Chapter Text
Grogu yawned, trying to get comfortable in his little bed. He and the man were safe again in their ship, and he was glad to get some rest. It was such a long day they’d had.
He curled up in his pram, tugging the blanket up over himself. Drowsily he watched the man operate the strange machine in the cargo hold. It hissed great gouts of white steam as the angrily yelling woman was pushed inside, flailing her long claws and sharp spiky tail in protest. Grogu blinked, surprised, as the Force around her shifted and changed. She suddenly felt muted and far away, even though Grogu knew she was still very near. Grogu’s protector stepped out of the mist, shaking his silver helmet.
“Sorry you had to see that, kid,” said the man. “She could have come quietly, but…” He let out a long breath. “Thanks for the help back there.”
Grogu beamed up at him. He and the man had been surprised when she leaped out of the alleyway at them, and she was so fast! She knocked the man down, tore at him with her claws, grappled with him. She didn’t seem to mind the flames that came from his wrist, nor the ways he tried to flip her over and get to his feet. Grogu knew when things like this happened that he was supposed to touch the button on his pram and hide inside, but he wanted to be helpful, to protect the man. He reached out and pushed her, and that was the opening the man needed to get back to his feet and shoot a silver cord around her. He was glad he had been able to help.
The man knelt in front of him, resting one hand on his pram. “Don’t worry. This job for Greef Karga ought to earn us enough for a while. We’ll find you that Jedi yet.” He reached up and patted Grogu on the shoulder, and Grogu frowned, sensing an injury. He pointed to the man’s arm with his claw, whimpering. He was too sleepy to help, too tired from the fight before, but what if the man needed him --
The man shook his head again. “Oh, that? Just a few scratches. I’ll be fine. You just get some rest, buddy. I can fix those.”
Grogu let out a small sigh, wavering. The man didn’t feel scared, or hurt, in the Force; if anything, he just felt somewhat annoyed by the wound. That was good. Grogu was glad he wasn’t afraid.
Still, he didn’t like knowing the man was hurt. Maybe he should try -- he reached his arm toward the man, straining, then fell back in his pram. He was so tired.
The man chuckled gently. “I know you wanna help. You did great back there, okay? Now get some sleep. I’m fine.”
Grogu yawned again. He wasn’t sure the man was right -- the scratches didn’t seem to be hurting him badly, but there was something about them that felt strange, something that made Grogu’s stomach feel funny -- but he knew the man was very brave. Reluctantly, he snuggled deeper into his blanket and fell asleep.
Din charted a course to Nevarro, letting out a sigh. It would take them the better part of a standard day to return, coming as they were from a small world far off the hyperspace lanes. That was fine; it should be a nice quiet ride. It would give the kid a chance to rest up, and himself a chance to clean up his armor and patch any wounds. The bounty, of course, would be perfectly comfortable in her carbonite.
He hadn’t faced someone of this species before, and Greef had had limited intel on her. All he’d known was the target was dangerous and desperate. He’d thought he’d been prepared, but her strength far surpassed his, and her claws had managed to pierce through the thick leather of his sleeve. He headed back down to the refresher to take care of cleaning the wound and repairing the leather.
He carefully doffed his cuirass, pauldrons, vambraces and gloves at his armor rack, checking each for any damage or uncleanliness before setting them aside. Under his breath he muttered words of thanks in Mando’a for the protection his armor had given him, a ritual so intrinsic he didn’t even notice the familiar words vibrating deep in his throat. They formed something like music, melding with the hum of the Razor Crest .
Din continued with his ritual, removing his flak vest and leather overshirt, leaving only his cloth undershirt and suspenders in place. He looped his thumbs under his suspenders and shrugged them down over his shoulders, leaving them hanging from his trousers. He went to check his sleeve for tears or rents, and pulled back, hand stiffening.
His sleeve was wet.
He frowned in surprise. There’d only been the mildest sting of pain during the fight, and nothing afterwards to suggest any serious wound. Perhaps it wasn’t a few scratches after all.
The dark cloth didn’t show stains easily, but there was no mistaking the reddish-black patch of blood around his bicep, with streams of dark staining halfway down to his wrist. “Hell , ” he groused, lifting up his hand to see red smeared on his fingertips. He rolled the sleeve up to his shoulder and rotated his arm, taking a critical look at the wounds from the corner of his eye.
Three jagged scratches dotted his bicep, below the area protected by the pauldron. The wounds themselves didn’t seem that deep, but a nasty purple color bloomed around them, suggesting bleeding under the skin. Luckily, the external bleeding had slowed to a gentle trickle. He nodded to himself. Some cauterization ought to take care of things.
Just one of the many hazards of the trade. At least the wounds were small and didn’t hurt, even if they hadn’t clotted yet. He knew there was no arterial involvement, or his whole arm would have been spurting.
He fetched his medical kit and set about cleaning the wounds thoroughly, then used the cautery on the scratches. He barely felt the burn; it only registered as a gentle pressure. He frowned as thin wisps of smoke sparked up from the wounds, the blackened edges slowing their bleeding. Usually this hurt like anything. Maybe the wounds had hit a nerve?
Din shook the thought away. Well, he was headed to Nevarro; if it proved to need stitches or bacta, he could probably get it sorted out there. The place was getting improvements all the time, and he thought Greef had mentioned establishing a small medical station on the edge of town. He didn’t like to get patched up by others, even with his helmet in place -- the necessary vulnerability required set his teeth on edge -- but he would look into it if needed. After all, he had the kid’s wellbeing to think about, too.
He was about to place the bandage when he realized new beads of blood had appeared at each scratch, starting as small dots first, then welling up to large crimson teardrops that spilled anew over the curve of his arm. He grumbled under his breath, then patted his arm dry and cauterized the area again. This time he slapped a pressure bandage on it before he could see how well the wounds were holding, and bound thick gauze over his arm. That ought to do it.
His wound cared for, he could turn his attention to his soiled clothing. He carefully peeled off the shirt. He wiped himself down with a damp soapy cloth, then patted himself dry with an old towel before dragging a new undershirt over his head.
Laundry on the Crest wasn’t easy, but it was possible. Hell, sometimes he made a game of it with the kid, spritzing him lightly with the water hose or letting him play in a bowl of bubbles. He was glad the kid was sleeping now, though. He hated seeing the child worry, and worry he did, seemingly about every little scratch or bruise Din picked up. Din smiled slightly at the thought. Strange to have someone worrying about him .
Strange, but not half-bad, either.
He sighed, pulling his suspenders back over his shoulders, when he realized the bandage had slipped. He went to nudge it back over his bicep, and his fingertips came away damp.
He stared at his arm, his heart rate spiking. That was a solid bandage. He’d even put extra gauze in for good measure. And he’d already cauterized the wound twice.
As he watched, the strikethrough on the surface of the bandage slowly, inexorably spread. A few isolated red dots converged into a dark coalescence, the borders expanding with every heartbeat.
Din blinked. His mind raced, running through a hundred possibilities, none of them ending well. How far was Nevarro, again?
His voice rasped in his throat, heavy with resignation. “Well, shit.”