Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Jedi's back is turned, exposed, and of course this is why Bo-Katan shoots him.

He was such a fool.

A terrible scream draws itself out of him as the Jedi sways. He launches himself forward, terror clawing at his throat, and draws his gloved hands tight about the man's shoulders, scrabbling at his cloak. Please, he prays to whoever is listening, please let my son be safe.

He wrests the Jedi to the ground with one hand, scrabbling for his helmet on the polished floor with the other. The astromech shrieks and chitters nearby, creeping towards its master, but he shoves it off (perhaps a little too aggressively). Grogu squirms and babbles in the Force-user's arms - he must have instinctively held the child tighter, even despite the new wound gaping at his hip.

He pulls his helmet back on in one decisive stroke - leans over the Jedi lying on his side, checking for vitals. Bo-Katan's bolt hit him just below the waist, far enough to the right that it hit him dead on instead of merely grazing him. He is still breathing, but his eyes are shut and his face is screwed up in pain. Grogu wriggles from his grasp and crawls to Din, desperately, clutching at his armor feebly. His heart aches for his son. He scoops him up immediately and holds him close, cupping the back of his tiny head with his palm.

Only then does he turn to Bo-Katan - finding her, to his surprise, already splayed out on the deck, red hair askew. Cara and Fennec have made do with her and the other one, starting to drag their bodies, heavy with sleep, over to join the Moff.

His frenzied breathing slows. He loosens his grip on Grogu a little, sinks to the floor.

Cara tucks Koska's feet gently under one of the consoles, and then looks up at Din. His shoulders heave. He wishes more than anything that she could see now for her own eyes his gratitude, writ plain on his face.

She seems to feel it anyway - sends him a small smile before nodding towards the Jedi. "He okay?" she asks.

Din settles back on his haunches, peers down at the fallen Knight. He, too, is unconscious now, his breaths coming brittle and fast. He is shivering; his face is anguished. The blaster wound still sizzles, smokes at his back. It has yet to bleed. His droid whines nearby - melancholic and morose, like it can feel its owner's pain.

"Is," Din starts. The word dies in his throat, choked and tortured. He cannot believe this happened, after how hard, how long he fought for his son to finally have a teacher...

Grogu coos tiredly in his arms, like he can sense his distress. He clears his throat and forces himself to say, "Is there a medbay...?"

Cara comes now, stands what would be unbearably close, under normal circumstances. He cannot bring himself to care now.

"Of course," she says gently, like she is speaking to a small, tired child. Din feels like one. His body aches: his armor is the only thing keeping him from falling apart, into thousands of tiny little pieces. He feels he may never be put back together again. He suspects Cara may sense this, as she takes one of her large, comforting hands and rests it powerfully on his shoulder, reeling him in. He holds Grogu closer, pressing his little head to his shoulder.

"I'll find the nearest one," Fennec calls from across the bridge, stationed at one of the computers.

"Is he okay?" Cara asks, nodding now to the near-asleep Grogu in his arms. He can hardly keep his eyes open.

"He needs rest," Din breathes out shakily. "Food, too, probably. If we could find - if -"

"Can I take him to a mess hall?" Cara says, impossibly gentle. "We can go together if you want. I won't -"

"The Jedi," Din grates out. "I'll get - I'll - take care of the Jedi. You can - I trust you, Cara."

He hands the baby over to her, and she holds him so delicately, he thinks he might cry. Her gentleness, more than her brute force, is needed now by him and his son more than ever before.

"We'll find him something good to eat," she says, smiling sweetly, "and then we'll have a lie-down. I won't let him out of my sight, Mando, I promise you."

She takes her leave. Din returns his attention to the Jedi on the floor. He is afraid to touch him - especially in front of the droid, he can feel its uncompromising iron gaze upon him even now. He dares not violate this stranger's unspoken boundaries. But he must carry him to the medbay.

"I can come with you," Fennec offers, tentative and shy - like she is afraid he'll shoot her.

"No," he says, panickedly, a little too much emphasis on the word. "Can - we can't leave them" - he jerks his head towards their newfound prisoners - "here alone. They might..."

Fennec nods furiously, as if she's mad at her own mistake. "I'll take care of them," she tells him, and then pulls up a holomap on one of the consoles. "The medbay's here."

He looks, but barely sees. He'll find it eventually. She helps him heave the Jedi up onto his back, careful to avoid his injury, and sees him to the door. The astromech follows tentatively.

"I'll keep an eye out for Boba," she says. "He should be coming back for me soon. I'll comm you when I receive contact." The awkwardness hangs thick in the air now, the cloud of adrenaline about them finally fading. She clears her throat and ducks her head, like she's afraid of making eye contact with him.

"Fennec," he says, as sincerely as he can. "Thank you."

She looks at him like she's searching for his eyes beneath his heavy visor, then nods. He can ask for nothing more.

He hoists the Jedi a little more securely, his body slung about his shoulders, and looks over at the droid.

"Come on," he says to it, and sets off in search of the medbay.

It's not far; Fennec had the foresight to switch on the illuminated sign etched in Basic above the door so he can find where it is. He nearly trips over the mess of what remains of the Dark Troopers outside the blast doors, but manages to regain his footing and step carefully between their mangled limbs. He feels goosebumps prickle at his skin as he shuffles down the hallway, careful not to knock the Jedi's limp body against anything as he goes. The star destroyer is too quiet, save for the eerie, garbled mumbling of what sounds like a protocol droid a few levels down. The R2 unit follows in his shadow, gliding along quietly on its rollers down the dark corridor.

He stumbles a little at the door, but catches himself before he loses hold of the man on his back. He is surprised the Jedi's stayed unconscious through all of this. Perhaps he's in some sort of... meditative state, like Grogu was on Tython. Reaching out for other Jedi, perhaps. Searching for help.

I will help you, Din promises him, says quietly to himself. I will protect you so you can teach my son the ways of the Force.

He lugs the man into the medbay and pauses for a moment, gaining his bearings and letting his eyes adjust to the sudden, sterile brightness of the room after the darkness of the claustrophobic hallway. The droid sails in behind him, beeping and whistling softly.

It feels sickly in the worst sense. The stench of some godforsaken chemical meets his nose immediately, makes his eyes water even through the seal of his helmet. He flinches and blinks - hopes whatever the smell is isn't inconveniently toxic to the Jedi. He has no idea where he hails from, nor what sorcerers in particular are susceptible to.

The room is too clean, too bare. He finds a button on the wall and presses it, standing back as an exam table slides out of the off-white paneling and comes to a halt at waist height. His back groans its relief as he slides the Jedi onto the counter as carefully as he can. He props him up on his side, so as to avoid disturbing the wound, and keeps a tentative hand on the man's chest to prevent him falling down onto the floor.

He isn't quite sure how to go about this. It feels almost as if he is violating this man, desecrating a sacred space, given his unconsciousness. He wonders if there's anything he can wake him up with in the medical stock - a stimulant of some kind, perhaps...

Din moves his gloved hand, brings it down - applies gentle pressure to the man's hip to keep him stationary - and reaches with the other up into the cabinets above. He is dimly aware of the sleeping medical droid in the corner that could help find what he's looking for, but doesn't trust an Imperial bot as far as he can throw it, "nurse" or not. Who knows what the droid will do to a disheveled, haggard-looking stranger once awoken? And, well, maybe the R2 could wake it, quell it, override its systems and reprogram it somehow...

He thinks of the loyalty of droids: the sincerity he has encountered, the eagerness to please he has found in ones like IG-11. He knows this one is true to its Jedi master, seems almost to care for him.

But he cannot trust. Not yet. They are both still strangers to him, the Jedi and his helper, no matter their affiliations. He doesn't know the Jedi had no plans to kill him, once he realized what - or who - stood in the way of collecting Grogu. It would be naïve to let his guard down, assume otherwise - even when something compels him to give this man his complete and utter confidence - has conveyed to Din the Jedi's honesty since the moment their eyes first met.

Din shakes himself. Now is not the time - not when his hand still rests so closely at the Jedi's waist.

The overhead shelves are barren: almost as if the supplies have been taken away, in preparation for their arrival. He daren't move to look elsewhere - he could drop the Jedi - but...

"Right," he announces - out loud, for the room's overall benefit. "Um."

He grips the man's shoulder as gently as he can, shakes him a little.

"Jedi," he says quietly. "Wake up."

The wizard stirs a little, his brow furrowing slightly in his sleep. He must hear Din.

"Jedi," he says, louder, more pronounced now. "Come on, you've gotta let me help you. Get up."

More movement - a tiny, tired noise, but the eyes stay closed. He is afraid of damaging the Jedi further; feels he cannot touch the Jedi's face. He cannot be allowed this most intimate of acts with someone he has only just barely met. Has not even had the chance, really, to properly meet.

He takes a step back, bows his head. He closes his eyes, hears the droid's head swiveling as it surveys the scene. How ridiculous he must look: a Mandalorian bowed at the bedside of a Jedi. But he pushes this from his mind.

Let me help you, he thinks, pouring all of his focus into the words. His hand rests on the Jedi's cloaked arm. Please.

For a terrible, long moment, nothing but the faint buzzing of drowsing medical equipment fills his ears.

And then the Jedi comes to with an awful gasp, like all the air's been sucked out of him. He jolts and swings upright, slipping instinctively into a defensive stance, his legs hanging off the bed and meeting the floor -

"No," Din says, gruffly, and moves forward to catch him. The sorcerer wheezes as he collides with Din's armored chest, his eyes wild and wide and blue, all semblance of recognition lost. It takes a while for him to realize who the Mandalorian is, but Din keeps his grip on the Jedi's arms steady and firm as his heavy breathing abates. The droid chitters anxiously, edges forward - but Din holds out a hand, motions for it to stay back - is glad when it obeys.

"Where," the Jedi croaks, voice weak, "where's Grogu?"

"He's safe," Din tells him, "he's eating. Or sleeping. He's with my friend."

"Is he -"

"Yes, he's alright."

The Jedi swallows heavily, nods a little frantically. Din feels the panic, radiating off him in waves, begin to quell.

"Can you sit up by yourself?" he asks. "Do you need - ?"

"I'm okay," the Jedi mutters, waving him off. For the first time since he's woken up, he seems to realize there's a gaping hole in his side, and presses a hand to the wound, his features twisted in pain. The astromech rushes to its master and babbles excitedly as soon as Din moves away.

"Hey, Artoo," says the Force-wielder. He pats the droid's domed head and smiles fondly (if a little weary), like he's reuniting with an old friend.

Din eyes him for a second, his hands hovering a bit, before moving away and making his way over to the cupboards on the opposite wall.

He searches the entire room, finds nothing. There are a few bandages and salves tucked at the back of a single, tiny drawer, but no bacta gel like he had hoped, prayed.

"What are you looking for?" the Jedi asks him weakly.

"Bacta," he says - a little shorter than he'd meant for it to come out. His frustration is getting to him. "But there's nothing."

"Artoo, help him, will you?" the Jedi asks. The astromech beeps joyously and moves immediately to the meddroid holed up in the corner.

"Don't wake it up," Din barks, panickedly - just as Artoo plugs into the robot's mainframe port at the back of its head with a loud click.

The Jedi looks at him curiously. "Not a fan of droids, are you?"

Din clenches and unclenches his fists awkwardly, unsure of what to say. It is too soon, much too early to pour his heart out to this man, explain the underlying fear and grief - but he cannot stay silent. He settles on, "Not the biggest, no," and then turns swiftly back to the cabinets, ducking down to retrieve the gauze from within and avoid the subject as politely as he can.

"I get that," the Jedi says. The sound of his voice moves a little behind Din - he must be shifting around on the table. "I, uh, never caught your name, by the way."

Din stands, turns back to face him. "Didn't get yours, either."

The other man smiles, small and sheepish. "That's because I, um, didn't think to give it," he explains. His droid must say something snide to him from across the room, then, because it chooses this moment to start chattering outlandishly, and it brings a wonderfully warm blush to the Jedi's cheeks. "Shut up, Artoo," he says, but he's still grinning anyway.

Din's heart stutters a little under all his beskar.

"I'm Luke," the Jedi tells him, seemingly oblivious to the effect his smile has on the man opposite him. "Luke Skywalker."

He pauses, like he's waiting to see what reply this will elicit. His eyes are very, very blue, like no sky Din's ever seen before. He thinks he could lose himself in a horizon like this.

"Nice to meet you," he says slowly, remembering it is his turn to reply. His grip on the fabric in his hands is maybe a little too tight.

This seems to have been the right response: Luke rewards him with another of those smiles that tears at Din's chest. Din closes his gaping mouth, is glad the Jedi cannot see his face beneath his helmet. At least, he hopes. He still isn't quite sure exactly how this Force thing works.

"What can I call you?" Luke asks, a little grin tucked in the corner of his mouth. He's surprisingly cheery for a man who just recently had a blaster bolt run clean through his torso.

"Oh," Din says - eloquently, definitely not distractedly. "Uh. Mando's fine."

Luke frowns for a moment, like he'd been hoping for more, but nods anyway. He opens his mouth to speak again, but suddenly, Artoo unplugs from the meddroid and whistles cheerily, announcing the completion of its task.

"Thanks, Artoo," Luke says graciously. He is unlike any droid owner Din has ever encountered - but no time for him to dwell on this, as Luke continues: "Artoo says all the stock was removed and ejected prior to your arrival. There isn't a lick of bacta on this ship, not even in the garbage disposals." He smiles to himself then, like he's just made a joke. Din opts to pretend he understands, thinks for a moment.

"Did it check the escape pods, too?" he asks.

"Yeah. Nothing."

Din sighs, because, of course. Of course Gideon wanted to make their victory as hard as he possibly could. Of course he knew they'd be wounded, that there was little chance they'd all escape from battle unscathed.

I won't let this happen, Din thinks. I promised Grogu I would find him a teacher.

"Right," he says, and tightens his grip on the roll of gauze in his hands. "Mhi brokar urakto draar."

"Hmm?" Luke hums, eyes widening a little as Din steps suddenly closer, his stride laced with newfound surety.

"I need you to take your shirt off," he instructs - watches Luke blink, taken aback, and try to understand what has just been said. He feels his own cheeks start to redden beneath his helmet.

"I'm going to dress the wound," he explains, hoping he has not already ruined this. "I will not let you die. I'll have to keep redressing it every few hours, but I think we'll have enough to last until Boba gets back."

