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Luke is the first to admit that he will sometimes jump into situations headfirst without thinking about the consequences.
Looking up at the gigantic creature not unlike a rancor that is currently running in his direction as thousands of Drusians stare down at them, he has to admit that this might be a new low even for him. Then, the creature is right in front of him, and Luke has to focus all of his thought on not getting trampled to death.
It had started out quite easily.
He had heard whispers of a rare Jedi artefact that was found by some Drusians and taken to their home world in the mid-rim and had wanted to get his hands on it, desperately. Arriving on Drus VI, he had found out about the tournament currently taking place and that the winner would be taking home the artefact, after which he had, of course, immediately signed up to said tournament. The only wrench in his plan was the fact that only nobility was allowed to partake in the tournament but Luke, in a stroke of genius, had told the bored-looking Drusian sitting behind the sign-up desk that his mother had been queen of Naboo, actually, so he was nobility by birth. The Drusian had shrugged, making their mane of red hair that matched their skin tone shake with the motion, and had handed Luke his admission certificate.
When signing up, he hadn’t given too much thought about the fact that most Drusians were several heads taller than him and that their hands had razor-sharp claws. No matter what weapon they would use, he was pretty sure that he could defeat them easily.
Now, though, Luke stands facing this gigantic, rancor-like creature and regretted not asking what the tournament included, exactly. He might’ve thought twice about joining in if he’d known that the challenge was just to survive fighting the creature for as long as possible. The Drusians were a strange people.
The creature pounces.
Luke ducks between claws as long as his forearms. The creature swipes at him with his harm that resembles a tree trunk. Luke rolls across the dusty floor. The crowd of Drusians cheers and jeers and generally seems to be having a great time, unlike Luke.
Him and the creature tussle and tumble through the arena for what feels like a small eternity until Luke spots a thick chain hanging from a pillar to the side of the centre and he runs as fast as he can, letting the force help him out as he jumps upwards to crouch on top of the pillar. The creature follows him at lighting speed and Luke barely manages to grasp the chain from its hook, swinging himself down and landing on the creature’s back, slinging the chain around its neck in the process.
“Gotcha,” he murmurs to himself as he pulls on the chain, slowing the creature down from its run to a walk, then a stumble, then tugging on the chain again with some help of the force until he feels the creature losing its consciousness and it falls to the ground, with Luke barely managing staying on its back.
The crowd cheers.
The announcer says something in the Drusians’ native language, then repeats in basic, “A new record has been set! Let’s hear it for our current champion!”
The cheering follows Luke as he is escorted out of the arena into the dim labyrinth that lies beneath the stands.
“Well done,” the Drusian guiding him says in a heavy accent. “I would not have expected someone as small as you to last this long.”
“Thanks,” Luke says, still trying to catch his breath.
The Drusian nods, and then stops walking outside a door, which he opens with a quick press to the panel beside it. “You will stay here until the end of the tournament, when you will either be crowned champion or someone else will have bested your time.”
He walks out before Luke can say anything else, the sliding door closing behind him. Luke takes a moment to take in the small chamber and its furnishing, which consists only of a Drusian-sized settee and a small table of foods that Luke has never seen before.
He lets himself drop onto the sofa, stretching out despite his muscles aching with every move.
He really should stop to think before jumping headfirst into these kinds of situations. He just hopes Leia will never find out, or he’ll never hear the end of her lecture on trying to find diplomatic solutions first.
There’s a knock on the door. Before Luke can react, it slides open, revealing a Mandalorian in glinting silver armour cradling what looks like a small version of Master Yoda.
Luke jumps up from the sofa at the sight, then freezes. He’s not exactly sure what to do.
The Mandalorian takes a step into the room and lets the door close behind them.
They stand in silence for a moment. The Mandalorian tilts their head.
“Are you a Jedi?” Their voice is surprisingly nice, even filtered through their helmet.
“I am,” Luke replies.
The child in the Mandalorian’s arms coos, and suddenly, Luke feels his presence nudging against him in the force.
“Oh,” he says, unable to stop a smile from spreading across his face. “Hello there, little one.”
