Chapter Text
Din Djarin is no stranger to loss. Longing- yes, he likes to think he has managed to overcome that –not without difficulty, mind you. A bounty hunter does not have time to waste on fantasies and mirages of alternative paths left behind. A bounty hunter like himself, committed to the job because they need to be in order to survive, always worries about the next meal, about the next restless sleep, about having a roof –metal or not– over their head. A Mandalorian bounty hunter, moreover, cannot waste energy on daydreaming about opportunities long lost while their covert relies on their income to survive. Not that he’s ever personally met others like him –he knows all this from personal experience, from the sting of failure, from the shame of having disappointed his Tribe, back when he first started hunting to provide for the covert.
Din, however, does not have a Tribe to call his own anymore –a pile of lonely helmets on the dirty ground being enough of a reminder of his mistakes. Din no longer has to worry about the future of the Foundlings, not only because the ones left are scattered around the Galaxy, but also because he is a Mandalorian no more. He is half of a Clan of Two now, an apostate, dar’manda, a traitor to his Creed –trying to atone for his mistakes.
Now, he has a child of his own to look after. A child with magical powers beyond his capability of comprehension. A child who had been lost, finally returned to him. He still can’t quite believe that the warmth of Grogu’s small body against his chest is actually real, and not just a hallucination born from that poisonous longing he had thought himself completely immune to.
(He’s not, it seems.)
The stars pass by in a blur of blue and white, and the fabric of his gloves scrapes against the metal of the control panel in front of him. He feels something wriggling against his side, his heart beats a little bit stronger, his chest feels heavy in the greatest way possible, and he cannot suppress the contented sigh that leaves him as Grogu’s head pops up inside the crook of his elbow and the kid’s robe-clad body settles on his lap, against his cuirass. He feels warm. The kid’s growing up, much too slow for most people to even realize it (and the idea that he might not even live long enough to see the child grow out of his robes is one he has trouble pushing away just because it scares him more than most things) but he still searches for the comfort of Din’s embrace despite having his own seat, complete with one hell of a view of the Galaxy around them. Din finds himself unworthy of that unwavering trust, that affection, most of the time.
Most of the time, he at least feels like he’s gotten better at this –at being someone Grogu can be proud of. It isn’t much, but it’s progress.
With the kid next to him, it is easier to forget all they’ve lost in their quest to find a Jedi. Sometimes, however, he still misses the Crest like one might miss a severed limb. It is a dormant pain, always in the back of his mind. It rears its ugly head from time to time in moments like this –when he wishes he had a larger space for Grogu to explore, when he misses having a cot (or at least something resembling one) next to the kid’s sling inside their little alcove, when he longs (against all rational thought) for the quiet moments cleaning his weapons under that curious gaze or sharing a meal while locked in a conversation he can’t even really understand half of.
The N-1 is a great ship –he’s grown really fond of it, despite everything– and would’ve probably made his younger self incredibly jealous of its owner, but it isn’t a home like the Crest used to be (had already been for decades even before the kid came along). It isn’t a safe harbor for them to come back to when the day is over. It isn’t a metal roof over the kid’s head and it certainly isn’t the right place to raise a child. He knows, deep down, that Grogu needs somewhere more permanent, some place that can protect him from the danger outside. It’s his own fault, really –when he agreed to buy this piece of junk, he couldn’t imagine he’d ever get to see the child again, much less get to keep him as his own. He didn’t think Grogu would choose him.
(Is he even qualified for this? All he’s ever done is mess up.)
“Your seat not comfortable enough, huh, kid?”
Grogu twists around and looks up at him with those eyes, full of mischief hidden behind a façade of over-exaggerated innocence –the eyes that emphasize just how much softer Din’s become. The kid responds with a simple ‘Patu’ that makes it hard to contain the huff of reluctant amusement that somehow escapes from his mouth and through the vocoder.
“I know this is no Razor Crest.” Grogu gazes at him with curiosity and somehow Din swears he can almost feel empathy radiating from the kid. An idea comes to mind –he doesn’t want to give the kid false expectations, but maybe he can pull it off; maybe hope, fragile as it may be, is better than settling for less without even trying. “I’ll get a few jobs once we’re in Nevarro –I’m sure Karga will be happy to look after you for a while. We can start to save some credits and maybe- maybe in the future we can get a bigger ship. Like the Crest.” Grogu blinks and babbles something he can’t quite understand but has a distinct air of inquiry. “Or maybe we’ll find a house somewhere. Somewhere calm, but not too empty. We can keep the ship and you can go to school while I’m working. How’s that sound, pal?”
The kid wriggles around for a second and smiles up at him with a coo. He can’t quite decide if it’s a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’.
“No need to decide right now. We have time.” He looks at the blinking monitors in front of him. “We’ve got a few hours left before we drop out of hyperspace –let’s get some rest.”
He tries to settle the kid against his chest but the little guy insists on climbing up his cuirass until he’s in the right position to bury his tiny face against the side of Din’s neck. The Mandalorian can feel the fine wisps of hair tickle the bare skin between his cape and the edge of the helmet. It’s a little bit awkward (in a familiar way) with all the- well, with the big ears pressed into his shoulder and the underside of his helmet. It’s also not the most comfortable of positions. The N-1 isn’t quite as accommodating as his last ship, especially because he doesn’t have enough space to move as he would have liked to –and also because he can’t quite stretch his legs all the way.
But Grogu’s breathing has evened out –uninterrupted but for the small snores that sometimes escape from between his lips– and the small fingers of his left hand have closed around the fabric of Din’s cape while his right hand clutches one of Din’s gloved thumbs. He’s fragile in a way that seems almost too terrifying, and trusting in a way that leaves even the Mandalorian bounty hunter breathless.
And the truth is –uncomfortable sleeping arrangements notwithstanding– he wouldn’t trade this for anything in the Galaxy.