Work Text:
The bounty was non-violent, Karga had promised him, handing over the puck for a bail-jumper. Easy money— not a huge payout, but enough to keep the kid fed for a few more weeks.
But Din knows better than to take a job at face value, so he’s ready when the so-called ‘non-violent’ Nikto pulls a blaster on him. He’s less ready for the two additional thugs that jump him from behind, but he’s taken on larger numbers and come out on top before.
His assailants are hot-headed and persistent, though they lack any true fighting skill—the swinging of their fists are wild, uncoordinated and desperate. Din's main concern though, is the child hidden in his carry-bag beneath his cloak.
There was an initial squeal of surprise from Grogu when the first thug had landed on Din from behind, but he’s been silent since, whether out of fear or for… another reason, Din doesn’t have the capacity to stop and check, too caught up in keeping any of his attackers’ blows from landing.
In his efforts to keep the kid as far as possible from the action, he takes an unlucky hit from the blaster. The bolt sears across the bottom edge of his armour, the beskar protecting him from the worst of it, but the shot still packs a punch.
It sends Din sprawling, curling protectively around the kid to shield him from the fall. There’s another squeak from within his cloak as he goes down.
The thugs are on him before he can regain his breath.
Din flings out his left arm, activating the flame thrower, driving back the Niktos and giving himself space to stand—his ribs protesting fiercely. The flames die down and Din uses the confusion to subdue the first Nikto, then the second.
The third scrambles for the blaster that had been dropped in the fray. Din kicks the weapon away, unholstering his own before the Nikto can straighten.
“Don’t move.” The blaster stays trained on the fugitive as he stiffens, hands coming up in surrender.
With his free hand, Din tosses over a pair of cuffs. They land in the dirt at the thugs feet.
“Put them on.” He orders, nodding towards the cuffs. When the Nikto makes no move to collect them, Din shrugs. “They never specified how to bring you in,” he says, priming the blaster.
“Wait.” The Nikto reaches for the cuffs, snapping them on over his own wrists. “I'll come quietly.”
Stepping back, Din gestures for his bounty to move ahead of him and they start the walk back to the ship. His ribs ache with each step, but until he gets the bounty on the ship, and preferably frozen in carbonite, they’ll have to wait.
As they walk, Din chances a glance down at the kid who is now peaking up out of the carry-bag. With his free hand, Din reaches down to stroke one of the kid’s fuzzy green ears and murmurs soft reassurances.
Once on board the ship, the bail-jumper balks at the sight of the carbonite freezer, but a good hard shove sends him tumbling into the receptacle and moments later the Nikto is no longer an issue.
Letting out a long sigh that jars his throbbing ribs, Din heads for the sleeping compartment and deposits Grogu on the bed.
“You okay?” He asks, carefully checking the kid over for any sign of injury after the fight.
Grogu sits through the assessment without fuss. Somehow, he managed to escape without a single bruise or scrape, but he’s quiet and withdrawn. Din swallows down the guilt of putting the kid into this situation. It never should have happened.
“I’m sorry, kiddo,” he says quietly, stripping off his gloves. The kid wraps one of his clawed hands around Din’s finger, tugging insistently. His other hand reaches for the scorchmarked armour. “I’m okay,” Din is quick to reassure him. “Let’s get out of here, then we’ll take a look, okay?”
He doesn’t want to linger in the one spot in case the Nikto’s friends come looking for them.
Picking Grogu up, Din tucks him, out of habit, into the crook of his left arm. The kid’s not heavy, but the added pressure against his side has Din grimacing beneath the helmet. He quickly switches the kid across to his right arm and carries him towards the cockpit.
By the time he’s climbed up the ladder to the cockpit and buckled the kid into his chair, Din’s whole left side is on fire. The kid squirms in his chair, reaching for Din and managing to snag a handful of fabric near the injury.
“Cut it out,” Din warns, but there’s no heat in it— the kid just wants to help. He gently pries Grogu’s fingers open. “I’m fine, nothing a bacta patch or two won’t fix.”