"Okay," Luke says, still somewhat in shock. There's no way he's processing the words Din is saying, but he nods anyway and starts to remove his cloak and tunic.

Din turns his back to give the man some privacy, busies himself with tearing off strips of the gauze. "There might be something on the Slave I we can use to patch you up better," he tells him over his shoulder, "at least until we can find a place to land and get you some real treatment. I'm not much of a medic, I'm afraid, but I'll..."

The words die in his mouth as he turns back around and takes in the sight before him.

The Jedi's chest is broad and toned, his arms impossibly firm and defined. Din's heart swoops, soars: goes for a barrel dive - does a loop-the-loop just for kicks. His body is tan, pockmarked with scars, like battle is his second skin. His right arm stops short just below the elbow, replaced by a mechanical, cyborgic sleeve, the panel of which Din can just see outlined at his wrist. He wonders what that hand would feel like in his own - if it would hold the same weight, the same warmth as his left.

Luke smirks at him, like he can read Din's thoughts. Perhaps he can - perhaps he knows Din likes what he sees.

"Can..." Din says weakly. He swallows, grateful, for the billionth time, that his helmet veils his visage so well.

"Can you sit with your side facing me?" he manages - watches as Luke moves carefully, his mischievous grin changing to a grimace as he repositions himself on the tabletop.

There isn't much blood; Din is glad of this. At least the Jedi is unlikely to bleed out, if he doesn't die from infection first.

He cleans and patches Luke's front, marveling at how lucky he was to have survived with no damage to his internal organs. Artoo coos in the corner and watches carefully as Din layers strips of dressing and secures them with medical tape against Luke's chest. He is painstakingly cautious not to let his fingers (albeit gloved) linger too long at the Jedi's abdomen. Luke seems to notice this - Din hears, feels a huff of air against his hands as he exhales a little smile.

For a few moments, all is well. Din is almost at peace as he works, feels the Jedi's chest rise and fall under his touch as he draws breath.

But then he moves to Luke's back, and he sees the scar, and his breath catches in his throat.

It is jaw-dropping, fragmenting away from his spine like he is some incredible piece of art that has been smashed: a piece of fine pottery, glued haphazardly back together by the most vicious admirer of a visionary sculptor. Like the spidery cracks in the windshield of the Razor Crest, splintering outwards like fractured ice. It is as if the Jedi has burst at the seams and been stitched up again, slowly and ambiguously, without semblance of reason. It is like Din's favorite quilted blanket as a child, that his adoptive mother cobbled together from scraps and rags the first week he had been taken in as a foundling...

He cannot help himself: he presses a palm to the center of Luke's spine, where the lightning breaks away from an awful, ridged knot of dulled scar tissue. The silver lines run like beskar rivulets across the plane of his skin - like the Armorer's molten metal seeps hot, poured into molds, shaped into the pauldrons of Din's sheathing - forged into the mudhorn crest emblazoned on his shoulder.

It is terrible. It tells of unspeakable pain. Luke shudders under his touch, but does not jerk away.

Din says nothing, dares not ask. He draws his hand back, busies himself with the bandages. Tries to pretend his fingers do not shake when he fixes the tape to Luke's marred skin.

The Jedi has shown him this horrible secret - has given up this innermost part of himself without pretense. He had no choice, had to remove his bloodstained tunic, but...

Din owes him.

He lowers his voice, speaks softly: "Din Djarin."

Luke rolls his shoulders, leans into Din's hands as he presses the wrappings to his back. "What?"

"My name is Din Djarin," he tells him.

He waits for one long moment, then moves away and lets it pass.

"You should get some rest," he says. His voice feels heavy in his mouth. "I'm going to go check on Grogu, but I'll find you some blankets and water. Maybe some painkillers, too, while I'm at it."

Luke nods and shifts around on the exam table - doesn't meet his eyes.

The R2 unit has found some mismatched bedding tucked away in a cobwebbed shelf, in what must've been the chief medical officer's adjacent quarters. Din pads the tabletop with it and wonders why there are no cots in the sickbay.

Then, he remembers, the only people deemed worthy of recovery on this ship had their own warm beds to recuperate in.

He helps Luke lie down on the table and dims the lights. Artoo stations itself in the corner nearest Luke and hums quietly to itself.

As Din turns to leave, he hears Luke call out to him.

"Din," he says softly - and the sound of his name on the Jedi's lips nearly unravels him.

"Yes," he croaks, not daring to turn around. I'm here, he does not say. I barely know you, but I will come when you call.

A pause. Something stretches, aches impossibly between them. A thought nestles itself quietly in the back of Din's mind - curls up and lies dormant for him to discover later.

The Jedi says, impossibly quiet, "Thank you."

Din finds it difficult to breathe. He lets the silence grow, wants to reach back and touch the Jedi again and again and again, feel the warmth of the Force beneath his star-kissed skin.

Finally, he tells him, "I'll be back soon," and nearly trips out of the room.

The door slides shut behind him - he is again grateful, for it means Luke will not see him stagger, slump against the wall, the turmoil of what has happened finally catching up to him. He gasps for air, panic threatening to overtake him. If Bo-Katan had missed and hit Grogu instead - if he hadn't managed to jump in time, and Gideon had hit his mark - if - if the Jedi had never even shown up in the first place, or they had arrived on the star destroyer too late, or he hadn't been able to open the airlock in time...

His vision clouds as tears bloom at his eyes, dangerously close to dripping down from under his helmet and trickling like rain against his armor.

There isn't time for this. He needs to find Cara and see for himself that Grogu is safe. And he promised Luke - the blankets, the numbing agent Fennec might have stashed away beneath her robes...

Later, he will find some crowded, dusty closet, far from earshot of the Jedi and his motley little crew, and allow himself to feel. He will cut the thick cord that binds his grief like a noose - let himself remember how similar losing Grogu felt to losing his mother, his father. Let himself sob into the muffled static of his helmet, in some forgotten corner of this thrice-damned ship. He will hold Grogu close and cry silent tears while he sleeps, wash everything away and focus on the steady breathing of his exhausted child.

There will be time, while they wait for Boba to return, and the Imperial cruiser slips silently into murky, uncharted space. Later.

Now he takes a shaky breath, and goes to find his son.

Chapter Text

Thud, thud, thud.

His footsteps echo up and down the corridor as he walks, ghostly in their reverberations against the wide, black walls. He keeps scaring himself when he passes by doorways, spotting the white interior of the rooms within and immediately thinking stormtrooper on instinct. Grogu must be catching onto his distress, for he jolts awake in the birikad pouch at his side every time he feels Din start.

"Takisit, Gro'ika," he will say, patting Grogu's little head in a show of apology. Grogu coos a little, sometimes reaches out to grab Din's hand and clutches at it like it is all he'll ever need. He thinks he can feel his heart shatter in his chest each time.

His stomach hurts. There has been no word from Boba, no comm from Fennec while he paces. Anxiety pools like magma in the pits of his belly, to the point where it's become a little difficult to walk.

But he must. He checks on Luke every twenty minutes, and is too restless to sleep. His body wouldn't let him if he tried - he's too on edge. And Grogu likes the walking. He's so used to action now, constant movement, that it's easier for him to fall asleep this way, rocking steadily, gently forward at Din's hip.

Luke Skywalker is the polar opposite, they have learned. Imperial technology is so refined, the star cruiser doors are practically silent - but the first time he'd come to check on the Jedi, after knocking him out with some of the symoxin Fennec lent him, he'd woken up immediately and nearly killed Din with his lightsword. He's now resolved, after profuse apologizing on both fronts, to simply stand outside and listen for Luke's somewhat labored breathing through the door as best he can.

He has to stay nearby, in case something goes wrong. He cannot mess this up again.

"Mando."

Din glances down at his wrist, checking to see if he's missed any pings. Nothing from Fennec; ten more minutes until he returns to the medbay - and maybe he'll go inside this time, he thinks it's been a few hours since Luke last fell asleep...

"Mando!"

It takes Grogu reaching up and pulling at his arm for him to realize someone is calling for him.

He spins, finds Cara standing down the hall, ridiculous arms crossed and something of a scowl on her face - but it's really a half-smile, like she's trying to be angry at him, but just can't force herself.

His stomach gurgles.

"You look like shit," she grunts. "When's the last time you ate? Or slept?"

"Uh," Din says, eloquently.

She sighs heavily and shakes her head as she approaches. Din now realizes why she's never settled down, had kids - she's already too busy mothering him.

"What are we going to do with him?" she asks Grogu, rolling her eyes at Din now that she's standing in front of him. "Ridiculous. How's he supposed to take care of you if he can't even take care of himself?"

"Hey -"

"Canteen, helmet-head. Now. Not optional." She grabs his elbow and starts frog-marching him down the hall.

"What about - ?"

"The Jedi's not gonna die if you take half an hour away from him," she berates. "I know you think he's cute and everything, but jeez, Mando, you're like a teenager."

His stomach chooses, at this moment, to chime in wholeheartedly in support of Cara, so he deigns not to respond.

The mess hall is very much like the one he and Mayfeld ate in during their stint on Morak - except this one is much bigger, and, if possible, even darker, more dismal-looking. The refinery's muted, dull grays are replaced here by smooth, slick black, oozing like tar off of every surface and gleaming like the Dark Troopers' beetle-shell armor. It makes Din feel even more sick, and he falters a little, like the wind's been knocked out of him.

He feels rather than sees Grogu look up at him, senses the concern emanating from his son. Another little pat, a whispered, "It's okay, kid," and a slow, deep breath seem enough to quell his fears.

Cara, intent on her mission, doesn't seem to notice he's stopped, barreling towards the enclosed kitchen station at the far left wall and hopping the counter like it's nothing. Din cannot help but smile to himself as he catches a glimpse of her through the serving window, watching her ransack the freezers at the back (the locks on which she has already broken) and retrieve several packets of dehydrated rations.

"You like veg-meat?" Cara calls over her shoulder at him. He grunts, forces himself to plod forward and watch her heat up the protein in a pan on the industrialized, touchless Imperial stovetop.

"Yeah, that's fine," he says weakly. "Is there... I can find something for Grogu -"

She's already holding up a packet of what look to be biscuits, and when he moves closer, he sees there's a skillet of prevva eggs already sizzling on another burner. Cara's gone full domestic, it seems.

It takes not even five full minutes for the food to be cooked and piled, heaping, onto a tray Cara thrusts eagerly into Din's hands once she's exited the kitchen again. For herself, she grabs two octagonal cups from the counter that Din hopes are filled with water - and then she quickens her stride again, bustling out of the cafeteria and handing Din one of the cups on her way past.

"Good thing Gideon didn't eject all the food, too," she says, their fingers brushing briefly as he takes the water from her.

"I don't think he was counting on us making it this far," he says - and then asks, bewildered, "Wait, aren't we eating in here?" as she beckons for him to follow in her wake.

"Way too creepy for me," she says, and he breathes a sigh of relief he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

They wander the maze-like passageways and eventually make their way up to the bridge. It still feels nightmarish to him that just a few days ago, this place was a scene of disaster for them - of life as he knows it ending forever. The littered bodies of the stormtroopers and officers they killed have been disposed of in the airlock, but he still feels the reek of death. Remembers where their bodies lay, scattered around the room like broken dolls.

He puts this from his mind; now is not the time to dwell on how he hates killing, how he is still processing his parents' deaths, decades later. How he feels each life he takes like it is his own. How he chose the path of bounty hunter because his tribe encouraged it, expected it - but tries his damndest to bring his marks in warm every time.

"Where's Fennec?" he asks. He hopes his helmet's processor hides the shaking of his voice.

"She's with Bo-Katan, I think," Cara tells him, scanning the room for a place they can sit. "Trying to find out why she decided to shoot the Jedi. Something about... she kept saying Mandalorians and Jedi don't get along and never have, but..."

She jabs her chin over at one of the holodesks in the center of the room, and they make their way over to it.

"Speaking of which, did you talk to him?" she asks, as they settle down and start to dig in. Din lifts Grogu gently out of his pouch and sets him on the table, where he blinks happily, albeit still tired, at the two of them.

"Who?" he asks once he is sure Grogu is stable. He turns his polystarch roll over in his hands, before tearing little pieces off of it and handing them to his son, smiling widely as Grogu babbles his delight.

"You know who," Cara chides, rolling her eyes, but keeping them lowered while Din lifts his helmet to eat. "Did you find out who he is?"

He chews for a moment, lets his helmet slip back over his mouth before he replies. "His name is Luke Skywalker," he says thoughtfully. "I didn't find out much more than that, really, except -"

"Did you say Luke Skywalker?" Cara near-shrieks. "Are you kidding me? Luke kriffing Skywalker?"

"Yeah," Din says, "do you know him?"

She stares at him, aghast, mouth agape. "Are," she stammers. "You - you can't be serious, Mando."

He feeds Grogu a spoonful of egg before realizing she's genuinely shocked at his reaction. "What?" he says. "Am I supposed to know who he is?"

"He," she says, in shock. "He's only the guy who saved the entire galaxy, twice?"

"Oh," says Din. "Huh. That's cool."

"I mean, dank farrik, Mando, you been living under a rock the past ten years?" Cara says, seemingly appalled at his ignorance. "Ever heard of the Death Star?"

Din bristles a little, is glad she can't see him rolling his eyes behind his helmet. "Yes, I know about the Death Star," he says. "I'm assuming this Luke person had something to do with it?"

"Uh, yeah, he's only the person who blew it up the first time," Cara informs him through a mouthful of biscuit. Grogu gurgles a bit and lifts his little hands up in appeal, waiting for her to hand him one. She does so willingly, then continues: "And no one's really sure exactly how they got the second one, but I've heard rumors he was on it. Killed Darth Vader with his bare hands, or something."

Din mulls this over, chews on it thoroughly before speaking. "He had this scar. On his back. It looked like... like lightning or something. I didn't ask, but..."

"That's from the Emperor," she tells him, with all the finesse of a certified expert. "He had this crazy Force lightning stuff that he used on everyone. No one's supposed to be able to survive it."

"He must be very powerful, then," Din says softly - ignores the shit-eating grin Cara sends his way.

"Yeah, he's incredible. I can't believe he's here on this ship."