A series of images flashes through the force of the child – Grogu – and his father making their way across the universe to find a Jedi. In all of the memories, the Mandalorian is tinted in a warm aura that proclaims, safe!, home!, safe!
Luke looks back up to the Mandalorian’s visor.
“You were looking for a Jedi,” he states.
The Mandalorian nods. “We heard about a Jedi artefact on this planet. Thought it might be our best bet to find one.”
Luke smiles. “You were in luck, then. I’m Luke Skywalker.”
He extends his hand and the Mandalorian reaches out and shakes it, his grip strong and sure.
“Din Djarin,” he says.
Something shifts in the force, and Luke turns to see one of the foreign fruits from the refreshment tables floating through the air towards Grogu. He chuckles and steps out of the fruit’s way so that it has a direct path to the child.
“Looks like you already know your way around the Force.”
The child squeals as it plucks the fruit from the air and sinks his teeth into it, immediately covering himself in its pink juice.
The long-suffering sigh that the Mandalorian lets out is much akin to how Leia and Han have been sighing ever since Ben has gotten old enough to crawl.
“Grogu, behave,” he growls, but Luke can tell even from knowing him this shortly that his tone is filled with fondness.
“Why were you looking for a Jedi?” Luke changes the subject.
“I was looking for someone who might be able to teach him how to use his… magic.”
“The Force,” Luke corrects automatically. He is suddenly painfully aware of what an appearance he must be making in his black clothes that are covered in the red dust of the arena, his hair probably tousled beyond hope. Nothing to do about that now, he tells himself.
“I currently don’t have a school set up,” he tells the pair of them, ignoring the second fruit floating across the room towards Grogu, who has already devoured the first. “I am here for the artefact. But we can talk about it somewhere quieter when I have won it. That is, if I manage to.”
Din tilts his head. “I saw you fight out there. You did well. You should be fine.”
Luke is not one to pretend that he does not like praise, especially if it’s a member of a famed warrior race complimenting his fighting. He flushes.
“Right.” He clears his throat. “If we –”
He is interrupted by a commotion outside of the room followed by the doors sliding open.
Din steps aside. Grogu’s fruit drops to the ground. A Drusian wearing ceremonial clothing enters, followed by about five others. Outside, the hallway is quickly filling with curious onlookers.
“You are a commoner!” The first Drusian exclaims, his mane shaking in agitation
“I’m sorry?” Luke asks, confused.
“We looked at your proof of nobility as a formality before your crowning as champion. Naboo’s ruling title is not inherited, the queen is elected! That makes this win null and void. You will stand trial for your deceit!”
“But I –“ Luke tries, but is interrupted again.
“No explanation will do. What you have done is most shameful.”
“You’re wrong,” a voice speaks up.
All heads swivel around to look at Din in the corner, who does not shrink under the attention but straightens up, raising his voice.
“Not only is he nobility, he is soon to be royalty. He is engaged to marry the Mand’alor, ruler over all Mandalorian clans.”
Luke thinks he would know about it if he were engaged to some warrior ruler, but he tries to leave his face as emotionless as possible.
The Drusian in the ceremonial clothing hesitates, then protests on. “Still, he is not nobility yet. And since I don’t see the Mand’alor here, ready to marry him before the champion crowning ceremony, I cannot accept this explanation.”
Luke tries not to let his face drop. It seems like he will have to give up on the artefact.
Din, however, clenches a fist against his side and then says, “I am the Mand’alor. If that is what it takes to win, I will marry my betrothed this instant. Mandalorian marriage ceremonies only take a few minutes.”
This time, Luke can’t stop his jaw from dropping. There’s something in the clarity of Din’s voice that leaves no room for doubt. He is the Mand’alor, and he is offering Luke to marry him just so he can win this stupid tournament.
The Drusian pulls a face. “Very well, then. We shall close an eye this time if it means that we can proceed with the crowning of the clear winner of the tournament.”
Din hesitates. “Can we at least have some privacy to say our vows?”
“You can. We will give you the room.”
