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“Osik,” Din hissed, ripping the helmet from his head. “Kriffing—” he flung the heavy beskar onto his bed, not caring what happened to it. Air flowed onto his face, and he ran his hands through his hair, gripping the brown strands tightly for a moment before letting out an upset growl. He grasped for his gloves, pulling them off his hands with a vengeance, then immediately reaching down to pull off his pauldrons and chestplate, the heavy armor feeling even more cumbersome than usual. He needed it off, needed space, needed to breathe, needed—
Dank farrik, he needed you .
You raced through his head constantly. Images of your smile and your laugh plagued his mind, moving him to complete distraction. The way you would kindly help him no matter his demands, the way you would swing by occasionally just to drop off food to him and the kid. Your soft hands, and the way they’d brush past his as you passed him something.
He wanted to hold you, to whisper sweet things in your ears, and to comb your hair late at night. He wanted to kiss you in front of the world, he wanted to spend his nights with you and wake up in the morning, pleased with the marks he’d left on your skin, the ones that he would make sure only just barely peeked out from under your collar. He wanted to stay up late and wake up early with you, wanted to show you the sunrise and sunset on every planet you’d ever thought about traveling to.
He just wanted you, no barriers, no holds attached.
Instead, the beskar held him down and barred you entry to Din, who was hiding behind the veneer of the Mandalorian. He could not show you himself, could not pull you close in the night as long as he wore the heavy metal plating that put a physical and mental barrier between the two of you.
Din was Mand’alor, after all, forced to be in charge and to keep face, to keep the creed, and to keep the peace. The example for a new generation of Mandalorians, a stoic wall of force and calm. He didn’t know how to lead, and no others wanted to take the pressure away from him, so he was scrambling to piece together a nation while trying desperately to avoid the thoughts of you that infested his brain.
The armor on his top half was gone now, piled on his floor haphazardly as Din began to yank on the protection covering his lower half, just wanting it all off.
He couldn’t be Mando right now, not in any way, shape, or form. He just needed to be Din Djarin for a moment, a father and friend, not someone who was rebuilding the legacy of Mandalore, darksaber clutched tightly in hand.
After the armor was off, he felt like he could breathe. His face and arms were bare, the flight suit sleeves rolled up to show his forearms. He could feel how long his hair had gotten, and he made a mental note to cut the ends sometime soon.
He sank into his bed and laid there for a moment, spread-eagled out, head spinning as he thought about everything for a moment. The world was vast and he was small at this moment.
And all he wanted (besides you, but that was a hopeless affair, especially after—well.) was his son. Grogu, the light of his life, the wrinkly green child who was a complete miracle, who had saved Din almost as much as Din had saved him.
Tiredly he sat up, swinging one leg over and off the bed. He looked at his helmet, considering for a moment putting it back on, just in case. The thought of the musty-smelling, dark helmet made him grimace, so instead, he decided that going to his son’s room wouldn’t be an issue, seeing as it was directly adjacent to his, accessible through a secret doorway.
He stood up, body heavy as he trudged towards his son’s room. He carefully pulled the mechanism for the door between the two rooms, making sure to block the light from his room with his body as best as he could, in case it would wake Grogu up. After he was fully in, he hit the button that would close the door and turned to the bed. Sure enough, Grogu was sleeping soundly, one of his hands clenched tightly around the metal ball from the Razor Crest. Din let out a quiet sigh of relief, then carefully slid his arms under the kid.
Carefully, Din picked up his son and cradled him close, sitting down on a rocking chair in the corner of Grogu’s room. Din rocked back and forth, enjoying the solitude and letting his own eyes slowly drift shut. He felt more relaxed than he had in weeks, and as he felt Grogu’s empty hand grab at Din’s flight suit, he finally let himself go.
“Goodnight, ad’ika,” he said, and carefully placed a kiss atop his son’s head before letting his eyes shut and his mind drift off.
What Din missed as he fell asleep was the silent, sharp inhale from a dark corner of Grogu’s room. A dark corner where you stood, eyes wide and mouth covered with your hands, desperately trying to contain the gasp you’d let out as your eyes roved over Din’s—your Mand’alor’s—face.