They drift into a comfortable silence, their thoughts wandering. Din wonders how this man can be so important, so instrumental to the galaxy's salvation, and still look at him like that. Still grace Din with the glory of his presence, with the star-light of his smile breaking like dawn across his face.

Grogu coos, crinkles the empty biscuit packet in his little fists. Din reaches for him, extending his arms, and he crawls forward eagerly on the table, letting Din pick him up and settle him in his lap.

Cara smiles adoringly at them. Din holds Grogu close, marvels at how lucky he is to steal a few more precious moments with his child before he's taken away again.

Before all hell breaks loose.

He is painfully aware of the Darksaber lying, abandoned, a mere three meters from them. He'd left it on one of the consoles when he carried Luke to the sickbay. He has no intention of ever picking it up again. Wishes it had never come into his life, that he could shut it in the airlock and send it out for the stars to bear. They would make better use of it than he. Anyone would.

For a terrible moment, he focuses on it, looks at it, clutches Grogu a little tighter. He is overcome suddenly by the urge to toss it in the trash compactor nearby, let it be forgotten in this dying, battered husk of a ship.

But something stays his hand, tells him he cannot do this. He will leave it on the table for now, put off taking the mantle for as long as he can. Maybe he can convince Bo-Katan to take it from him, or Koska - or even Boba -

"Din," Cara says, drawing him from his thoughts. He sucks in a breath at the mention of his name. There is that gentleness that gripped her what feels like ages ago, grounded him a mere three days past. He isn't sure how long it's been since she last spoke. It may have been hours - he stands suddenly, holding Grogu close - he has to check on Luke -

"Din," she says, rising with him, reaching out to grab his arm. "Hey. I think you need some rest. You look like you're about to pass out."

"I," he starts, protest jumping up in his throat, hackles raising.

"Stop," she orders. "You've been pushing yourself for too long. I haven't seen you sleep since... Mando, you haven't slept since before Morak. You can't keep doing this to yourself."

"I'm fine," he tries to tell her. He prays she cannot hear the rumbling of his stomach, conveying its agitation through his chest-plate.

"You're not. Any idiot can see that. You'll kill yourself if you keep going like this."

He looks down at Grogu, who has turned in his grasp to stare up at him with wide eyes, ears drooping.

"Rest," Cara says. "Please. For your kid. I'll take care of the Jedi."

"I..." he starts again, weary. "You... okay."

Her smile alone makes it worth losing this argument to her. "You can't fix everything on your own, Mando. You have to let people help you sometimes."

He swallows thickly, fighting back tears. He isn't sure what he has ever done to deserve her kindness. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she says, like she means every word.

Din wakes to the sound of his wrist comm pinging.

For a moment, he is wildly disoriented. The darkness of the room he is in speaks, Trap, and panic jolts through his aching limbs. "Gro'ika," he rasps, voice rough from disuse. The sound of his freed, unmuffled voice shocks him - where's my kriffing helmet? - he struggles to breathe, pushing himself up into a sitting position and flailing around in the pitch dark, his eyes struggling to adjust - has Bo-Katan kidnapped him? Has Gideon escaped? Is Luke - is Grogu -

Something feather-light shifts and murmurs quietly against his chest, clutching, grabbing at his armor, and he realizes it's his son.

His breath shudders out of him in a sudden, shaky laugh. "Hey," he says, taking Grogu into his arms and hugging him as close as he can without hurting him. "Hey, I'm so sorry, kid, did I scare you?"

Grogu is too sleepy to reply, burying his head in the softness of Din's long-sleeved undershirt. He remembers now. They are nestled in one of the dusty, cramped Imperial supply closets, an aluminum blanket folded at his waist. This is where he found the extra bedding and thermal blankets for Luke, on that terrible first day - and where he settled to nap, by order of Cara.

He wonders how long it's been, scrubs at his eyes, his bare face. His helmet shines a little, even in the darkness of the room, and he fixates on it sitting in the corner while he waits for his vision to finally adjust.

Dimly, he realizes his comlink is still beeping irritatedly at him, from the pile of armor next to his helmet. Grogu whines a little at the noise - complains even more as Din moves, turns onto his hip to reach for it and answer.

"Yes?" he says blearily, still shaking the weight of sleep-ridden alarm from his mind.

"Oh, finally," says a crackly, static-y Fennec through the little built-in speakers of his gauntlet. "You okay, Mando?"

"I told you he's a heavy sleeper," Cara's voice sounds in the background. Din cannot keep from grinning.

"I'm fine," he says; "sorry it took so long for me to pick up. What's going on?"

"Boba contacted us," Fennec relays. "You should probably come to the bridge."

He blinks slowly, surprised. He'd figured it would take much longer for Fett to get in touch with them. He had thought they had days, weeks, even...

"Mando?" Fennec says, when his silence has drawn on too long. "Still there?"

"Uh - yeah, copy. I'll, uh... I'll be there in ten."

He switches off the channel and sighs. He hadn't expected to have to deal with this so soon. The Darksaber still sits on the table where he left it, but he feels its weight at his side anyway. Its beskar-plated ghost. He wishes he had never picked it up - that he'd just left it on the floor for Bo-Katan to find for herself. Maybe she would have less qualms in taking it if he had never touched it...

He sighs again, pushes the blanket off and lets it fall to the floor. His face is that special kind of sore you only experience when you have cried yourself to sleep. While Grogu had drifted off almost immediately, it had taken Din a while - during which he sat between the suffocating, claustrophobic silence of the storage room shelves and tried desperately not to think.

It was pointless. It was terrible. He couldn't help but keep reliving, over and over again, the moment he had failed his son: when he had just let the Dark Troopers seize him, carry him up to where the star cruiser was docked, looming above the Seeing Stone... And then the tears had come, falling before he could stop them: trickling down the sides of his face as he lay in the cluttered room, his breaths coming shallow and quick, his lungs burning.

He hadn't cried as much as he thought he would; he was too tired. But he held his son to his chest and thought about how brave he had been, braver than he will ever be, and could not help but weep until exhaustion overtook him.

He dresses now: sets Grogu down, nestled in the balled-up blanket, and pulls his armor on. His breastplate over his head, his pauldrons fastened to his shoulders, his shin-guards snapping at his legs. He has grown accustomed to the weight of untethered, untainted beskar over the years, but it feels a little heavier now, with his body's soreness. He will take a day, once things have finally settled and been resolved, to sleep, maybe. Rest. Lie on an actual bed and do nothing for as many hours as he can bear.

His helmet is last, fitted perfectly over his face and sealing with a soft snick. He fastens his weapons to his belt, pulls on his gloves. Cradles Grogu gently in his arms, says softly, "Naptime's over, pipsqueak," and exits the room.

Even through the filters of his viewfinder, the dulled, muted lights of the hall outside are difficult to bear, after the blackness of the closet. He shuts and locks the door behind him before setting off down the passageway, blinking as he goes. Grogu is starting to wake up now, and even though he still has yet to start communicating verbally, Din can sense the air of grumpiness about him, disappointed at their rest's preemptive end.

Cara and Fennec are speaking in hushed voices at the bridge when he meets them, heads bowed over something on one of the desks with their backs to him. They turn to face him when they hear his approaching footsteps, both of their stony expressions settling over him in an air of unease. He wonders if - has Boba - ?

Then his eyes land on the table behind them, and he understands.

"Um," he begins. Tries his best not to sigh frustratedly.

"Mando," Cara says. The edge in her voice tells him she is trying her best not to shout. "Is there a reason you left this here?"

She picks it up and handles it delicately, like she's afraid it'll ignite in her fingers. She holds it out to him, offering him the Darksaber - his right, his destiny - like it is his to take. He is loath to accept. He is scared of the person he will become, the person he must be if he does.

"I forgot," he says, lamely. "There's been a lot going on."

"What if someone stole it?" Fennec asks, more than a note of worry in her tone. "What if Bo-Katan - ?"

"She's not going anywhere, you made sure of that," he says - and finally takes the saber from Cara, clipping it at his belt as quickly as possible. It hangs like a shackle at his waist, heavier than any piece of armor on his person. "And besides, even if she somehow did escape, she won't just take it. She made it pretty clear she's gotta kill me first."

His spear of pure beskar has also remained on the bridge, leaning upright against one of the control panels. He stalks over to it now, slides it into the sheath at his back, behind his artillery.

"You can't just leave things like that lying around, Mando," Cara chastises, looking more like a mother now than ever before. She bites her lip, clearly torn. "I may not understand what... exactly it means to you guys, but - if Bo-Katan's willing to try and kill you over it, I don't think it's something you should be taking lightly."

"I'm not," Din says brusquely - desperate to move on to things that actually matter. "How far is Boba?"

Fennec looks at Cara, both obviously dissatisfied at his avoidance of the topic. "He's two hours out," she says reluctantly, after a moment's hesitation. "Said we can leave with him as soon as he docks."

"And you explained everything to him?" he asks. "You told him about... the situation?"

They both nod. "He agreed to take us as far as we need," Cara says. "And he mentioned he's got some medical supplies on his ship, that he thought you and the Jedi could put to use."

"How is he?" Din asks her. "The Jedi."

"He's good. I redressed his wounds, he says he's been sleeping well. Not much pain, said he can't harp on anything. Oh, and he hopes you're doing alright." She gives him another of those terrible little smirks, like she knows, has seen Din's heart for herself. Knows what he longs for - knows that he -

"That's, um, that's nice of him," he stutters, coughing a little. "Good. Glad to, uh, hear it."

He doesn't miss the glance Fennec sends Cara, when they think he isn't looking. Grogu giggles a little in his arms.

"So where do we go from here?" he says hastily, eager once more to speak of something else. "How are we... uh, gonna take care of Gideon and everything? Get him onboard the ship without him trying to kill us?"

Another little smile exchanged between Cara and Fennec - this one much more cunning. He's starting to regret ever having introduced the two. "Fennec happened to spot a carbon freezing station on one of the lower levels," Cara tells him. "Think a little hibernation oughtta do the Moff some good, while he's waiting to stand trial."

"And we thought we'd leave the Mandalorians to you," Fennec says, nodding to Din. "They... they're your people, after all. We weren't exactly sure what to do with them, so we figured..."

"I'll take care of them," he says, squaring his shoulders. It comes out a little more menacingly than he means it to. Grogu shivers a little in his arms, squeaks softly; he hands him over to Cara and pulls the beskar spear from his back again. "Where did you put them?"

Fennec flexes her shoulders a little, like a chill has run down her spine at the sight of him. "Gideon's in the brig. The Mandolorians are in two rooms on opposite ends of the ship."

"Where is Bo-Katan?"

"I'll take you to her."

Cara gives him a look he cannot read as he passes her on his way out. Perhaps she thinks he will kill the two Mandos, can sense the rage pouring from him. Grogu whimpers in her arms, like he feels it, too.

Don't worry, he thinks. I'll take care of us. I'll find out why she chose to take your life into her hands, and I'll make sure she never comes near us again.

His son blanches, as if he can hear him.

Fennec leads him a few floors down in the lift, to a particularly ominous corridor. They don't speak. It's unnaturally quiet as they walk down the hall, their footsteps breaking the silence like a terrible death march. Din wonders what will happen when he enters the room - if he'll be able to control himself when he sees her.

His guide stops, and opens the very last door, ducking in quickly before he can enter. "Get up," he hears her sneer. "Visitor for you."

He takes a breath, steadies himself - grips the spear tighter in his hand, and steps inside.

Bo-Katan sits, stuncuffed, face bare, in the corner of what appears to be a large, empty, black-plated conference room. She stares at Din coldly as he moves towards her, but he catches her eyes flickering to the spear in his grasp more than once. She must think he's here to kill her, too.

"Good luck getting this one to talk," Fennec says to him. "I'll wait for you outside."

He keeps his eyes on Bo-Katan, hears the door slide shut behind his companion as she leaves. A terrible silence hangs between them, like a tightrope he is walking. He is careful not to slip.

He thinks of the first time he met her, and how ruthless she had been then: how cold-blooded, unrelenting she has always been. He wonders, were their roles reversed, if she would take her revenge.

"You have a lot to answer for," he says.

She simply looks at him, does not reply. He can tell she is trying to keep her face blank, emotionless, but so many years of wearing a helmet makes you start to let your guard down. Even if you break with creed and take it off, blazing non-traditionalist that you are. Her hatred for him shines on her visage with all the brightness of a dying star.

He takes a few steps forward, the sound of his boots echoing off of the awful walls, the cold, hard floor. She curls a little into herself as he approaches, backs her into her corner. She is a proud, steeled woman, but even she cannot hide her fear as he draws near.

This is not a fact he revels in. He wishes this were different.

He lowers himself slowly, dropping into a crouch, the spear angled off-kilter - says, "Tell me why you did it."

She tilts her head away, squeezes her eyes shut. He sees the bruise Cara gifted her as she turns, blossoming purple and pink against her brow. If you're going to do it, he can practically hear her thinking, at least make it quick.

"Answer me," he says. "You owe me, Bo-Katan. After everything I did to help you."

She jerks back to look at him now, eyes blazing, like she wants nothing more than to lash out, attack him - yet she refuses to speak.

Din gets to his feet. He hates this. He loathes that he must do this, but she has left him with no other options.

"Ke'jorhaa'ir," he says through gritted teeth, the ancient syllables rolling harshly, a little uneven off his tongue. It has been many moons since he last carried out a full conversation in Mando'a - but this is not the sort of thing that leaves you overnight. His way of life is not something he will soon forget.

He takes the spear, thrusts the blunt end of it to the floor. It sings like the most beautiful of crystals, the purest of metals. It rings off of the walls until it is piercing. Bo-Katan winces, scrabbles with her cuffs like she's trying to cover her ears. Din feels the sheer power of the weapon rippling through him, his beskar plates reverberating, buzzing with its call.

"Ni ke'gyce gar, sa Mand'alor," he utters. There is nothing more that he can say.

She shifts from her position on the floor, head lolling like she is dizzy. Another bout of silence passes between them, and Din is about to come forward again when -

"Suvarir," she says weakly, reluctantly: voice hoarse, breaking over the word.

He breathes a terrible sigh of relief, his frustration cresting and finally ebbing, easing away.

"Tion'jor gar rujurkad Jetii?"

She clears her throat, says scratchily, with a terrible grin on her face, "Ni rucopaanir akaanir gar. Par dha-kad."

Din begins to pace. "Tion'bid gar runarir sa areutii?" he asks.