The Drusian shoos away the gaping onlookers and, with a last, curious look at them, lets the door slide closed behind him, leaving Luke alone with Din and the child. It’s now that he realises the enormity of Din’s offer – and the fact that the unobtrusive man before him that talks so fondly to the child in his arms is the ruler of a warrior race. Then again, he thinks as he takes in Din’s jetpack and blaster and wrist guards that definitely have more weaponry attached to him and his relaxed, yet alert stance, the man, despite his inconspicuousness, seems to be quietly brimming with power. Even more so, the offer of marriage amazes him.
“You don’t have to –” Luke begins but is quickly interrupted by Din.
“If the artefact is important to you, I’m willing to go through with this. Under one condition.”
“Which is?”
Din tilts his head down at his son. “You teach him for a standard month. If it doesn’t work out, we can give up on the idea after that and I will look for someone else.”
Luke hums. He does have plans to start a Jedi school eventually, but this seems awfully sudden to take up a teaching role. Still, it seems the only logical solution out of this situation, and Din is asking for a reasonable favour in return.
The decision is easy, in the end. Maybe he will regret once again jumping into something headfirst, but he can’t help but grin at Din as he says, “Alright, let’s do this.”
Din nods, more to himself than anything else, sets Grogu down on the settee and crosses the room to clasp Luke’s hands in his, his leather gloves smooth against Luke’s own fingers. Then, Din clears his throat.
“The Mandalorian marriage vows are simple, just four sentences. You can repeat after me.”
And so Luke repeats the four sentences Din recites, the foreign words heavy on his tongue. He looks into Din’s visor and even though the beskar of his helmet is blocking most of Din’s force signature, he can almost imagine the rough outlines of his eyes through the tinted glass. After they are done, they both hesitate for a moment. Luke isn’t sure what happens now in a Mandalorian marriage ceremony, not that this is a normal Mandalorian marriage ceremony, anyway.
Din’s visor remains directed down at him, and then he makes an abrupt movement but immediately stops himself, his head just a handsbreadth away from Luke’s, their hands clammed between their chests. Luke lets himself sway forward and press his forehead against Din’s helmet, closing his eyes at the press of cold metal against his skin. He breathes, once, twice, then slowly pulls away and lets his eyes flutter open again.
“What’s the Mandalorian word for husband, then?” His voice is quiet, barely more than a whisper, and it sends a tingle down his spine that he and Din are close enough that Din still picks it up.
“Riduur,” Din replies, his voice just as quiet.
“Alright then, riduur,” Luke says. “Let’s go get that artefact, shall we?”
Din pulls away, seeming just as hesitant about it as Luke feels, but then he shakes his head as if to wake himself up from a dream and moves to pluck Grogu off the table.
“Looks like you were busy, you rascal,” he grumbles, and Luke can’t help the chuckle escaping his throat at the sight of the child’s juice-smeared face and the distinctively empty refreshment table.
Din looks back at him over his shoulder and even though he can’t see his face, Luke likes to imagine he is throwing a smile in his direction.
“Alright, let’s go get your prize,” he says, his voice deep and fondly amused. Luke realises in that moment that he would probably follow Din across the galaxy if he just asked him to. For now, he just follows him out of the room.
The champion coronation ceremony is surprisingly fast, and before Luke knows it, he is bending over the frame of his X-Wing to stow away the ancient artefact. He shoves away some random tools and a crumpled-up Pepsi cup from Supersonic Fly-In and places the carefully wrapped artifact neatly into the newly created gap. When he straightens back up and turns around, Din is standing just a few feet away from him.
“Oh, hi!” Luke grins. Grogu wiggles in his father’s arms while the man himself remains silent. “I’m all packed up, shall we discuss that teaching arrangement of ours? I was thinking, there’s an old temple on Yavin IV, there’s still some former members of the rebellion living nearby but it should be remote enough for us to be safe there.”
Din, oddly enough, clears his throat, then says, “yeah, sounds good to me.” There’s a rough edge to his voice that Luke is pretty sure wasn’t there earlier and he almost sounds flustered. Interesting, Luke thinks to himself and makes a note to think about this later at a more fitting time.
“Alright, I guess I could set all that up and you two meet me there in, let’s say –“ he is interrupted by a series of beeps coming from his comlink that indicate a call from Leia. “Sorry, I have to take this.”
