Archive of Our Own

It takes Din a while to figure out what woke him up.

At first, he thinks he might've been having a nightmare. It's not unusual for him. He's always had ones about the past, about the droids and war and losing his family. Then, there are the simpler ones about everyday things, about jobs gone bad. Recently, he's also started having some that are about the child. Those are the worst, the regretful ones where he decides to abandon the child and the Imps kill him, and those where Din's attempt to take him back goes wrong, and he dies in Din's arms.

This time, he doesn't remember which one it was, and he doesn't particularly want to, either.

It's only when he tries to go back to sleep that he realizes it may not have been him at all. The muffled squeaks that he's ignored as background noises of the old ship in flight grow louder, more noticeable, and it strikes him that the noise is coming from above him.

He didn't wake up because of a nightmare about the child. It's the child who's having a nightmare.

Suddenly wide awake, Din sits up on the mattress and focuses on the little one. The hammock is swaying as the child tosses and turns in his sleep, and he keeps making soft, high-pitched sounds, almost like he wants to scream, but is trying to hold it in. It's heartbreaking. Whatever scenario the child is stuck in, it must be horrifying.

Din has by no means figured out this whole child care thing—really, he's utterly unprepared for any of it, and constantly feels like he has no clue what he should be doing—but this is a simple enough situation. He does what every adult who's not completely dead inside would do, and reaches out to pick up the child.

He's barely gotten the kid out of the hammock, held out in his outstretched arms, when all of a sudden, he feels a strangling pressure close in around his throat.

He's choking, suffocating, like there are fingers squeezing his neck, tighter and tighter, cutting off his air supply, and for several long seconds, he doesn't understand what's happening at all.

Gasping for oxygen that won't come, somehow still managing to hold on to the child, he painfully tilts his head to see if someone's snuck up on them, even if that should be impossible, because they're safely in hyperspace. Just like he expected, the door to the sleeping compartment is closed. No one in here but the two of them.

No one is touching him, and still, the crushing pressure that he feels is just getting more intense, his vision starting to fray at the edges.

When he looks at the child again, he finally realizes what has struck him. The child doesn't look asleep anymore; his eyes are slightly open in a squint of intense focus, and one of his arms is held out, hand pointed at Din.

This is the child's doing. He's lashing out at Din while caught up in his bad dream, or bad memory, whichever it is.

Din needs to snap him out of it, but he can't speak, can't even breathe; at this point, all he can do is to desperately cling to consciousness.

A dozen thoughts seem to pass through his head in what he knows might be the last moments of coherent thought that he has left.

If he acts violently against the child, does anything to hurt or threaten him, he might make things worse. He's finding out about new powers every day, and no doubt the child could just outright kill him without breaking a sweat, snap his neck like it's twig. This would be a very stupid way to die: not at the hands of any of the countless enemies he's made, but of an innocent child who doesn't know his true strength, due to a simple misunderstanding.

In the end, he does the one thing he can think of that feels right—probably the thing that he should've done to start with—and responds to the threat with kindness.

He pulls the child closer, cradled in his arms, gently and not too tightly. It takes a lot of focus and strength of will to pull this off, fighting against the simple, animal instincts that are telling him to cast aside the attacker. He also leans his back into the corner of the door and wall, trying to make sure that if he ends up passing out, he won't fall on top of the child and crush him.

Luckily, he's taken off the beskar plates tonight, because he trusted that they'd be safe. It means he can hold the child against the softer surface of his flight suit instead of cold, hard metal. Still, it's not the most soothing hug, because he can't stop the involuntary struggle against strangulation, his chest stuttering in vain attempts to breathe.

He feels himself slipping away, the hum of the ship around him fading to nothing, his vision going dark—but then it stops, just as suddenly as it started, the relentless grip around his throat disappearing as if it was never there.

He sags into the corner, drawing in huge gulps of air, the sound echoing loudly inside his helmet. He half feels like he wants to pull it off, to be free of the constriction that he normally never even notices. His neck aches, and he absently wonders if he'll have bruises from this.

The weight of the child shifts against his chest, and he can feel tiny fingers grabbing handfuls of the fabric of his flight suit. The kid lets out a whine that sounds nothing like the earlier squeaks of terror: it's louder and more demanding, and it makes Din forget all about his own discomfort.

"It's okay," Din tries to say, but his voice comes out so hoarse that it's barely audible. He clears his throat and moves one hand to brush the wispy hairs on top of the child's head. He's not wearing gloves, and he's glad for it, because he's sure it makes the touch more soothing, warmer and less detached.

The child coos and butts his head against Din's palm, then looks up, his eyes as big as ever, his expression so sad and lost, it makes Din almost feel like he's being strangled all over again.

"It's okay. I'm okay, you're okay, we're both okay," he repeats, managing to make it sound almost normal. It feels silly, but also like it's the right thing to say. "Whatever that was, it's over," he goes on. "You're safe, now. You can go back to sleep."

They stay like this for some time, Din muttering reassuring words at the child, who's resting against his chest. At first, the little one seems restless, replying to him in soft chatter, shifting this way and that, pawing at his flight suit, but Din holds him close until he finally settles down, his breathing evening out to sleepy snuffles.

Moving as slowly and cautiously as he can, Din starts to shift from his place to put the child back in the hammock. It's not cautious enough, though: the child makes a grumpy noise and tries to snuggle even closer to Din, clinging to him tightly.

Din is ruthless to his bounties, ignoring any pleas of mercy without a second thought, but apparently, he's completely defenseless against this child.

"Okay, okay," he says. "This one time."

Holding on to the child, he lies down, stretching out on the mattress. The child settles on top of him, tiny head pillowed on his shoulder.

Din thought the weight might bother him, but it doesn't; the kid isn't heavy. Really, it's strange, Din thinks, how this doesn't feel at all awkward. If anyone had asked him before all this, he would've laughed at the idea of him looking after a child, let alone allowing one to share his sleeping quarters.

Most of his life, all that Din has been taught has been about fighting and killing. Whatever little he's learned about taking care of others has been related to patching them up, so that they can go on fighting. The very idea of being a parent, or even a temporary guardian, has never been something that he's contemplated. It's not because he hasn't felt loved in his life; he remembers both his birth parents and his adoptive father fondly. It's just that he didn't think he would have that in him, to give that same feeling to someone else. And yet, somehow, here he is, with this tiny, precious being snoozing against his side, and if it ever came to that, he would give his life to protect this child.

Until recently, Din has never believed in fate, but it seems almost too unlikely that this child should have fallen into his hands by blind chance, because in some strange way, they fit together perfectly. The child, so small and helpless-looking that no one would ever guess he's able to murder someone with a thought and a wave of his hand. And himself, with armor that everyone knows and fears, but also with this soft, compassionate side that he's only beginning to discover himself, that no one would ever expect from looking at him.

It takes Din a while to fall asleep again, with the lingering ache in his neck and all the thoughts running through his head, but eventually, he does, one arm held protectively over the child.

There are no more nightmares, that night, for either of them.