"Meg ni runarir, par Manda'yaim," she tells him haughtily, icily. Like she is proud of what she has done. "Tion'liser gar sirbur arasuum?"

He does not break his stride. He moves back and forth, from wall to wall - says as calmly as he can, "Gar dar'manda. R'aruetyc'ir gar Mando'ade. Rushukur ijaat."

Bo-Katan struggles to get to her feet, pushing herself up with her fettered hands. "Ni oyacyir de ner solus olar. Gar ruhiibir meg r'lbac'ner."

"Ne copaanir!" he suddenly shouts, his fury finally overcoming him - seizes the cursed thing from his belt, hurls it to the floor. "Ne copaanir! Ni dinu!"

She stares at him, mouth open in a picture of perfect stupefaction. "Tion'jor?" she breathes, like she cannot believe him.

"Nu'vaabir jare'la," he tells her, voice cracking. "An ibac jaon'yc ner ad. Naas ashi."

"Ori'haat?" Bo-Katan says. The timbre of her speech is horrible, high-pitched and simpering, like she is mocking him. "Tion'gar nunarir shebs'ul ne'waadas?"

"Nayc." The word is harsh, definitive. He resumes his fevered pacing, the Darksaber lying like some sick magnet on the floor between them. He wishes he had the comforting warmth of Grogu at his side now. "Kaysh an ibac jaon'nyc."

She scoffs, jeers, "Kote lo'shebs'ul narit. Gar laandur."

They lapse into silence again, save for the steady thud of Din's footsteps and the awful, frenzied beating of his heart. She watches him like she is stalking prey, waiting for him to reveal a sign of weakness that she can pounce upon.

"Kaysh ori'haat gar ad?" she asks suddenly, after a terrible moment has passed. "Tion'runarir gai bal manda?"

He draws a short breath, lets his march end - comes to a halt at the edge of the room, with his back facing her.

He thinks back to that night, when he had returned from her heist: when he left Grogu in the care of the passenger and her husband, in their little sea-side hostel with their vat full of eggs. The day he had almost lost his foundling, almost drowned. He remembers taking Grogu into the little alcove where they slept on the Razor Crest, holding him tenderly in his lap and performing the ritual his Mando'ade parents had done for him, when he had been found.

"Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad," he had said, speaking in Mando'a to him for the very first time - saying the holy words for none other but his son to hear. Taking the little bit of beskar he had melted down with his blowtorch, pressing it in now-cooled droplets to Grogu's little head and chest with his bare fingers. Inducting him into the Way before he even knew his true name.

"Elek," he says now, head spinning with memories. "Kaysh ner ad, de manda."

He turns to meet her gaze. She seems to have nothing to say, her expression finally neutral.

Still the Darksaber lies before her, untouched. She has had every opportunity to take it, and still, she refuses.

In shooting Luke, she had tried to goad Din into combat - force him to duel with her, so she could win the saber and extinguish any threat to her shot at the Mandalorian throne. He could do the same and kill her now: clear the way for his own rise to power, destroy anyone who stands in his path...

But he won't.

He sees Grogu's face in his mind's eye, remembers the promise he has made to his son.

He does not yearn for glory. He does not fall for traps this easy.

"Ni akaan nu'ganar," Din tells her. "N'akaanir."

"Me'ven? Tion'nu'ti kyr'amur?" she spits - her questions short and sharp and piercing, like the gaze she sends him now.

He sighs, says, "Meh gar kyrayc, shuk bah ni." She flinches away as he walks forward, swipes the hilt of the Darksaber up from the floor, and fastens it unwillingly to his belt. At the very least, he will not let it fall into the wrong hands again, if she still rejects his offer of it. "Ni ba'slanar. Enteyor gar osik cinarin."

She eyes the weapon at his side, like she still does not believe he will not hurt her. She is cunning, and cutthroat, and everything he will never be - refuses to be.

"Can'gal dinuir," he continues, "meh orit troan tengaanar draar tug'yc. Tayli'bac?"

She smiles at him menacingly, terribly: says, "Ni taylir." The promise is cold and cruel upon her lips.

Din presses forward now, until he stands uncomfortably close. She edges back, trying to get as far away from him as possible, but can barely move, standing in the corner as she is. She is caught between a beskar spear and a hard place.

"Jetii haa'taylir tug'yc, ni kyr'amur neparer," he says. She shudders visibly at his threat, her eyes darting again to the weapon at his side, to the one in his steady grip.

"Ven'digur troan draar," are his final words to her - and then he raises the spear, swings it down to strike at the durasteel binders shackling her hands together, cleaving them in two.

Bo-Katan looks up at him with something unknowable on her face. Whether it be gratitude, hatred - yearning for the weapon at his side, confusion at why he is letting her go - he will not stick around to find out. There is work to be done.

He feels Fennec's eyes upon him as they return to the bridge, cannot sense her judgment of his decision. Perhaps she was rooting for him to kill her, if her vicious treatment of their prisoner is anything to go by. Or maybe she thinks he has made the right choice, though fickle is her moral code.

It doesn't matter. It was his decision to make; they gave him that right. It is his right, as unwilling as he is to accept it - but he is honorbound, as... as Mand'alor.

They set about preparing to meet Boba in the hangar. The next few hours pass by quickly as the four of them (Grogu included) start gathering supplies and weapons for their journey. Din comes to collect Luke when they receive their final comm from Boba, letting them know he's approaching and will dock shortly.

The Jedi looks a little better. Cara's been plying him with food and water while Din was otherwise occupied, and was sure to change his bandages every few hours or so. He is sitting upright on his makeshift bed when Din knocks softly and enters the medbay, speaking in a low voice to his droid and glancing up immediately when he hears Din. That wonderful, star-stricken smile blooms beautifully across his face at the sight of the Mandalorian, and again - not for the last time, he thinks - Din's heart pounds furiously in his chest.

"Hello," he says, terribly awkward. He isn't sure what else to say. "Uh. We're leaving."

Din thought it impossible, but Luke's smile grows even wider at his words. "Hope I'm allowed to come with you," he says cheerily. Din marvels again at how upbeat he can be while he is suffering - wonders if the Jedi is truly happy to speak to him, or if this is just a mask, a wall thrown up in defense, to hide his true pain.

"Of course you are," Din says. He steps forward now, helps Luke get down from the table with a carefully-placed hand about his waist. He is mindful not to touch Luke's scar. "We're going to get you some help," he continues. "Fennec told me - I'm not sure if you've met her yet, but - she said Boba has some things we can actually use to patch you up."

He glances at Luke's wounds, sees the fresh, clean bandages Cara dressed him with not an hour before. He looks ready to go.

He doesn't really register him saying, nervously, "Boba. Right."

He helps Luke dress, pulling his shirt and cloak back over his head, and then they make their way to the docking bay, Luke leaning heavily against Din as they go. It is a slow and weary trek, and they have to stop a few times for Luke to recover - Artoo is very good at communicating Luke's weariness to Din, badgering him with incessant beeps until he slows his pace - but eventually, they make it.

Cara, Fennec, and Grogu lie in wait for them, standing next to the Slave I, docked beneath the high eaves of the hangar. Boba stands before the three of them, helmeted and bold and proud, one hand on Fennec's shoulder. So at one with his culture, at peace with himself in a way Din will never know.

Later, he tells himself, grimacing a little at his weakness. He searches around for something to distract himself, and his eyes land on what looks to be a half-wrecked X-wing fighter perpendicular to the Slave I.

"Is that your ship?" he asks Luke, who seems to deflate a little, withers in his hold.

"Han's gonna kill me," he mutters, and sighs heavily. "That's not the, uh, first time this has happened. A few of the droids came out to meet me when I landed, and, uh..." He gestures vaguely at the wreckage, the tattered, black metal that surrounds the ship. "They surprised me, let's say. We can leave it at that." Artoo beeps atrociously at this, and Luke grins a little sheepishly.

Din can't help but chuckle a bit. "We can take it with us," he tells the Jedi. "We'll load it onto the ship, get it fixed up wherever we land. I'll pay for it myself."

"Oh, no, you really don't -"

"It's the least I can do," Din interjects firmly, "for saving us all. For coming to teach Grogu. Taking a blaster bolt for my son."

Luke stills at his words, looks at him queerly. Like he can't figure Din out. Din likes it this way - nudges Luke forward, towards the rest of their party.

Boba is the first to greet them, turning towards the three of them and removing his helmet. "Well, well, well," he says. "Of all the Jedi in the galaxy, my friend, you just had to pick him."

"What's wrong with this one?" Din asks - tightens his grip on Luke's waist, without quite realizing what he's doing. He glances over at him, sees that he is visibly pale. "I -"

Fett's hand is inching towards the blaster at his hip. Din stares between the two of them - makes eye contact with Cara and Fennec, who seem just as confused as he is - says, "You two... have a history?"

"If you call his friends throwing me into a sarlacc pit 'history,'" Boba says, horribly, his accent fluctuating over the foreign word. Din is not exactly sure what a sarlacc is, or how Luke and Boba could've ever possibly had reason to meet before, but -

"Look," Luke is saying, nothing short of terrified, "I'm so sorry - it really was circumstantial, I - I'm sure you're a really nice guy when you aren't trying to sell and kill the people I love -"

Boba bursts suddenly into ferocious, bawdy laughter. It echoes throughout the hangar, unimpeded by the filter of his helmet.

This is quite possibly the strangest standoff Din has ever had the misfortune of witnessing.

"You're right," Boba says, once he has finished being the only person thoroughly and utterly amused by the situation at hand. "I did try to kill your boyfriend. It is all in the past now."

This nearly bowls Din over, so shocked is he by Boba's words. Luke appears flabbergasted, too, a lovely pink blush gracing his cheeks - he stammers, chokes out, "He isn't - we - he never - that -"

"Let bygones be bygones," Fett steamrolls over him. "There is work to do, come. We must load the ship."

"The sooner we get outta here, the better," Cara adds. Grogu wiggles excitedly in her arms.

Din hands Luke over to Fennec, helps Cara and Boba heave all of their supplies into the Slave's cargo bay. Half of Luke's destroyed X-wing will fit on the ship; the rest will have to be carried behind them in a tractor beam, having remained somewhat intact. Din wonders if this is the same craft he had blown up the Death Star in, at the hearty, hale age of a mere nineteen years. But he pushes these thoughts from his mind, waving to Grogu as he helps Cara carry one of the forlorn-looking pieces up the ramp. Grogu has been sitting on a little crate this whole time, watching them exit and re-enter the ship, and blinking happily at Din every once in a while. He can tell his son is ready to be rid of this wretched place. He takes special pleasure in shoving Gideon's carbon-frozen body into the darkest, dankest corner of the Slave I's hold.

As he comes out of the ship for the final time, he spies two forlorn figures standing at the edge of the hangar, near the lift doors. He recognizes them immediately from their armor: Bo-Katan and Koska, looking awkward and unsure of themselves, even as proud as they once were. Both of them are rubbing at their wrists, now free of stuncuffs, and wincing a little. Din feels a slight pang of regret as he makes his way over to them.

Bo-Katan looks at him with hesitancy in her eyes, her bare face as he approaches, like she is unsure of herself. Unsure of what to say, perhaps, after their last exchange. But then he is standing before the both of them, and her face folds, crumples into a look of what could be remorse - and she bows deep before him, murmurs, "Mand'alor." Koska stares at her in what seems like silent distress, before glancing at Din fearfully and falling into a bow herself, repeating his new title.

He curls his hands into fists at his side. He does not want this, has never wanted this, but he is compelled to speak.

"Will you take it?" he asks, for the final time. Bo-Katan rises from her obeisance and looks at him, hard.

"No," she says again, as he knew she would. "It is yours, as much as I want it. You won the duel: it's yours by right."

"Bo -" Koska starts, but her companion cuts her off with a swift, outstretched hand.

"It's his," she states, definitively. "It's his to use as he wishes. And I think it would be best" - she meets his gaze again, green eyes steely and sharp in their intensity - "if he were to use it to help reclaim Mandalore."

"No," is his simple, immediate answer. "I can't. I have a responsibility to my son -"

"Who you will be free of when the Jedi takes him from you. To train," she adds, like it is a sudden afterthought. "Mandalore needs you. You're its leader now, whether you like it or not."

"I don't like it," Din protests, "and - I would be terrible at it. I'm not... I wasn't raised there like you. I was just a foundling; I wasn't born into power. I wouldn't know where to start, what to do. I would ruin it all."

She takes a moment to consider his words, head cocked slightly to the side like she is thinking. "Maybe so," she says, her words cautious, picked with obvious care - "but I think you'd surprise yourself. You certainly surprised me, with the lengths you were willing to go to. On this mission, in particular."

He turns away, finding it too difficult now to look at her.

"You were a different person in that room, you know," he hears her say. "In my holding cell. You were someone I liked. Someone I think would be good for our planet."

He feels sick at her words. He had hated who he was, in that dark, dark room.

"And it is our planet," she continues. "Just as much yours as it is mine. You would be welcome in the fight to reclaim it, even though you weren't born there. Mando'ade is a way of life, not a race."

He forces himself to look at her again. The tiniest hint of a smile quirks at the corner of her mouth.

"But I'll keep my promise to you," she says, in a sudden change of pace. "You won't be seeing me again. Thank you for the star-destroyer, Mand'alor." Her smile morphs, water-slick, into a terrible smirk, like she's telling an inside joke he isn't allowed to be a part of.

Din nods, tastes copper in his mouth as he bites down on his tongue too bitterly. The two of them bow to him again, and he watches them begin to leave.

"Sorry about the Jedi, by the way," Bo-Katan tosses over her shoulder as they retreat. "Be sure to take good care of him."

He doesn't respond, though her taunting riles at him, boils at his blood.

"What was that all about?" Cara scoffs as he walks back to the ship, takes Grogu from her steady arms.

"Just saying goodbye," he shrugs, as calm as he can muster. He isn't ready yet, to tell her of his new mantle. He isn't ready to accept it himself.

He dares not glance over at the Jedi, standing, supported by Fennec, but he can feel his eyes lingering on him as he moves about - checks the hangar for anything they've missed, tucks Grogu carefully into the pouch at his hip. He has to have picked up on the Darksaber by now, with his Jedi senses, wizard powers. He can see it, plain as day, slung at Din's belt, though he has tried to hide it from him in the folds of his cloak.