As soon as he accepts Leia’s call, her voice sounds through the speakers far louder than it should be technically possible. “Luke Kriffing Skywalker, can you tell me why the Force you didn’t tell me about your engagement?”
“I – what?”
“It’s all over the holonet! And to the new Mand’alor? You know what kind of a political nightmare this will be?”
Luke helplessly looks at Din, who shrugs.
In an attempt to calm his sister down, Luke replies, “well, it wasn’t planned?”
“Wasn’t planned – wasn’t planned? When was the last time you didn’t jump headfirst into a situation?”
“Look, I didn’t think it was gonna be a big deal! Can you at least let me explain?”
“I’d like to hear that explanation, please, go ahead.”
It takes a good five minutes to explain the situation, and by the end of it Luke isn’t sure if Leia is banging her head against a table with anger or trying to hide her laughter. It might be both.
“So tell me,” and, yeah, that’s definitely a wheeze, “why your first solution was to get married? I expect that much from you, but from the Mand’alor?”
“Well, the Mand’alor is actually here with me right now.”
“Is he? Can he hear me?”
In an universal sign to abort, Din moves his hand back and forth across his throat, shaking his head as he does so. Luke throws him a smirk. “He can.”
“Your highness, with all due respect –” it’s clear that Leia does not mean it with respect “-what the kriff were you thinking? Do you not have a political advisory team?”
“I’m here on my own. Finding a teacher for my son does not concern the rest of my people.”
“Hah!” Leia exclaims. “It does when news of your sudden marriage to the last Jedi are all over the holonet! How do you think it’ll look politically if the next day, you two divorce again? You cannot afford these kinds of missteps!”
“I only want what’s best for my son and my people,” Din replies.
Leia sighs through the comlink. “Okay, here’s what you two are going to do: you are going to remain married. You tell the public you kept it secret out of security concerns. Luke will come live with your highness on Mandalore, where you two pretend to be happily married. In a year or so when things have calmed down again you can quietly divorce. How’s that sound?”
Luke shrugs. It could be a lot worse than having to live in a Mandalorian palace for a year pretending to be married to a man that he can admit he finds attractive anyway.
“Sounds good to me,” he says.
Din nods, too. “Alright,” he says. “We can leave right now.”
“Don’t forget to visit every now and then,” Leia says, and finally, some love rings through in her voice.
“I’ll see you in a few weeks for Ben’s birthday party,” Luke promises.
Since they are currently closer to Mandalore than to Coruscant, they decide to head there first and that Luke will pick up his things still left in the inner rim when flying to Ben’s birthday party. So, they tow Luke’s X-Wing to Din’s pre-empire gunship that Din calls Razor Crest, despite it clearly not being a Razor Crest model. Luke elects not to ask him about it.
The ship is not nearly as spacious as the ship of a whole planet’s ruler should be by any means. Din gives him a quick tour after he has punched in their coordinates for the lightspeed jump and they’re hurtling through space.
Apart from the cargo hold and the cockpit with its two seats, it has two separate sleeping quarters, one of which Luke only catches a glimpse of when Din puts Grogu down to take a nap in a hammock next to a neatly made bed. Right next to the room is something that looks less like a bedchamber and more like a storage room, piles of what looks like random junk piling up in it.
Din shrugs, the movement looking almost embarrassed. “I can help you clean some of the stuff out. It’s mostly just Grogu’s things.”
Looking more closely, Luke spots several stuffed animals, two rifles, and, inexplicably, only the bottom half of what looks like a protocol droid. Again, he decides not to ask.
“I can move the things to the side, it’s just for a few nights, anyway.”
Din nods.
They stand in silence for a moment.
“Grogu has a lot of stuffed animals, huh?”
A shrug. “He likes them.”
“Be honest, you just like to spoil him.”
“Don’t know what gave you that idea.” Din’s voice is dry, but there’s amusement in there, too, and Luke can’t help but turn his head to send him a grin.
“I think it’s cute,” slips past his lips easily, and he doesn’t even regret it.
“Shut up,” Din says. His smile is audible in his tone.
