’s reply to come, long enough that Din’s almost worried that it won’t. “Y-yeah,” he manages, quietly.
Din steels himself this time, the needle and thread in his free hand while he checks for loose ends on the straps. They feel sturdy as he loops his fingers underneath them to check the threading. That’s what worried him the most, as unsupported straps never bodes well for long term use. He’ll have to add reinforcements several more times for his own comfort.
His hands move down to Corin’s lower back now, and he takes a few steps to position himself correctly. Corin’s shoulders look unnecessarily tense, and he taps his fingers against him.
Corin jumps slightly at the touch, looking at him bewildered as Din says, “Can you relax your shoulders for me?”
He quickly nods in response, “Y-yeah! Sorry, I was..uh, thinking.”
Din doesn’t ask about what, sure that it’s none of his business to know. He uses the small knife tucked into his boot to cut away at threads that were too long and poking out. For now, it would just have to be tied up to be used until they come across a more populated planet. Having a sewing kit draws out the desire to fix up clothes for the kid and mend Corin’s old ones that weren’t totally beyond repair or bloodied.
He can feel Corin shake when he drags warm fingers against the fabric, but he just assumes that he’s distracting the kid. Careful not to waste thread with his quick fixes, he just tells himself to remember to flatten the fabric later so it won’t budge from where he wants it to lay.
Din turns Corin to face him directly, and the kid watches with big eyes as the helmet comes into his view and his smile turns big as his little legs kick from the holes they were stuck in. His smile is soft in return from his crouched over position and he tucks in loose fabric that’s coming from the leg holes. He’ll have to stitch the hem up to make a nice shape for it, but that’ll be easy to remember to do. Din will have to do it for the part supporting his neck and arms as well.
He stands up and gives Corin a look over as he asks him, “How does it feel?”
Corin blinks back in response before shaking his head as he looks down at the kid, “It feels...sturdy. Like he’s not just going to drop out of it while we’re walking. It’ll be good for when he doesn’t want to be in the pram all day.”
Din nods at that, but he asks again, “How does it feel for you?”
The former trooper looks a little stunned at the question when it’s asked, and his mouth opens and closes several times, “It’s...it’s good. I like the way it doesn’t really rub up on me weird and it’s breathable. I can see myself wearing this plenty in the future. Where did you learn to sew?”
He shrugs his shoulders in response, glad that Corin likes it for himself, too. “I’m used to mending my own armor and clothes, so the muscle memory never really fades for me. I can’t fix boots though. Those can go in the trash when they start to wear down.”
Corin chuckles and he doesn’t quite understand why; it wasn’t really a joke.
The sling has reached a good start and he’s certain he’ll do more adjustments so both of them can use it comfortably. Din’s hesitant to take his hands away, but there really isn't any reason for him to continue touching Corin. And anyway, the Child is sniffing the air intently while squirming to get down.
The spices are strong in the air now and he realizes that the casserole must be fully cooked by now. He walks back over to the firepit to check the pot hanging over it and stirs one last time to confirm. There’s no way he can crisp the top of the casserole without burning it, so he leaves it alone. Din goes back up the ship briefly only to come back with plates and utensils for them to use.
Din sits down on his pad as he begins to scoop out the casserole. Corin has taken off the sling by now, all gentle hands and care for the kid, who's staring intently at the food. He sits down as well, after putting the Child on his own seat.
Din pauses. “How do you like spicy food?” He should’ve asked what Corin likes to eat before this, but it’s a bit too late now.
Corin blinks. "I, um, like it well enough, I suppose? I've had the occasionally spicy meal, though it was rare to get anything but bland rations as a 'trooper."
Din grins wolfishly and chuckles, wishing for once that his helmet didn't hide his reaction. From the way that Corin's expression turns wary, however, it would appear that he was able to pick up at least some of his mood.
Taking the pot off of the open fire, Din sets it down on the rocks gently to give it a final look over. He starts to talk, almost in spite of himself. “This is called tiingilar . The Mando’a are...infamous for their love of spices and I grew up on it. We had some krill in our supply storage, so I added that in for protein.” He begins to plate the spicy and mild meals separately, passing them to Corin and the Child respectively. “ Ad’ika , it’s too hot still. Don’t eat it yet, okay?”
He gets an affirmative chirp in response and he looks at Corin to see that his wary expression has increased tenfold as he has taken in the aroma of the meal. Din adds, scooping a bit of the tiingilar onto a spoon, “It’s good. It’s just good at clearing out your sinuses, as well.” He holds the spoon out to Corin.