"All set?" he asks, and they all nod. Boba is on the ship already, preparing to set their course in the cockpit; Fennec and Cara help Luke start up the ramp, supporting him on either side. Artoo follows in their wake.

Din takes one last look around - sweeps the perimeter, as is his wont. Grogu whines a little from his pouch, like he is eager to get going - but something makes Din pause.

The two Mandalorian women stand on the other side of the bay, watching him eerily, stock-still before the lift doors.

He has a feeling this is not the last he'll be seeing of them.

"Where to, my friends?" Fett's voice crackles over the intercom from the pilot's chair, as the five of them situate themselves into the crowded main cabin. Din takes the seat farthest to the back and settles down with Grogu, taking him gingerly from his birikad and setting him in his lap.

"Nevarro," Cara calls, sending a look to Din like she's asking his approval. "I have some people from the New Republic I need to contact. Mando, is that...?"

She seems nervous, suddenly: small and timid, like a child asking for money from a weary parent.

"Of course," he tells her - wishes she could see him smiling. Thinks about how Grogu'll be interested in reuniting with those cookies he got ahold of last time they were there...

And he can visit the Armorer, too. Ask for her advice, her help with the Darksaber, the title of Mand'alor. She has guided him in the past: she advised him on his duty to Grogu, helped him see the Way. Ensured that he knew the child he had found, protected with every fiber of his being, was his son.

"Nevarro it is, then," Boba calls, and the static of the comm system shuts off.

The ship rotates around them, engines igniting. For the first time in many days, Din feels like he can breathe again.

"We did it, kid," he says quietly to Grogu, taking his tiny little hands in his own. "Everything's gonna be okay."

His child smiles up at him like Din's is the only face he knows. He holds him close, arranges his cloak so it covers Grogu, snug and warm about his waist. Fatigue threatens to take him, and he shifts back in the padded chair until he is more comfortable. Grogu is already drifting off, unable to keep his eyes open a second longer. The quiet conversation between Fennec and Cara washes over him, their hushed voices providing the soft murmur he needs, is accustomed to falling asleep to. Grew up hearing in the covert, even from behind thick sewer walls.

From the corner of the cabin, he feels Luke's eyes upon him. He pretends not to notice, lying back against the headrest and letting himself enjoy this moment, this final sense of calm. Even so, he cannot help but wonder what the Jedi is thinking - if he no longer trusts Din, if he regrets ever following them to the cruiser in the first place. If he will still take Grogu as his pupil, once he finds out who his father has become.

But enough of this.

He puts it from his mind completely, lets the throes of sleep catch him as he falls. He will relish this small bit of peace, until there is none left for him to take.

Chapter Text

Din's beginning to get used to this whole jolting awake thing.

He doesn't start, like he did yesterday, when the Slave I buckles under what can only be blasterfire; no, he simply draws in a deep breath of air, reminds himself of his surroundings, and sets Grogu down in his seat as he gets up.

"TIE fighters," Fennec barks at him - anxiously pressed against the cabin window, her neck craned to try and see what's happening through the convex glass. An alarm blares from somewhere nearby.

"How'd they find us?" he asks groggily, voice still rough with sleep. The ship rumbles again, jostles as another bolt hits it.

"They must've come for Gideon," Cara says darkly. She is positioned at the other side of the transparent bubble they're sitting in, face calamitous in her anger. "Probably a tracking chip in his armor or something. I should've thought to make him change..."

"Fennec!" Fett suddenly shouts over the ship's comms. "Get up here!"

She looks at Din worriedly and leaves. Panic settles over the rest of the group as she goes, covering them in a thick blanket of agitated silence. Artoo beeps nervously from somewhere out of sight.

"Maybe Bo-Katan sent them," Din says thoughtfully. From the corner, Luke laughs: skittish, near hysterical, like he can't believe Din's making jokes at a time like this. He cannot honestly find it within himself to worry, after everything they have suffered through, miraculously survived.

Outside the cabin, the black, starry void fades to pearled, milky blue, as Din assumes they've been chased down to the atmosphere of the nearest planet. Perhaps the Imperial shooters are hoping they will crash. When he moves to the viewfinder, looks down at the terrain below them, he's surprised to see a mess of weathered trees, their skyward leaves painted with that virescent, glossy green possessed only by those that flourish in the jungle.

He hears the Slave's cannons activating, as Fennec presumably mans the trigger - feels the vibrations of the shots she takes in the soles of his shoes. It feels odd, not having to evade their combatants himself.

For a long moment, all he can do is stare down at the planet below. He is spellbound, memories flashing over him of the lush forests outside Aq Vetina, the home that's haunted him since his youth. His parents - and running between the trees with the other children of the settlement, his friends - his mother calling to him as he sat, crouched, in the tops of trees, nestled between the branches, and giggled to himself while he hid -

"Mando!" Cara says to him, and he jerks away, looks up. She points to the ceiling, indicating that he needs to listen.

"...out of seismic charges," Boba is yelling gutturally over the intercom. "They're moving too fast for Fennec to hit - our evasive maneuvers are making it even harder -"

"I -" Luke starts, getting out of his chair. Din hurries to him, presses his hands gently to his shoulders to keep him from moving. "No, I - I can help," he protests, and pushes against Din, wrapping his fingers around Din's wrists - his heart surges at the touch -

"I'll take care of it," Din says. His voice is soft but assertive; Luke quiets immediately. The ship swerves in the air, sending even their hyper-stabilized bubble reeling, and Din almost knocks Luke into the wall. He grabs quickly at the Jedi's arm, steadying them both, and glances over at Grogu to make sure he's alright. The child sits perfectly balanced in the seat where he left him - grinning and giggling like he's on a carnival ride.

"What are you gonna do?" Luke asks worriedly.

"You aren't a Jedi, Mando," Cara tells him. "Unless you're going up there and relieving Fennec of duty, I'm not sure how you're gonna take them down from inside the ship."

"I'm not," he says simply - and reaches over to the console next to them, presses the intercom button - "Boba, open the bay doors."

A terrible silence settles over the crew, punctuated only by the screaming of the TIE fighters' engines, and the harsh battery of their blasterfire.

"What are you talking about?" the seasoned bounty hunter finally says.

Din lets go of Luke, heads to the yellow ladder on the side of the wall, and starts climbing down. Cara and Luke follow anxiously in his wake, the latter leaning heavily against the other. They watch him climb into the bowels of the ship: make his way to the exit ramp, touch one of the buttons on the lower deck's communications panel.

"Lower the ramp," he says again.

Another long, awful pause - and then Fett's sigh rings heavy over the intercom, and the walls of the ship whir as it rotates around them, ramp extending outward.

The wind whips terribly at his hair, threatens to send him toppling over, as the doors open and he's blasted with the force of a hundred seasoned warriors. He regains his footing with difficulty - wonders if his companions will think him insane, for what he is about to do.

He glances up at the opening above the ladder. Luke peers down at him, concern writ, brow furrowed deep, across his face. Din looks at him, hard, for as long as he can bear.

"Tell Fennec not to shoot me," he says.

Then he steels himself: steps forward - Luke shouts, "What the hell are you doing?!" - and forces himself to jump from the ship's underbelly.

He free-falls, arms tucked in at his sides, shot like a beskar missile straight at the TIE fighters. His jetpack roars to life at his back when he activates it, and he jettisons upwards, on a collision course with their opponents. One of them spots him, veers out of the way, diving down to the treeline below - but the other is not so lucky, keeping its sights on the Slave as Din heads straight towards it, whips the dreaded Darksaber from his belt and ignites it in the air. It whips dark luminescence, even in soft daylight: the clouds darken around him, almost as if the sun is drawn to his blade's glow, sucked up into its sheer blackness. He prays he does not lose hold of it this high up.

With a terrible screech, he takes the sword and draws it through the metal of the TIE fighter's left strut, dismembering it of its bat-like wing. The blade shrieks as it cleaves down the middle of the alloy rod: its sickly hue screaming with Mandalorian might, with the force of its Maker. He is, for a sinister moment, reminded of the chase with Gideon's ship - until this one begins its descent downwards, falling from the air - and he lets himself hover, turns to face the other fighter -

A blaster bolt hits him square in the chest.

He plummets from his midair perch. Someone screams from the Slave's open doors, piercing and wretched even from this far off.

His jetpack propels him downwards, its fire still ignited by his full tank of fuel - he's falling headfirst towards the tropical foliage below, the momentum of the twin flames at his back pushing him steadily down, down, down - he cannot seem to right himself - the wind is too strong, whipping his hands about - he cannot reach his gauntlet. Above him, he sees the Imperial craft advancing on Boba's ship - he strains towards his left wrist, looks down again and grits his teeth - the jungle looms in his viewfinder -

His right hand closes on his left, and he smashes desperately at one of the buttons, releasing the heaviest sigh of relief he thinks he's ever breathed as he feels the rocket-launcher eject one of his signature projectiles.

Another press at his wrist, and Din slowly grinds to a halt, the exhaust engines behind him dimming their flame. He reacquaints himself with the direction he was meant to stand in - gazes upwards, stock-still, as the remaining TIE explodes in the air.

The Darksaber hums at his side. He sheaths the blade with a swoosh, reattaches it to his belt with a grimace.

When the Slave I swoops down and picks him up, its ramp still extended, he finds Luke and Cara still waiting for him in the cargo bay. Luke's mouth has fallen open, a beautiful pink glow adorning his cheeks, amplifying their holiness, their splendor. He seems to be at a loss for words. Din is not sure why or how, but he feels the strangest, unexplainable pull from him: like the Jedi wishes to touch him, hold him. It pours out of him like warm amber, hot wax - the most incandescent brilliance of the purest lightsaber, with its heart of crystal and magic.

"Showoff," Cara smirks, shaking her head like she cannot believe him. Din shrugs his shoulders a little, trying to seem impassive, uncaring - but his hands still shake with the thrill of battle.

He stumbles a little. Cara swoops in, grips his shoulders with all the violent strength of a mother - says, "Mando - Din!" as his knees start to buckle, his vision smearing.

He liked it.

He liked the way the Darksaber felt in his hands.

Cara's face blooms into view before him, her brow creased, lips pressed together in a furious line. "Are you okay?" she asks him. Din shivers at the terrible, simple concern in her voice: bolts to piece himself back together.

"Yes," he manages - helps her to right him again, set him on his feet.

"Let's get you some water, okay?" Her hand is steady at his back as she leads him to the ladder, ensures he does not fall. He feels Luke's blue eyes, soft with worry, hanging onto the slope of his shoulders - his well-shrouded neck, wrapped by the fastens of his worn gray cloak - as he goes.

"That was amazing," Fennec says to him as he enters the ship's lounge again. Her hair hangs in loose red threads about her face, framing her cheekbones like the most angelic sculpture. Din thinks she would be beautiful if she weren't so terrifying. But now her eyes are lit up with awe, her gaze snagging every few seconds on the weapon at his waist. He shifts without thinking, draws his cloak to his left side and conceals the saber in its depths.

"Where did you learn to fight like that?" she asks, as he goes to the chair he abandoned not twenty minutes ago. Grogu sits contentedly right where Din left him, and reaches up with his little hands for his father when he approaches. Din takes him eagerly into his arms, glad for the distraction of his son from this sudden darkness within him, this torturous inner turmoil.

"Mando?" Cara says - and he turns, is met with her Republic-issue canteen, outstretched. He takes it gratefully, downs a huge gulp of water and wishes he could wipe at his sweaty brow. Maybe later, when he and Grogu have found the safety of the weapons closet, or the washroom...

"Mando," she calls again.

"Yes?" he asks weakly. He feels dizzy, lost in the sudden fog of this awful realization.

"Fennec asked you a question."

Din stares blankly, forces his attention back to the markswoman. "I'm sorry," he says simply. "What did you say?"

"I asked where you learned to fight with that... particular weapon so well," she says, her tone still borderline reverential.

Din clutches Grogu tightly, holding him near against the cool shell of his armor. The child murmurs a bit, pawing sleepily at the softness of Din's cloak, the underside of his helmet - like he wants to see his father's face again.

"I didn't," Din finally says. Still gazing down at his little son. "I've never used anything like it before."

"I've never seen -" Luke perks up suddenly - only to be cut off by the whoosh of the cabin door sliding open, and the dreadful thud of Boba's booted footsteps.

His helmet is off. There is a soft sheen of sweat across his forehead, too, and he still breathes heavily from the sudden panic of their evasion. He leans laboriously against the doorway and looks at Din, eyebrow raised.

"Darksaber, eh?" he says. Din's heart shrivels wretchedly in his chest. His breath comes shuddering out in a sharp sigh, lungs heady with dread.

Silence passes between them all, as Din begins to realize he cannot hide this any longer. He can feel Cara and Luke's eyes - Fennec's eyes - even the shrewd scrutiny of the astromech, at Luke's side - upon him. Hear their bated breath.

"Yes," he eventually says. Reluctant. Withdrawn.

And then Boba utters the terrible word: "Mand'alor," and bows like a practiced courtier, low and stooping. As if he knows the true weight of what he says. As if he understands the awful burden Din must bear now, has no choice in.

"Please," he begs. Tears prick at the corner of his eyes, threaten to betray him. "Please don't say that -"

"That word again," Luke suddenly cuts in: weak, soft, from his chair, but bold and sharp all the same. "The other Mandalorian... she said it, too. What does it mean?"

"It's nothing," Din attempts shortly, but Boba will not let him.

"He is the new king of Mandalore," he tells them all. "He won the title when he won the Darksaber. By creed, it is his right."

His gaze fixes on Din again, steely and severe. "He cannot turn it away."

Silence falls, dark and dense, over the cabin. Din screws his eyes shut: wishes he had let himself crash into the jungle. Maybe it isn't too late, and he can jump from the ship again - lie there in the earth for a while - let the soil eat him whole. Pray it takes the Darksaber from him.

Eventually, he dares to glance around the room. Cara's mouth has fallen open; Fennec's inky eyes are huge. Grogu murmurs anxiously against the pauldron at his shoulder - presses his little face into his father's armor like he can sense the tension, the strain that smothers the group, thick and stifling.

Claustrophobic. Suffocating.