They don’t clean up the room. Instead, they go back to the area between the sleeping quarters and the cockpit – it’s a hallway more than anything else, but someone has crammed a small table with two benches into one corner and Luke guesses it serves as a dining room of sorts. The room is cluttered and clearly well lived-in and strangely domestic in a way that reminds him of the Falcon enough to make him feel a bit homesick. A tiny stovetop with completes the look, and as Din bustles around the tiny room making them tea, Luke sits down at the table.
The wall next to him is filled with drawings done in colourful pens and Luke takes a closer look to inspect him, grinning to himself as he notes both wild scribbles and stick figures and also a few drawings done by someone who does not have the tiny hands of Grogu but about the same level of ability at drawing. He is just trying to figure out what a big brown lump with horns is when Din sits down across form him, placing two steaming cups on the table.
“Grogu likes drawing,” he says with a nod at the wall. “And he likes when I draw things for him.”
“Clearly,” Luke says drily and gestures at the brown blob. “What is this supposed to be?”
Din sighs in a way that suggests Luke isn’t the first to ask this. “It’s a bantha. You know, with the horns, and stuff.”
Din makes a gesture in front of his helmet that could be interpreted as spiralling bantha horns if one would squint.
Luke tries to stifle his laughter, but a few chuckles escape him anyway. He can practically feel Din’s glower behind his visor.
“I’d like to see you do any better.”
“Hey, if there’s anything I can draw then it’s banthas. Drew nothing but those and krayt dragons for years growing up.”
“Wait, did you grow up on Tatooine?”
“Yeah.”
Din tilts his head. “You don’t seem like someone from Tatooine.”
Luke’s smile grows into a smirk and he lets some of his old outer-rim lilt slip back into his voice as he drawls, “oh, but I assure you, I am, darling.”
“Oh,” is all Din says in return, his voice a bit rougher than before.
Luke fist-pumps internally and decides to go for it. He lets his eyelashes flutter and croons, “So, tell me, why does the Mand’alor fly his own ship with no staff aboard?”
Even though Din is all closed-up in his flight suit and helmet, Luke can see him swallow through the fabric around his neck.
“It’s just what I’m used to. I prefer it this way, and Grogu does, too.”
Luke decides to relieve the poor guy and sits up a bit straighter, wrapping his hands around the cup of tea Din set down in front of him earlier.
“Tell me how you two met, then.”
“Alright,” Din says. He clears his throat, raises his cup up to his mouth and makes a motion to lift the edge of his helmet.
Luke adverts his eyes.
“You don’t technically have to do that, you know?” Din says after he has finished drinking and dropped the helmet down to cover his whole face again. At Luke’s questioning look, he elaborates, “clan is allowed to see me without it. Marrying me made you clan. People always want to know what I look like under the helmet; this could be your chance.”
Luke shrugs. “I’m not going to intrude on your creed. I would much rather just talk to you when you are feeling comfortable.”
“Thank you.” Din sounds pleasantly surprised.
“It’s nothing,” Luke replies. “Now tell me how you met the womp rat.”
As Din launches into the story, Luke sips his tea and listens.
“So, you didn’t tell me you killed a kriffin’ krayt dragon.”
Din swivels around in his seat. He retreated to the cockpit when Luke and Grogu began their training session, saying something about having some Mand’alor business to attend to, as he had done every time in the past four days. Luke is pretty sure he just saw him close a recording of the galaxy’s current favourite trash holo show Too Hot to Deal With, but he’s not one to judge a man’s entertainment preferences several days into a hyperspace journey.
“Did Grogu tell you about that?” Din asks, and Luke is pretty sure he is subtly getting ogled where he’s leaning against the doorway in just his black trousers and long-sleeved shirt that he knows hugs his figure just right.
Din himself is only wearing his flight suit and helmet, having discarded the rest of his armour the second day into their journey. Somehow, the broadness of his shoulders is even more pronounced without the additional padding. It does things to Luke.
“He showed me some memories of the two of you. Did you fly into the stomach of a krayt dragon?”
Din shrugs. “It was our last option.”
“You are a madman, Din Djarin.” He pushes himself off the doorway and drops down into the co-pilot’s chair next to Din, spinning it around so that he is facing Din.