He moves to the pilot chair and starts flicking switches to warm up the thrusters. The ship hums to life beneath him and a weight lifts from his shoulders as they take off, getting lighter and lighter the further they get from the planet. Finally, Din programs the nav system to take them back to Nevarro.
Engaging the autopilot, he turns to Grogu.
“Okay kid, let’s do this.”
“Ba.”
The trip back down the ladder is harder than the one up. Din’s stiffened up in the thirty minutes it’s taken to pilot the ship and his whole left side protests as he climbs down the ladder one slow rung at a time.
The ship has a small galley. It’s not much more than a sink, a conservator and a nanowave but the bench is nice and high, and Din can set Grogu down without bending over. With the kid watching over the proceedings, Din starts unbuckling clasps and removing his armour.
There is a streak of carbon scoring across the bottom of his chest plate that follows the trajectory of the blaster strike. It’ll clean off easy enough, so Din sets that piece to the side to wipe down later. Next, he removes his vambraces and pauldrons, handing one of the pauldrons over to the kid to keep him occupied and distract him from his attempts to heal Din.
It works. The kid catches his reflection in the shiny surface and holds the beskar up, laughing at the distorted shapes his face makes across the curved metal.
With the kid’s attention elsewhere, Din turns his to the long, ragged hole singed into the side of his coveralls. The sink underneath is red and inflamed, but overall, the burn doesn’t look too bad. The armour had taken the brunt of the shot, saving Din from having a hole blown in his side.
Stripping out of the top half of his suit is the hardest part as he twists to free his left arm from its sleeve. From the way the movement jars and steals his breath, Din suspects at the very least he has a cracked rib, though whether it’s from the initial shot or from the awkward landing, he couldn’t say.
His left side is a patchwork of mottled bruising. It’s darkest around the bruise and fades out towards his stomach.
“Ba.” Grogu looks up from his makeshift toy, reaching out to press his hand against the bruise.
“None of that,” Din tells him, wincing under his helmet. “It’s not that bad.” He gently moves the kid’s hand and rummages around in one of the cupboards looking for the medikit. There should be a couple of bacta patches left over from the run in he’d had with a couple of Klantoonian’s on Tatooine a few months back.
“Ba!”
“Not happening, kid.” Retrieving the medikit, Din drops it on the counter. “Remember the last time you tried to heal someone?”
The kid tilts his head to the side.
“You slept an entire day.”
Opening the medikit, Din checks the contents. He doesn’t bother with the medisensor, knowing whether or not his ribs are cracked isn’t going to make a difference to the treatment. All he really needs is something to cover the burn and keep it from getting infected while it heals.
The bacta patches are a little expired, but even expired they’re better than nothing, so Din carefully applies two across the length of the burn and closes the medikit.
Throughout the entire process, Grogu watches him carefully, filling the silence with some of the new sounds he’s started using.
“See, all better,” Din says, carefully slipping his arms back into his sleeves and refastening his suit. He doesn’t reattach his armour, it’ll take at least twenty-four hours to return to Nevarro to collect the reward on the bounty and sleeping later is going to be hard enough without the extra weight sitting on his chest.
Grogu waddles up to the edge of the bench, reaching out to be picked up. Din obliges, scooping the kid up in his right arm and walking around to the conservator to find them something to eat.
The kid’s perked up a bit since returning to the ship, smiling and reaching for the food Din sets down on the counter. He munches happily on a strip of dried meat Din hands him to keep him busy while he throws together something that might resemble a proper meal.
Din’s own appetite is gone. He can’t stomach the thought of food while still stewing in the guilt of what might have happened.
He shouldn’t have taken the kid on a hunt, but until Grogu moves past the separation anxiety, what choice does Din have? They need the credits. They need to eat.
It’s been almost a month since the moff’s defeat. Grogu needs to learn that Din won’t always be around, but that’s okay because he will always come back for him.
Always.