His gaze gravitates - naturally, easily - to Luke, who looks torn. There is something hard in his gaze: stretched taut between his eyes, like he is trying not to blink, his focus adamantine. But there is still a softness to his face, at the set of his jaw. Like he feels, can sense Din's internal struggle. Relates to him on some intangible level, but is wary still.

It's as if he's trying not to be afraid.

Grogu shifts the tiniest amount in Din's arms, whimpers sadly. Din wonders how much of his distress his son can feel, even through the unflinching mask of his helmet.

"You say you've never trained with a saber before?" Luke asks suddenly, voice cutting through the unbearable silence like the most beautiful, agonizing beam of light.

Din nods yes, adjusts his grip on Grogu so the child is more comfortable. Maybe he will finally get the rest he deserves - maybe they can sneak off while the others are still gobsmacked, mouths agape, jaws near the floor.

"I've never seen someone outside the Order so... naturally talented with a blade like that," Luke continues. There is something undefinable in his voice.

"What do you mean, 'outside the Order'?" Din cannot help but ask.

"Someone who isn't a Jedi." Luke meets his gaze again. It is unnerving how he knows exactly where to look so he is staring Din right in the eye. "It's almost like the Darksaber was meant to be yours."

How he loathes that. He feels rather than sees Boba's leer, bouncing off the silver gleam of his armor. They're all looking at him differently now - like they see something in him. Something he wants to avoid at all costs.

He feels panic rising feverishly in his throat again, making it difficult to breathe. He gathers Grogu more securely in his arms, pressing a hand to the back of his little head, and stalks out of the room. Cara calls out to him from behind, but he does not turn back.

Din storms down the Slave's narrow corridors for a long while, peering and squinting about in the dark for a corner he can occupy. He finds one near Fett's dejected medbay, sitting Grogu down on the squeaky little cot against the far side of the ship before settling on it himself, his face to the wall. The child coos a little as the bed creaks under his father's weight - watches him unbuckle and remove the pieces of his armor one by one, until he sits in just his cloak and dark, long-sleeved underclothes. He unfastens the cape with trembling hands, trying to steady his breathing as he goes, and manages to wrap it like a blanket around Grogu, hoping he will finally sleep.

His helmet he removes last, placing it carefully on the floor next to his foot. In safe reach, where he can see it - can grab quickly if anyone dares come near.

His back to the hall behind him, he sets about polishing the various interlocking beskar pieces: finds a rag in Boba's tiny cabinet and sprays it with the cleaning fluid he keeps in one of his vambrace compartments. He is careful not to spill any on the blinking buttons and lights - begins to buff his chestplate.

Grogu chirps and babbles occasionally to Din. He is comforted by his son's gentle presence: his beautiful, simple curiosity in what his father is doing. Eventually, he seems satisfied with the knowledge that Din isn't doing anything particularly interesting, and curls up to rest in the vast, blanketed cloak he is swathed in.

Din loses himself in the solace of this age-old routine - that his mother taught him when he was a boy, in the warmth of their little home, practicing on his father's armor. "Someday, you will have your own to polish," she had said; "and maybe then a son, too, to teach as I teach you."

He chuckles to himself, now, wiping down the moon-silver spear gifted to him on Corvus - wondering if Grogu will ever be even remotely interested in wearing a helmet all the time. If they could even fashion one large to fit over his ridiculous, adorable ears.

There is a sudden, slight exhale from behind, as if someone is smiling bemusedly at him - and Din reaches instinctively for his helmet, pulling it on and then turning to see Luke standing before him.

"I thought I might find you here," the Jedi says, quietly. His gaze is lowered, like he isn't sure if he's allowed to look yet. Din feels his heart swell at the sight - at the respect Luke so easily gives. Like it is Din's to take.

Din stands, painfully aware of how silly he must look with just his helmet on, armor absent - but the smile Luke gives him when their eyes finally meet sates his embarrassment. His expression is one of adoration, not judgment: his gaze is soft, eyes crinkling at the corners as he beams. Din thinks that he could stay like this, just drinking him in, till the end of time.

But he shatters the lovely silence ebbing between them - asks, "Did you need something?"

"Yes," says Luke. "Will you help me change my bandages?"

Din looks him over: registers that the Jedi could, in fact, redress himself if he wanted to. But he will take whatever opportunity he can get to spend time with Luke, get to know him better.

So he nods. Steps forward, makes sure not to upset Grogu as he quietly opens the cabinet again and retrieves fresh gauze from inside. He laments to himself that Boba has no bacta on hand. Luke sits down on the makeshift bed, waiting patiently for Din - and he cannot help but think back to that first time on the star cruiser, when they had barely even met. It feels like ages ago, now, that Din was letting his hands roam over Luke's chest: taking in his scars, the marred canvas of his back.

One by one, he peels back the bandages wrapped around the Jedi's torso and begins to replace them. He is careful - so, so careful - not to touch the wound: dares not let his hands wander, creep ever downward to the curve of Luke's ribcage, the small of his back. Their breaths mingle, slow and steady, in this poor-lit corridor.

Slowly, gradually, they begin to breathe as one. Din feels the rise and fall of Luke's lungs beneath his fingers, feels his cheeks flare red at the sensation. He wonders if their hearts are beating in tandem, too.

"I sense your hesitancy," Luke says suddenly. Din jolts a little, surprised at the noise - and the catch of Luke's breath stutters through his skin, so lovely it could break Din's heart.

"Wh," he says, meaningfully.

"You're trying to stay away," the Jedi continues. "But it calls to you, doesn't it? The saber, I mean. It knows you were born to carry it."

Din finally composes himself - enough to scoff, anyway - and retrieves his hands from Luke's side, having tied off the last bandage.

"You don't..." he starts, voice low and pained. Anguished, almost, at the words he must bring himself to say. "We don't really know each other. We've only just met. You can't say that for sure about me, yet."

Luke turns, then, and looks Din square in the face. Din is fixed by his gaze, caught like a moth drawn to light - cannot bring himself to look away from those piercing, sea-foam eyes.

"The Force has brought us together," the Jedi says, serene and eerie. As if he knows, has seen things Din cannot. "Connected us," he continues. "I feel it, it's bright. I see you for who you are."

Din's skin crawls. He wants to shy away, be unknown to this man he so desperately wants, yearns for. Needs, though he does not even know him.

Luke - for all his mind-reading, thought-sensing - pays this no mind. He takes Din's hands in his own, holds them close to his chest. Din feels the heart that thrums beneath, steady and secure. Smooth in its pulsations: a steady, beating line.

He wants nothing but to meet this man - to draw away, to sink into his touch. To recoil, shudder - to know Luke's soul better than he knows his own.

But he pulls back, torn in two. Luke's bandages have been refreshed; there is no more to be done. There is no excuse to let his hands linger on this poor man's skin any longer.

Din is meticulous, mechanical in his next movements. He fixes his armor back about his body - careful not to fasten the straps too tight, upset the new, clean finish - and plucks Grogu from the bed, mindful not to wake him.

He allows himself one last, long look at the Jedi: tries to pour everything he feels into Luke, beyond what must be the cold, uncaring gaze of his armor. He feels his head tilt a little, as Luke raises a hand, brings it to rest at the side of Din's helmet. His eyes say, I see you. I know what you're telling me.

Din wants so badly to feel the press of his fingers against his bare skin, his cheek.

But he pulls away again, and his cape sweeps behind him as he turns, stalks back down into the belly of the ship.

Boba insists fuel is cheap in Ugnorgrad, so Din's first impression of Bespin isn't nearly as grand as the stories he grew up hearing.

He stands at the edge of a sky-deck, and looks out at the heady swirl of clouds beyond. He could almost reach out and touch them from here, pressed smart against the railing as he is now.

The Ugnaughts grunt and mill about on the lower decks beneath, cast in the shadow of the platform Din stands dizzily upon. For a long, sharp moment, he thinks of Kuiil.

He had gotten out to stretch his legs, but now he is tense: shoulders, hackles raising at the sharp memories of his friend, pricking like cold, bitter needles at his skin despite the warm air. (He wonders, then, how it can be so warm, when they are this high in the sky and the core of the planet is so far below them...)

That guilt from before floods his veins again, pouring over him like a torrent of glacial bacta, filling up a stasis tank. He felt this in the storage closet, where he had held his son and cried for what seemed weeks - only a few days ago.

"You look anxious," a voice suddenly pipes up at his side. He nearly sails over the rail with how high he jumps.

"Sorry!" says the saboteur he now recognizes as Fennec. She steadies him with a hand at his shoulder, pulling him back to solid ground. "Sorry. I shouldn't have surprised you, you're a nervous wreck."

"Is," he starts, face flushed with embarrassment beneath his helmet. "Is it that obvious?"

She gives him her rare jewel of a smile, lips parting over perfect, pearly teeth, pretty eyes squinting at the corners. "Your neck's disappeared," she says, and raises both her shoulders in demonstration till they nearly touch her ears. "I get like that, too, when I'm stressed."

"Well," he says. He pulls back from the barrier, shifting his torso so he's facing her head-on. "I only just noticed, but apparently, there's been a lot going on lately."

Fennec laughs at that, tossing her head in the most wonderful way. At the sight, Din can't seem to recall anymore why he ever set out to ruin her life in the first place.

"Fennec," he says abruptly - in a brisk, necessary change of subject - and she balks at the serious change to his voice, stumbling a bit as she takes a small step back.

"I'm so sorry for what I did on Tatooine -"

"Oh," she interrupts - visibly relaxes. "Hush. That wasn't your fault. You aren't the one who shot me."

"No, but - I left you for dead -"

"You thought I was dead," she says. He cannot believe her mercy. "There's quite a difference. You were doing a job. All is forgiven."

Din stands struck, speechless. "How..." he begins - attempting to ask her how she can possibly welcome her near-death so nonchalantly -

"If it hadn't happened, I never would've met Boba," she tells him. She clasps his shoulder again, her grasp firm and strong at his arm. "So, really, I should be thanking you."

Oh, he thinks. Perhaps he knows, now, how she can be so forgiving. "You and Boba... how long has - ?"

And there is that exquisite laugh again. Fennec gleams, incandescent and striking in her delight. Din realizes he must be sorely mistaken.

"I'm sorry," he says again, "I didn't mean to imply -"

"No," she chuckles - and he watches as her gaze flickers, dances over across the way: to Cara, standing on the opposite end of the sky-deck and talking to a group of Ugnaught engineers. The setting sun flares brilliantly behind the strongwoman; the clouds mill orange and red beyond. She is beautiful, in all her muscular glory.

"There's no one," Fennec tells him. Her eyes land on him again with poorly-hid reluctance.

Din thinks he understands.

He says as much. Fennec raises an eyebrow, pushes a thread of reddish cord out of her face. "Do you, though?" she asks. "Have you seen yourself around him?"

"Around - around who?"

She huffs, glares at him in mock irritation. "The Jedi, who else?"

Din's mind snaps instantly to Luke at the mention of him - and his last encounter with the man, in the hallway of the Slave. "Are you coming out?" he had asked, hand braced against the low ceiling for support as Boba landed. "Some real air might do you good. You're looking a little pale -"

"I'm fine," Luke said hurriedly. The sheen of sweat beading at his forehead glistened in the dim corridor lights. "I... sorry. Thank you. It just - there's just some painful memories. Last time I came to Bespin..."

Din could not help but reach out, ground him, his free hand stuttering at Luke's arm. "You don't have to tell me," he had said, and Luke visibly relaxed, eyes aching with relief.

Now he says to Fennec, "That - there's nothing. We just met, not even a week ago."

He follows her line of sight to Cara again - barely registers her saying, "Yes, but there are some things you know from the start not to let go of."

They lapse into silence again, watching as Cara's attention is caught elsewhere and she begins making her way back to the ship. Boba's call comes not long after, signaling their departure. Din resents, somewhat, that there wasn't enough time for him to explore the lower echelons in search of bacta.

"That Jedi would be a good one to have at your side," Fennec tells him as they fall into step together. Her shift in tone is eerie, unnerving. Like she sees something Din can't.

"What do you mean?"

"When you take back Mandalore," she explains: so matter-of-fact, set in stone; certain as the very platform they walk upon.

They pass through a cotton-thick cloud enveloping the far reaches of the sky-deck; Din loses sight of Fennec, who seems to disappear into the blushing, pink fog. Her voice echoes over to him as he walks:

"He's strong; you would make a good match. You'd be good by yourself, but he would lift you up into something even greater."

"Fennec -" he tries, coughing a little, squinting through the fog as he tries to find her. "What are you talking about?"

There's no chance for an answer - for the Slave I, shielded from view mere moments before, looms suddenly over them as they break through the veil of rosy mist. Fennec's pace quickens, and she darts up the ramp without looking back - calls over her shoulder, "You know what I mean" - leaving Din to wonder if their talk was just some haze-induced dream.

She is nowhere to be found when Din enters the cabin. Grogu perks up from Cara's lap to babble giddily at his father; Din starts, chides himself for becoming lost in thought again. He takes Grogu dutifully and makes his way to the table where Luke sits. Tries not to let the man's color bother him too much.

"You alright?" he asks, sitting opposite the Jedi.

"I'm... f-fine," Luke assures him. Faintly.

"You're shivering," Din states. He gets to his feet, setting Grogu on Luke's lap and instantly moving to unbuckle his cape, wrap it tight about Luke's shoulders.

"I think..." the wizard starts to tell him. "Th-think. Might have a fever."

Din moves forward without hesitation, pulling his right hand from its glove and pressing the back of it to Luke's forehead. He's burning up, near magmatic in temperature. Panic quavers through Din.

"Kriff," he swears. It is all he can think to say.

The next few days slog by: exorbitant, gluttonous in their consumption of time. Din attempts to nurse Luke back to health, cleaning his wound twice a day and praying to whatever god is listening infection will not take him. There is no explanation for Luke's sudden change in condition, after so smooth a recovery; Din blames only himself. He should've paid better attention, kept a closer eye on him - never strayed from the Jedi's side -

"You're," Luke cuts him off on the second day, mid-ramble - "you're way too hard on yourself. Lighten up a little, won't you? Or I'll die of misery before the blood loss gets me."

Din cannot help but laugh at that.

When they finally make it to Nevarro, four days later, Luke is hanging by a thread. Din doesn't sleep, choosing instead to station himself at the man's bedside. He makes constant trips to the refresher, wetting the cold cloth he uses to fight Luke's fever in the sink - occasionally removing his helmet to splash water on his own gaunt, haggard face.

