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He knows fists and blocks, boots against feet and shins, blows and beatings done to him or by him. He knows brief clasps of hands and wrists in greeting or agreement. He knows his own hands, dressing his wounds on the Crest or in the field, scrubbing sweat and blood and ichor from his body. He knows these touches, and for a long while, they seem enough.
Until he finds the Child.
It startles him on a lonely desert night on Arvala-7, the child at his side, one small hand on his leg and one stretching to his arm. The touch is small and uncertain, and Din shies away from the sensation, recoiling. He scoops the quarry up and deposits it back in its pram, and he gets back to work, cauterizing the wound in his arm to prevent infection. The sear of the cauterizer is a painful sizzle throbbing in his bicep, but it’s familiar, and he does not mind.
He makes his choice to flee with the child, and on Sorgan, he watches mothers and fathers tend their children with easy hugs and kisses on foreheads, hands on shoulders, leaning against each other around the evening fires. Spouses hold hands or reach to touch each other’s arm or shoulder through the day. Friends hug easily, clasp hands for simple things like jokes.
The child leans against him sometimes, holding onto his leg. He’s so small Din can barely feel it through his boot. Sometimes he reaches down as if to move the kid away, but usually his hand stills, and he lets him stay.
Omera offers him smiles, beautiful words of a different life. Her hands against his helmet make him shiver, and he lowers them, shaken by the idea that he has not been this close to someone outside of battle in many, many years.
The kid’s everywhere he tries to be. Climbing up to curl against his leg. Clambering into his lap when he’s flying the ship. Grabbing onto his boot sometimes just because. And when Din holds him, which is often -- it’s faster than waiting for him to walk long distances -- sometimes the kid tries to grab his hand, and Din lets him.
It feels nice, somehow, being… needed.
He meets up with Cara Dune again, and there’s an easy understanding, a camaraderie like he hadn’t felt since his time in the fighting corps. Talk turns to arm wrestling on the long flight, and it’s good to spar in a way that doesn’t leave scars; it’s something friends do.
But she’s there for him in a deeper way the next day, when there’s a piercing flash and a boom and he hits the ground wounded worse than he’s ever been. His skull crunches beneath the skin, beneath the helmet, and he lays in the dirt in the firefight helpless, breath leaking out haphazardly through his gasping mouth. He feels strong arms around him, feels his feet dangle as they drag through the dust, feels her pull his broken form to safety. It’s a clumsy rescue, far from graceful, but she’s careful with him all the same. He feels her fingertips along the back of his neck, supporting his head and helmet; feels the way her hand slips on the blood slicking his hair and cowl. This is it, his end, if only he could have saved the child --
IG-11 waves his protests aside as the others flee, and Din lets the droid help despite his memories of its kind, despite the Creed. If it’ll help the child… if he can keep the Imps off of him a little longer…
When IG-11 gets him on his feet again, it’s Cara in the sewers ready to sling an arm around him and keep him upright. He leans against her gratefully, feeling a little stronger with every step.
He knows so much more now. He knows a shoulder clap from Cara Dune, a solid, lingering handshake from Greef Karga, Peli Motto punching his arm in delight. He feels the way his stance has shifted, the way he stands a little closer to those he trusts, holds himself a little looser, feels a smile tugging at his mouth now and then. He flinches less, relaxes more. There is room for softness now, to his great surprise.
It’s the kid’s doing, of course. He’s no fool. He knows the touch of the kid’s face, snuggled against his shoulder; the way his ears feel between Din’s fingertips; his three fingers clasping Din’s. He knows the kid’s small but solid weight against his chest or on his lap or nestled in his arm. He knows the kid’s hugs backward and forward; he leans into them, every time.
And it feels good.
It feels good.