Corin squints his eyes towards him for that comment and eyes the spoon, but he opens his mouth and lets Din feed him. He takes the spoonful completely, holding onto the spoon himself as Din lets go of it, not quite believing he had fed Corin with his own spoon.
Corin twists the spoon around to press the flat of his tongue against the crevice in the spoon. It takes only a beat for him to react after removing the spoon, his eyes encased in a glossy sheen as his nose begins to wrinkle. His neck contracts as he seems to be holding in a cough, so Din asks, “Are you okay?” as he gently takes his spoon back from Corin’s lax hand.
“Oh,” A cough sputters out from between his lips as his face reddens, “Oh, I’m s-so fine. T-totally.”
Din winces, “Too much? I only made enough mild portion for the Child…”
He looks over to find the kid sticking his finger in his portion of tiingilar , licking it and making an unsatisfied expression. Din’s face falls to see that he didn’t enjoy it and is, in fact, pushing it away. The little one gets up, and to his surprise, takes Corin’s plate up from under his nose. He plops back down on his spot and with an unsteady grip, he holds his utensil to pick up a scoop of the casserole and brings it to his mouth. Long, green ears perk up visibly as he ditches the utensil to hold up the plate instead. He lifts it up over his head and tips a fair bit of the contents over into his mouth.
Din watches as the Child consumes it by the cheek full and mindfully ignores the pride curling around in his stomach at how easily he’s taking to the food. Corin still looks entirely red in the face and puffy, so Din hands him the plate that the kid neglected.
Corin’s voice is hoarse, but he manages a strained, “Thanks.”
He scarfs the casserole down like a dying man after tentatively checking it for spices, and Din can’t help but be happy that both of them seem to like a meal from his culture. He’s mindful of his own platter, careful not to draw attention to it as he just soaks up the warmth of the fire and the light of the distant planet fading behind clouds.
Corin’s a messier eater than the Child, he comes to realize. It didn’t hit him at once, of course, but he’s looking between the kid tentatively picking up bites of casserole and consuming them whole whereas...Din almost wants to scold him for how he eats his food. He eats the tiingilar as if it was going to be his last meal. It gets on the corners of his mouth as he uses his fingers as the kid does, both of them neglecting the given utensils.
Heathens.
Din doesn’t mind all that much before his gaze zeros in on the way Corin presses the pad of his finger against his tongue to get the sauce off, his eyes partially closed. He does it with his middle finger and thumb as well, and Din can’t keep himself from watching. Corin’s tongue peeks out between his lips to swipe the corners clean and Din recalls the way he used the spoon earlier when he had him try the more spicy one, his hand swiping his mouth entirely.
He blinks out of his daze with a jolt when the Child lets out a solid burp and Corin lets out a genuine bout of laughter at the suddenness of it.
“What was that? I didn’t even know you had that in you, kid!” Corin chortles, bopping the little one’s nose gently to make him giggle, “Come on now, let’s go…”
He stands up and quickly brushes sand off of his still bare calves as he reaches a hand out to him, “Want to play in the water before it’s time for bed?”
When the Child stands up to take his hand and be picked up by the ex-trooper, Din takes it as his cue to start cleaning up. With relief, he moves into a crouching position as he stacks the plates up, impressed by how clean the Child’s plate is. He keeps his plate separate, steam no longer emitting from it, and he looks up at the sound of water being splashed around.
Corin has the child imitating him pat the water to create their own waves and getting all wet in the process. He’s transfixed by the moment, watching them bond, until he sees the way Corin’s shirt has began to ride up and he can see skin through white material an-
Din stops himself and quickly puts the plates inside the pot and holds his separately as he goes up the boarding ramp. His face feels warm and he’s not sure how much he could’ve watched out there had he stayed. He puts the dishes in the kitchenette before making a beeline to the supply storage, placing his plate on one of the metal crates.
He presses his hands into the latches of his helmet as the door shuts and Din breathes out into unfiltered air. The warmth of it might be gone, but the scent of the spices still remained and he could just smell home. Home is his armor, but he misses the culture, the people, when he goes months without.
Knowing that he can’t just take his time to eat, Din eats in big bites, still trying to savor each one as he swallows them down. The bites are few in number, but it’s still enough to leave him filled for the day. He thinks about the day in all, Corin’s smiles and the Child’s giggles, and he can’t help the way his eyes crinkle and he smiles to himself before taking a deep breath. The helmet comes back on with a snap and a hiss and he rolls his shoulders back before grabbing the empty plate and walking back out to the kitchenette.
He can still hear their laughter out by the water, and he begins to run the water over the plates. Din savors the feeling of ice-cold water hitting his fingers and he starts washing the few dishes they had in the sink. Once they were done, he walks back down to rejoin them, being careful not to look at Corin directly. He stokes the flames as they roar weakly, adding the rest of the wood that they had collected earlier.