"Let me watch him," Cara insists every few hours - when Din inevitably leaves the living quarters, retrieving rations from the cabin's kitchenette and checking on Grogu. "You're running yourself into the ground, Mando."

"I'm well aware," he grates out, teeth grinding together in his frustration. It's his fault Luke is in this state. It's his responsibility to tend to him, help him heal. Keep him alive until they land.

It comes down to the wire. Cara, anxious in her hurry to get Gideon to Republic authorities, refuses to let them stop - and makes the valid point that his lackeys may still be pursuing them. Din objects to this heartily, spending several hours nagging her about it - but has to reluctantly admit she's right.

The two of them, therefore - as much as they adore each other - are naturally ready to bite each other's heads off.

That is, until Boba comes crackling over the intercom and says, "Prepare for landing, all. We've arrived."

It is dawn when Din steps out of the ship onto the hot black sands, Luke's arms slung carefully around his and Fennec's shoulders. The Jedi can barely stand, let alone walk - so the two of them set about helping him down the ramp and towards the city's ashen gate. Cara, Boba, and the droid follow close behind, with Grogu in Cara's careful grasp, and the slab of Moff in tow.

Din's missed Nevarro mornings, cool and holy in their leniency. The ruthless sun has yet to bear down in its unforgiving vengeance; the lava flats have yet to boil. His mother loved the morning, he remembers: the silence that fell over the covert, not yet broken - and the soft call of the songbirds who'd somehow, mistakenly, wandered into their tunnels.

"Your place, Cara?" he calls over his shoulder - his voice breaking the town's lovely quiet. He hears Grogu shift in Cara's arms at the noise, the rustling of his clothes somehow audible to his father over the dragging of Luke's shoes on the sandy path.

"You don't want to take him to the clinic first?" comes the reply.

"Probably best to be discreet," Boba answers, in a surprising moment of insight. Din agrees wholeheartedly: despite the New Republic presence and protection in the city, there's no telling what remnants of the Empire may still remain. No, better to stuff Gideon's entombed body away and out of sight, and keep the Jedi hidden as best they possibly can.

The town is smaller than Din remembers; it isn't long before they've reached Cara's little outpost. She unlocks the front door and leads them through to the back, past her marshal's office, pushing aside a dark red screen covering a doorway to let them all into her living space.

Din realizes, as he and Fennec navigate an unconscious Luke towards the well-worn couch, that he's never been inside Cara's actual home. It is small and humble, plain in its furnishings and modest in size - but there is a comfort to the rooms, a snugness and warmth that has nothing to do with the rising sun outside.

Cara closes all the windows, shuts the curtains as the rest of the crew crams into her living room. Boba and Fennec stand awkwardly near the door like they aren't sure what to do with themselves. Artoo hovers anxiously behind them, stationed in the space outside to keep from overcrowding.

Grogu, placed atop the little table near the farthest window, coos and grabs for Din. He leaves the Jedi's side to gather up his son: holds him close and whispers, "We're safe now, vaar'ika. Time to rest."

Luke mumbles in his sleep, keening, drawing all their attention to the situation at hand - and Din's heart jostles, spasms at the pain in his voice.

"Cara," he says, just as she crosses to her kitchen and yanks open her medicine cabinet. After rummaging around for a few harrowing moments, she retrieves a soft, squished gel pack from the back and surveys it, squinting to read its label.

"Expired," she announces. She looks at Din like she is scared to death of letting him down. The openness of her terrified stare claws at his chest, pulling it taut and tight beneath the shell of his armor.

"I'll go to the market," he tells her - handing Grogu off to Boba as he strides back to the door. "It's okay, it's not your fault."

"I'm so sorry, Mando -"

"There's no need for apologies," Fett interjects - says curtly to Din, "Hurry. Time is not on your side."

Din nods, levels his gaze at Cara. Hopes, prays she can see the love he has for her beneath his helmet.

He all but sprints to the bazaar, back to the city's entrance, the sun pouring mercilessly upon him as he goes. The market is just beginning to open for the day: the vendors cobble their shoddy booths together as he approaches, putting up signs and laying out their wares. The sand and ash rebel beneath his feet; the traction of his fine-cut boots does him no good atop them. He sees the heat billowing around him as he runs, the air visibly quivering with the ground's volcanic fervor.

He must be a sight to see on a sweltering Nevarro morning.

He sweeps through the market with well-practiced ease, making an immediate beeline to the medicinal stall and paying the merchant far more than she's asking. The tube of bacta he buys feels almost unreal in his hands, his desperate grasp, as he moves to leave again - shoving the container into the canvas pouch at his side.

(A sleeve of Grogu's favorite, teal-blue cookies somehow makes it into the saddlebag, too.)

The trip back takes much longer than Din's liking, the sands still unbearably stubborn beneath his feet - but soon enough, he's back, knocking furiously at the bolted door until Fennec opens it. She looks at him worriedly and says nothing, nods to the back room. Dread pools in the pits of his stomach; he begins to anticipate the very worst.

They've moved Luke to Cara's bedroom in Din's absence, and this is where he finds him: haggard and wan upon the bed, but conscious, lucid. A tired little smile finds its way across his face when he sees him.

"Hi," he says, and shifts like he's going to try sitting up. Din stops him, pushing gently at his chest until he lays back again.

"I brought you something," he tells him, and draws the bacta cylinder from his side to show the Jedi. It's a little spray bottle, the same distilled form of liquid IG-11 used to save his life. He pulls the cap off, rests it on the bedside table. Sets about removing Luke's shirt and wrappings, lying them out on the mattress.

Din thanks the gods there is still no sign of infection, and begins his work. Some huge, intangible weight falls from his shoulders when the spray takes immediate effect, starting to knit together the tissue of Luke's torso before his very eyes. His heart soars at the relieved sound Luke makes at the sensation, agony giving way to comfort, color returning to his cheeks. Din has him move, turn over on the bed so he can reach his lightning-webbed back, and spritzes there, too.

He hopes this newest wound will not scar - the Jedi has enough of those already.

"A droid saved my life with this, once," he feels suddenly compelled to say. He isn't sure why. Luke is just one of those people he feels he can bare his entire self to.

"I thought you didn't like droids," Luke says, voice tinged with a smile. Din can still hear it, even facing away from the Mandalorian as he is.

He quiets, then: says softly, "My parents were killed by them." It isn't nearly as difficult as he expected it to be, saying it aloud. As everything with Luke, it feels natural, intrinsic. Like Din has been waiting his whole life to say these words to him.

Luke doesn't apologize. He doesn't tell Din how very sorry he is. He just says, "I lost my parents, too" - and Din clings to this like it is his salvation. His lifeline. Finally, someone who understands: it is fact. It does not require change, bemoaning, backpedaling. It simply is. He lives with it, will carry it till the day he dies. And here is someone who knows this truth better than anyone else.

He wants to hold Luke, draw him close. There is a long moment where the Jedi turns back to him and simply looks, his gaze so open and tender Din thinks it will kill him.

Then there is a knock at the door, and the moment fades. Cara enters, says nervously, tentatively: "Mando?"

He turns away from Luke. "Yes, Cara?"

"There's someone here to see you."

Something wonderful, rich with the scent of spice and seasoning, is wafting through Cara's little apartment. The sound of laughter echoes around the corner from the little hall the galley kitchen is situated in - the windows are cracked, the balmy evening air peeking, drifting through - and for the first time on this draining, nerve-wracking journey, Din feels at peace.

The dark shadow of Luke's poor condition, hanging over them since their group's very inception, has finally passed. Din sits at the desk in the living room and balances Grogu on his lap, letting the glow of happy conversation wash over him. He's finally shaken that terrible feeling of being hunted down.

Greef Karga, looking no different than he did a mere two weeks ago, splays out across from them, fingers inspecting the sleeve of famous Nevarro cookies torn open on the tabletop.

"A Jedi, huh?" he says, unceremoniously, around the cookie he has just put in his mouth. (Din's well aware he's slipping them to Grogu under the table - cannot bring himself to say anything. His son deserves more than a few treats, after everything he's been through.)

"I thought they'd all disappeared," Greef continues - sends a look over at Luke, who's seated on the couch, talking quietly with his astromech. Din is pleased to see he's well on his way to recovery, already able to walk and be on his feet, although not for very long periods of time.

"How'd you know he's a Jedi?" Din asks.

"He's got that laser sword on him, very conspicuous," Greef grumbles, nodding at the lightsaber at Luke's belt. A pointed look at Din's own holster tells him what's coming next: "And I suppose you fancy yourself one, too, now, since you've managed to get your own."

Din laughs for what feels the first time in years, gaining Luke's attention from the other side of the room. He's missed this man on their travels - forgotten what an enjoyable, sardonic companion he is.

"I'm not a Jedi," he tells his friend. "And I didn't come by this of my own... volition."

Greef harrumphs, mutters something Din doesn't quite catch. "But this little guy," he says, and he smiles as he looks at Grogu, who gurgles amicably in return. "He'll turn into one, won't he? He's a Force-user now."

"Yes," Din says, beaming with pride for his son beneath his helmet. "He's very powerful. Luke's going to train him, once he has his health again."

"And when will that -"

"Mando!" Cara calls joyously from the kitchen, positively giggling her elation. "Come help Boba set the table!"

Din shrugs his apology, hands Grogu over to a tetchy Greef - smiles to himself as the once-formidable Guild member gathers up the child and babbles with him in gibberish, his voice rising what seems like an octave in pitch.

There is a dusting of flour on Cara's nose when Din finds her and Fennec, their arms free of battle-clothes and their skin shining with the kitchen's heat. Boba is already there, a too-small apron looped over his head, the outline of his armor embossed ridiculously through the soft fabric. The grin plastered 'cross his face is befitting of a child, not a combat-hardened bounty hunter more than twice Din's age. His heart swells at the sight, beneath all his beskar.

The two men retrieve a long wooden board from Cara's closet, setting it on the living room floor - balanced atop two ceramic bowls - as a makeshift table. The meal is soon piled upon it, nearly spilling onto the ground in its immensity, and their little clan of seven gathers, cross-legged, around their buffet. Grogu squeaks, squirms excitedly on Din's lap as plates heaped with steaming food are passed around.

Fennec and Cara cooked a veritable feast: round bread-puff rolls that remind Din of his mother's baking, dripping with a buttery sheen; Cara's take on hearty Alderaan stew, her favorite, crossed with Aurebesh soup, producing a creamy broth with vegetables and Aurebesh noodles mixed in; roasted Qartuum, seasoned with herbs and smelling so divine, Din's practically drooling; and Mando papuur'gal, shimmering blood-red in a decanter Din doesn't know how Cara found. She winks at him across the room, and grins at Boba's hearty, triumphant roar of delight when he sees the pitcher.

They dig in, the warm hum of friendly conversation lingering as they eat. Din doesn't speak: merely basks in the glow of his friends and their contentment, feeding Grogu small bites of Qartuum meat with a little wooden fork. There is something about several near-death experiences, all in a row, he observes, that brings people together in the loveliest of ways. Luke talks to Greef like they've known each other for years - head bobbing as he listens intently to the man telling him about his role as Magistrate of Nevarro, and all the changes they've made to the planet over the course of a single month. On Luke's other side, Fennec chats animatedly with Boba and Cara, who's drinking her in with a look Din thinks he recognizes. He takes note of the little glances the women keep sending each other's way, when they think the other isn't paying attention. He knows that feeling all too well.

When the conversation comes to him, and he is goaded by Boba into speaking, he does so without hesitancy. Time passes leisurely; he languishes as Greef, hiccuping to himself, pours him another glass of wine. Din's feeling a slight buzz already, only on his third drink, but those of his friends unaccustomed to Mandalorian booze are more than a little tipsy by now. Boba sends him a cheery smirk across the table, raising his glass to Din in pure jubilation.

Eventually, they take their fill. Cara brings out caf, hot chocolate, and a lavishly-frosted cake Din isn't sure how she and Fennec had time to bake. He is stuffed, his belly full to the point of near discomfort. Grogu voices his happiness in a string of sleepy gurgles; Din smiles and squeezes him a little, murmuring to him in Mando'a as he settles against his father, ready for bed.

"I think that's our cue," Boba announces, snickering, when a drunken Fennec tries to stand and nearly upends the table. He helps to steady her, says, "We're headed back to the Slave for the night, then."

"There's room here for you both to stay, if you want," Cara tells him - getting to her feet, ever the gracious hostess.

"We've more than overstayed our welcome," the weathered Mandalorian insists. He sends Din a look that is difficult to read. (Maybe the papuur'gal has had more of an effect on him than he realizes.) "You can come with us, if you like," he tells Din gruffly. "Might get a little crowded here - no offense, Cara. May have to share some beds."

Not for the last time, Din is endlessly grateful no one can see his eyes darting to the Jedi behind the shield of his helmet.

"I don't mind," he says carefully. "I'm too stuffed to even make it out the door, anyway."

The peal of laughter that draws from his friends sends shivers of warm fondness through his drink-heavy veins.

"I'd best be off, too, then," Greef says once the laughing has died down. They all stand and say their goodbyes: Boba and Fennec promise their return in the morning; Greef gives his word he'll do the same. Luke smiles tiredly at them all, stationed on the sofa beside a now-sleeping Grogu. Din feels his affection for them radiating off of him like a bonfire - sees his eyes light up when they all witness Fennec kiss Cara on the cheek, her wine-pink face an even brighter red as she pulls away.

"I think I'm going to bed," he says wearily, once everyone has left. He's wincing, leaning against Artoo now, a hand pressed carefully to his side. No doubt, the bacta is still completing its work; Din knows from experience how taxing it can be to heal - the toll it can take on a body.

"Take my bed," Cara says absentmindedly. She's surprisingly clear-headed after several drinks, clearing up the dishes and leftovers with ease, but still seems distracted. Din watches as she walks over to the kitchen, presses a soft hand to her cheek - right at the spot where Fennec kissed her.

"No, Cara," Luke starts, "I can't possibly -"

"I'll take the couch," she tells him - rolls her eyes. "Mando can have the floor."

"Mmm," Din hums, chuckling a little. He knows Grogu - who stays asleep when he picks him up, cradles him gently in his arms - will not mind, as he lays his cloak out, sets about creating an ad hoc bed upon the floor.