“Says the guy who apparently willingly went into Jabba the Hutt’s palace just to end up fighting a karking rancor.”
“Hey, I told you that in confidence! And too much spotchka! You can’t hold that against me!”
“I’m just saying.”
Luke huffs but can’t stop the corners of his mouth from lifting. They’d shared some spotchka on the second night of their journey and Luke had definitely overindulged. He blames it on the way Din had looked, all lean and broad, that amused chuckle of his more frequent the more glasses they’d drunk. Luke had to deal with it somehow.
Changing the topic, he asks, “anyway, how’s your Mand’alor business coming along?”
Din groans, his shoulders visibly tensing up. “Don’t remind me. We should be there tomorrow and I can already imagine the list of things Bo-Katan will have for me to do.”
“Sounds stressful.”
“It’s not that bad,” Din mumbles. The way he is taut as a bowstring in his seat tells Luke otherwise.
“Still, can’t be easy to have that many people rely on you.” Luke spins his chair to face forward, staring into the endless monotony that is a hyperdrive tunnel. Beside him, he can feel Din do the same. They sit in silence for a moment.
Then, Din speaks. “I just wish I would know how to do this. I don’t think I’m the right person for the job.”
“Why not?” Luke asks, suppressing the urge to tell Din he’s stupid for not seeing how great he is.
“I don’t know. I just think I’m not that special.”
Luke turns, then, to stare at the side of Din’s helmet. “You have risked your life to protect Grogu, over and over again. You have unified your people to retake your home planet. You have sacrificed so much for the good of others. That sounds pretty special to me.” He stops for a second, then continues, “You married me when we’d barely spoken to each other just to help me out.”
Din’s head swivels around, his visor centering in on Luke’s eyes. “That last one wasn’t a sacrifice to make.”
“What, you would’ve married me even if there hadn’t been a bunch of angry Drusians there with us?”
“Yeah.” Din’s voice is barely more than a whisper.
Luke’s breath catches in his throat.
He stares into Din’s visor, his chest brimming with warmth and excitement and hope, and says, “I would really like to kiss you right now.”
Din huffs a laugh. “Technically, you’ve already kissed me by Mandalorian standards.”
“Wait, what?”
“At our wedding. We call it a mirshmure'cya.”
“Show me,” Luke whispers.
Din’s hand is gentle on the back of his neck as he guides their foreheads – or Luke’s forehead and Din’s helmet – to press together. As soon as they’re touching, Din exhales a sharp breath.
“Oh,” Luke murmurs.
After a few moments of silence, Din says, “we can also kiss the way you meant.”
“Oh, you don’t have to –“
He is interrupted in his protest by Din loosening his hold on Luke’s neck and instead reaching up to pull off his helmet, revealing a soft face, a mess of curls and, delightfully specifically to Luke, a moustache.
“Hi, riduur” Luke breathes out, unable to stop himself from breaking out into a wide grin.
Din mirrors it with a smile of his own, revealing the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. “Hi, riduur” he replies.
He looks exuperantly happy. He looks incandescently beautiful. Luke cannot take his eyes off him.
“Can I –” he stops himself, decides to just go for it. He reaches up to clasp the back of Din’s neck, his fingers slipping upwards to tangle into the strands of Din’s hair. Slowly, he moves in closer and presses their foreheads together again, this time with no metal separating them, their noses just barely brushing against each other.
Din's breath hitches, one of his hands coming up to rest on Luke’s waist, the other copying Luke’s by treading through Luke’s hair.
“This is nice,” Luke murmurs into the little space that remains between them.
Din hums in agreement. They sit in silence for a while, breathing in sync. Then, Din moves forward until their lips are just a hair width apart.
Luke closes the gap.
Luke opens the door to Leia and Han’s apartment a day before Ben’s birthday party wearing Din’s clan signet around his neck and holding Din’s hand.
Leia drops her head onto the table at the sight of them.
Han sympathetically strokes her back while simultaneously trying – and clearly failing – to hold back his laughter. Din’s amused chuckle is audible even through the helmet.
Luke just grins.