----
The Child falls asleep not long after the meal is eaten and cleaned up. After wrapping him in his cloak and settling him inside the makeshift pram he had made a while back, Din can't help but gently caress the kid's tiny forehead with his ungloved hand. The Child sighs contentedly before burrowing deeper into the cloak. Din smiles softly, tracing his fingers down the length of the long, velvety soft ear; it twitches slightly when Din removes his fingers with a sigh.
Looking up, he catches sight of Corin on the other side of the fire. He's studiously poking the ground with one of the sticks him and the kid were using earlier. The lines of his body are tense and coiled, and he's angled in such a way that Din gets the impression he is actively looking away from him.
Din looks down at the Child again, contemplatively. He knows he's not great with other people -- life alone spent hunting down others would do that to a person. Though, Din suspects he'd have troubles with others regardless of his chosen path. Still. It bothers him to know that something he has done, or continues to do, seems to be keeping Corin from feeling like he belongs on the Razor Crest.
Absently tapping his fingers on the edges of the pram, he looks back up to see Corin scuffing his foot along the sand, erasing whatever he had been writing. Recalling the earlier lesson and his scattered thoughts from a few days ago, he comes to a decision.
Steeling himself with a deep breath, he gives the pram a final pat before striding purposefully around the fire towards Corin.
The other man startles slightly at his approach -- and that doesn't leave Din hurt, it doesn't .
"Hey, what--" Corin starts to say before watching as Din stoops down to grab one of the longer pieces of driftwood lying around.
He pauses for a moment, thoughts racing, before he starts writing. His hand trembles slightly and he hopes the flickering of the fire hides that from Corin.
D
Din's name is the only thing he has left from his parents and early childhood other than jagged nightmares full of fear and anguish and soft, barely there memories of gentle words and loving smiles.
It wasn't an uncommon thing for an orphan of war to take on a new name that distanced them from their past. What was unusual, however, was for a child to refuse a name altogether when he wouldn’t touch his former, either.
I
His guardian knew his name upon his adoption into the clan but respected that Din rather go unnamed than have memories dredged up every time it was used. The covert's armorer knows it, as it is her job as leader and record keeper to know all. Paz knows it, too, from them growing up together as foundlings. And even though Din finds him to be a bit of an ass, he appreciates that Paz respects his boundaries regarding the use of his name.
N
Din takes a step back and waits. He hasn't shared his name with anyone in decades, now. He resolutely ignores the slight churning of his stomach, clenching his hands into fists in a futile attempt to ease their tremors. He watches as Corin moves so he can better see what was written; watches as his brow furrows and his head cocks slightly to the side as he silently sounds out the simple word.
Din shivers.
Out loud and with some uncertainty: "Din?"
He knew Corin would say it. But knowing that and actually hearing his name spoken out loud are two entirely different things. He closes his eyes and lets in a shuddering breath. He hadn't realized the effect hearing his name said by another would have on him. Especially when that person was Corin. It’s been years since he’s even said his own name, and even longer since he’s even wanted to it from someone else.
"Din," Corin says, this time with more confidence in his pronunciation. "What's it mean?" He looks up, curiosity lighting his features before he frowns and takes a step toward him. "Hey, are you okay?"
Din gives himself a mental shake as he takes a step back in response. "It's my name," he says softly. And damn him if there wasn't a half dozen or more emotions threaded through that simple statement. He’s conflicted and his hands threaten to shake more than ever before, but he tries to quell his rising anxiety over what he has just done.
Corin blinks at him before he lets out a quiet exhalation. " Oh. " He looks back down at the three characters with intense focus before kneeling. With deliberate strokes of his hands, Corin very carefully sweeps Din's name away. He sweeps the letters away one by one, giving individual attention to all three as nature takes the word back.
So fixated on the way Corin seems to caress each letter, Din nearly misses the way he breathes out a soft, "Thank you."
He looks up and, despite the helmet, somehow manages to meet Din's eyes with his own. They're alight with sincerity and gratitude and Din is hit with an intense desire to hear Corin say his name again, this time knowing its significance.
As if reading his mind, Corin smiles crookedly before standing. He regards Din for a moment, eyes darting across the sharp features of the helmet; the intensity of his gaze is so strong that Din feels vulnerable, as though he might as well be helmetless; like he’s being looked right through.
"Din," he says a third time, softly. "It suits you." Din is too busy trying to keep his own emotions in check to parse out the weight Corin puts behind the words. His breath catches and his heart stutters.
He wants to hear it again.
This is going to be a problem.