"I'm glad you're doing better," he tells Luke, once Cara has retreated to the kitchen, is safely out of earshot. "I was worried for you."

"I know," Luke says. He steps forward, leaving the safety of Artoo's loyal, domed support - takes Din's free hand in his own, bringing it close to his chest. "It means more to me than I can tell you."

Din melts under his steady gaze, at the feeling of the Jedi's heartbeat beneath his fingertips.

"We should talk tomorrow," Luke continues. "You've given me a lot to think about."

He lets go of the Mandalorian's gloved hand, bringing his own up to rest against the smooth cheek of his helmet.

"Goodnight, Din."

He takes Din's breath with him as he goes.

"You're getting soft," Cara teases after a brief moment's silence - coming back into the main room and flopping down on the couch. Din is surprised her legs aren't cramped, feet aren't hanging off the end, as tall and big as she is. There is something delicate about her, sometimes: elegant, refined, in the way she moves, arranges herself on the cushions.

"Am not," he mutters, crouching down to sit upon the floor and starting to unbuckle his chestplate. She throws a dark, handwoven blanket at him, cackling when it lands and drapes perfectly over his helmet, blacking out his viewfinder. He must look a ghost.

Grogu wriggles blearily in his arms at the sudden disturbance, his pointed ears poking adorably at the blue fabric, stretching it outwards in a makeshift silhouette. Din smiles, pushes the blanket off, and lies down, arranging the cloth about them and settling down for the night.

"Sleep well, Mando," Cara says drowsily, already drifting.

"You, too," he answers.

It is the best night's sleep he thinks he's ever gotten. He gets up early the next morning, before anyone else, and rises from the floor, careful not to wake Grogu as he goes. He does not remember dreaming.

The caf Cara brewed is chilled from the conservator, but is just as good, as strong as the night before. He pours some out in a cup he finds in the cabinet - takes a few sips, then goes looking for water. Din holds his liquor well, but his head still rattles a bit this morning, after such a long bout of sobriety in his travels.

The water helps. He makes his mind up, decides there is something he must take care of before he does anything else on this planet he calls home.

It is early enough, like yesterday, that the Nevarro streets are quiet, peaceful as he winds between them. It's not long before he's reached the covert's shrouded entrance - finding his way there without even having to look.

She is still there - as she has always been, and always will be. The distant, methodical clang of her hammer reverberates down the tunnels as he passes through them. The sound of her smelting is, at once, both comforting and disconcerting. It is a melody he has known since childhood, could sing along to in his sleep - but it is eerie now, unaccompanied by the dull, muffled noise of the Tribe.

Anguish tears at Din's heart as he approaches the forge: walks past the row of empty helmets, the plates of ownerless armor lining the corridors of what is now a crypt. The bodies are gone - she has rid of them all, he assumes, giving them a proper burial - but the weight of death still lingers, hangs. Like thick smoke, a fog lining the walls of this wretched catacomb.

He stops at the entrance of her smithy. She must hear him behind her, for she strikes one final blow to the beskar she is molding, and then ceases.

Again, that unbearable quiet.

"Forgive me," he says. Begs. Voice impossibly loud in the stillness of the haven.

For a terrible, vast moment, she says nothing. She turns, surveys him: eyes unfairly omnipotent, piercing straight through him, even through the blankness of her helmet.

Then she asks, plainly: "Whatever for?"

Din remembers how much she used to scare him, in his youth. How he and his playmates would skirt away from the door of the forge in their games, terrified of the wrath she would bring upon them if they dared to disturb her work.

"I sinned," he tells her now - that childlike fear still instilled in him. "I removed my helmet."

The Armorer says nothing. His wrongdoing hangs suspended, heavy, in the space between them. Suffocating Din in its dense, suppressive quietude.

"Who saw your face?" she finally asks - dips the beskar plate she is smelting into the bucket of water beside her anvil. There is no bite to her tone, no reprimand. Din wonders why she is so hesitant in his punishment.

"Imperials," he confesses.

"Did you kill them?"

"Yes, but -"

"And who else?"

"A prisoner. Who helped me kill the Imperials. We... let him go. He faked his death."

"And?"

"Someone..." Din starts. "Someone close to me. And my son. A Jedi."

She tilts her head, as if perplexed: says, "The child's teacher?"

"Yes."

Once more, that awful silence. Then the Armorer says - bitterly, brokenly - "The old ways are no more, Dinui. There are none that follow our creed."

"No," he insists, surging forward. She turns away, back to her workshop, but Din will not let her. He grabs, pulls at her arm, feeling again like the little Foundling he once was, sneaking into the back of the forge to watch her craft.

"Punish me," he begs: voice cracking, tears catching at his throat. "Take away my armor. I have - my beskar spear -"

He produces the javelin from the holster at his back, and in his motion, he accidentally upsets the material of his cloak, carefully pressed and arranged at his left side to conceal the Darksaber. Her eyes snap immediately to it, and from her lips falls a terrible noise - this awful, horrid gasp Din never wants to hear again, sending terrible chills down his spine.

"What is that?" she says hoarsely. Points with a trembling finger at his side.

"It," Din stutters. "You. You know what it is."

"Not you," she says. "It cannot be you."

He pulls the hilt from his belt, proffers it to her. She does not take it.

"The woman who forced this on me," he says. "She told me I come from a cult. The Children of the Watch."

"Not a cult," the Armorer snaps, her voice tremulous with sudden anger. "Traditionalists. We sought to restore the Way, the old rites. All others are deserters."

She moves again, turns back to her forge - its fire run cold, heat long forgotten. "Anyway, it matters no longer. There is no one left."

"There is you, and there is me," Din tells her.

"But you will have to abandon the Way, if you are to unite all of Mandalore." She pumps the old bellows once, but the flames are long dead; the blowtorch at her wrist, identical to Din's own, is enough to reignite it.

"I'm not going to," he tells her. "I have a duty to my son. I found him a teacher, and it's my responsibility to make sure -"

"You found the Jedi; what more is there to it? Your work is done."

"It's more complicated than that -"

"It's not, Dinui. You are scared." She slams her hammer down with an awful noise that echoes, ringing through the whole covert. "Why did you take it? Why would you -"

"I didn't know," he howls, pathetically - the tears finally falling from his eyes. He buckles, drops to the floor. His shoulders heave.

Finally, his mentor draws near: presses forward and pulls him, angrily, harshly, to his feet. "K'olar!" she hisses. "What use is it crying? You cannot be rid of it now."

"I don't deserve it," he tells her. "I broke with creed. I betrayed our people."

"Why did you do it?"

"I..." Din pauses, sniffles wretchedly. He feels a child. "To save my son. To destroy the man who took him from me."

"To survive, then." She places her hands on his shoulders, her grip firm, unrelenting. "So you did what you had to. You had no other choice, to protect your child. You have broken no rule."

"But -"

"If the Jedi holds a place in your heart," she says, unwavering, "and the other is as good as dead... you have done no wrong, Dinui."

Her gloved, beskar-plated hand comes to rest against his helmet, just as Luke had done the night before. "Ne chaabar," she tells him. "Ru vaabir naas dush. Vorer gar."

Din turns from her, wrests his visor briefly from his face to wipe blearily at his tears. "Vor entye," he chokes out, as he lowers down his faceless shield again.

She nods - clears her throat, as if to tackle a new subject - says, "Now -"

And stops short.

Din watches, confused, as her gaze fixates on something distinctly behind him, over his shoulder. "What...?"

He turns. Luke Skywalker stands at the mouth of the forge, lips pressed together in a thin, straight line - as if he's holding back tears of his own.

"Luke," Din breathes. Like his is the only name he's ever known.

"Is this him, then, Dinui?" the Armorer asks. "Your Jedi?"

"I..." He trails off, hands hovering about Luke's lithe frame, not quite touching. "Yes, he - how - how did you - ?"

"I heard you," Luke tells him. "Through the Force. You sounded like... like you were in pain. I followed your voice." He glances at the matriarch behind them, his brow furrowed in an adorably worried expression - then takes Din's hands in his. "I was worried sick about you - I woke up, and Grogu didn't know where you'd gone, and -"

"I'm okay," Din reassures him. "I had to... I had business to take care of. I'm alright."

Luke nods, many times - takes another little peek at the proud tribeswoman and says, "Who's Dinui?"

The taller of the two laughs, wishes more than anything to hug Luke then and there. "That would be me."

"Is that - your full name?"

"No," Din explains. "My cyare'gai, my beloved-name. A nickname that my parents gave me."

"It means 'gift,'" the Armorer calls from behind. She has returned to her hearth again, extending her fingers to feel for its warmth. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"Yes," Luke murmurs, like he wishes for Din not to hear.

"And what a happy coincidence, too," the woman continues, "that his name was Din already." The golden burnish of her armor flares brilliant, orange in the firelight, mesmerizing, magnificent in its splendor.

"Is she...?" Luke begins, in that same hushed voice, and Din very nearly laughs again.

"Not my mother, no. But she's close enough." He nods at the door, points to the sheathing abandoned outside. "We're all that's left of the Tribe now."

The Jedi blanches, eyes widening in shock - but Din gives him no room to speak. It is still too painful. "You shouldn't have come here," he rushes to say. "It's not safe for you to be outdoors."

"I was careful," Luke tells him. Says nothing of the sudden change of topic, rolls his eyes a little. "I am a big boy, Din."

"You're still injured," he insists. "Still recovering. Did Cara say it was alright?"

"She..." His counterpart trails off sheepishly, avoids Din's eyes. "She, uh. She was busy, when I left. Getting in contact with the Republic."

"So you snuck out."

"Look," the Jedi says - mirthfully, sarcastically. "If Cara happened to not catch me leaving, it's on her."

Din chuckles, shakes his head in pretend disappointment. He opens his mouth to speak, but the Armorer cuts him off.

"Guuror kaysh," she calls. "Haa'taylir gar suvarir."

And for the umpteenth time, Din is beyond glad his helmet is so generous in its masking of his now-blushing face.

"What's she saying?" Luke whispers - only to be hushed by Din, squeezing their hands together.

"Ven yaimpar," he tells his kinswoman.

"Elek," she answers. "Solet jorhaa'ir. Ven ganar ori beskar tion'tuur yaimpar."

He isn't sure how to respond - he looks to Luke, who is, of course, equally as perplexed. So he ducks his head, places his vambrace-clad arm gently at Luke's back, and escorts him out.

"Is this where you grew up?" Luke asks quietly as they make their way through the dimly-lit sewers. Din's stomach swoops bitterly, turning his head intentionally to avoid looking at what was once his favorite alcove - where he and his childhood friends would gather and play - he thinks he can spot a stain, blood-rust spatter, from the corner of his eye -

"Din?" the Jedi is asking as they walk. "Are you alright?"

He breathes deep, gasping for air, his chest tight. "Yes," he says. "Yes, this is... my home, for the most part."

"What...?" Luke is taking in their surroundings: the sloped, smooth curve of the walls - the shadowed nooks and crannies, little hollows where Tribe families would reside, make their homes. "Can I ask what happened? To them all?"

The wound is still too fresh, too deep. It has barely been a month since the massacre, and Din has barely had time to even grieve, let alone process what happened. The role he played in his own people's slaughter.

So he says, ruefully, "I'm sorry. It'll have to be another time."

Even from his periphery, even in the dark, he sees Luke's face soften. "Of course," he tells Din; "I understand."

Din ushers him quickly up the secret stairs, out of the planet's underbelly and back into the city streets. They hurry back to Cara's house without speaking, Din leading them down back alleyways and side avenues to avoid unwanted attention. Luke sweeps his cloak about himself, tugs the hood over his eyes, and Din is, in a brief moment of reprieve, sweetly reminded of their first meeting. He had been so cool and mysterious, then: suave, and elegant, and utterly out of reach, unknowable.

How Din had yearned for him, upon that first impression - how he longed. How he feels this unshakable bond now, this connection between them he isn't sure he'll ever be rid of.

Even when he inevitably leaves. With Grogu in tow.

The mouthwatering smell of the breakfast Cara's made draws him from his reverie as they approach the home. He opens the door for Luke and steps aside to let him pass - tries to ignore the way his heart feels fit to burst at the sight of his sun-bright smile.

Their little clan has once more assembled in the house, spread out around the living room when the two enter - and they erupt into raucous cheers and "heys!" at the sight of them. Grogu hops up from his seat at Greef's lap and waddles over to his father, demanding to be carried. Din complies without hesitation, shushing him, holding him close and secure against his polished cuirass. Cara rises from her place next to Fennec and goes to retrieve food; Boba grunts his welcome, adjusts himself from his spot nearest the door to make room for them to sit.

"Eat," Cara commands on her return, carrying two trays stacked high with Aiwha eggs, hotcakes - and boiled mealgrain, a Mandalorian staple, much to Din's delight. She hovers over them like a hawk tending to its chicks, glowering at Din - only abating once he's tried a bit of everything, his spoon starting to scrape the bottom of his porridge bowl.

"So, where'd you end up this morning?" she asks once he's finished, still pretending to be mad at him. "Luke had quite a shock when he woke up to you gone."

"I heard," he says - garbled, through a mouthful of buttery hotcake. "And you had quite a shock when you came back to no Luke, I presume?"

"Mmm," Cara hums, in satiric agreement.

Din snickers. "I went back to the covert, to speak with the Armorer. She had some things to tell me."

"I see," comes the reply. "She's not the only one."

"Hmm?" He is momentarily distracted, feeding Grogu a little bite of egg-white.

"You and I should really -"

"Cara?" someone says. "Do you mind if I steal Din for a second?"

They both look up to find Luke, on his feet, hovering above them. His face is serious, foreboding: Din immediately feels the familiar tug of anxiety, pouncing on his stomach.

"Not a problem," their hostess smiles - courteous as ever, even after a moment's hesitation. "He's all yours, Luke" - and she winks at Din as she stands.

Din's body groans, aches as he gets up, testy after the last week and a half of nonstop action. He's getting old, he realizes. Wonders if he has any chance at all with Luke - so effortlessly young, his youthful beauty everlasting.

"Is now a good time?" the Jedi asks. His eyes dart over to the back room, which sits vacant. "We should talk about... things."

Din isn't sure how much more he can take of the hushed, hurried conversation, the secret conclaves in dark corners. But he steels himself anyway, nerves spent, and nods.

"Let's," he says, and follows Luke into the bedroom.