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Since losing his armour, life had been one long, knotted string of adjustments for Din.
To say the armour was like a second skin was an understatement. Its weight, its shape was written, forged, branded in his muscles and in his bones; every fibre of his being tied itself to the armour. He had been wearing it for so long, it had dictated even how his body grew. Though it was gone now, he would forever be what it made him.
He had to adjust to having more than just a flightsuit, a spare flightsuit, and undergarments.
Life in the armour was simple: it was casual and formal, he could wear it for days on end in deserts or jungles or tundras, and as wearing it was a part of his creed, he never had to think twice about socially accepted or expected fashions because he wasn't changing.
Life without armour meant choosing his clothes according to the weather and occasion, it meant yielding, in some cases, to local sensibilities… it meant owning more than two shirts.
After the tribe rightly demanded he surrender the beskar, he spent a week just switching between his flightsuits. (He preferred one more than the other: his original spare had been reduced to ash along with the Razor Crest—may her rusted chasis rest in pieces—and the spare he had now was a gracious gift from Boba that was a little loose and a little short on the cuffs and made from materials the other hunter favoured but Din would never have chosen).
Boba offered Din the use of the royal tailors, Fennec dropped many an unsubtle hint that his fashion sense was lacking and in need of an update, and even Peli hounded him to just go to the markets and "get some kriffing pants already; you look like a spiced-out of his brains spacer! Go on! You're giving my business a bad rep!"
But, ultimately, it took Cara randomly visiting Tatooine one day and flinging a bundle of clothes literally at his face to get him to change his attire.
In the year since then, he had dragged himself to the markets and procured articles as needed (or as prodded by his infuriating circle of friends who cared too much). He discovered it wasn't as horrible a process as he always feared: while he wouldn't say he had much in the way of taste, there was much less to hate in the matter of choosing what one wore than he imagined.
Cara described his clothing as "drab." He supposed it was a valid labelling from someone hailing from the Mid Rim, but in the Outer Rim, he fitted right in with his dark, unsaturated attire.
Even though he lived now under the crushing banner of dar'manda, he could not loosen his grip on all he had believed for so long.
He didn't know how to explain that he couldn't wear anything blue because it was the colour of the Vizslas—of the clan which saved and raised him, and which he disowned. He couldn't wear red for the colour carried the meaning of honouring one's parents and he had disappointed them all—the ones who gave him life and the ones who gave him a new life with the Mandalorians. He could not wear gold for it meant seeking revenge but revenge without the way was empty.
He couldn't wear no colours, but when what he wore came only in undyed, unchosen colours, he could accept it far easier than something deliberate.
All that said, there were some colours he let sneak in.
He was no longer a Mandalorian, but Grogu had chosen to return to him so he still had a clan, therefore his signet was still his to carry and display. So he recreated the mudhorn skull, embroidering it on the right shouler of his jacket. He did so in silver thread, in homage to the beskar, in a silent confession he still sought redemption. He lay a line around the skull and along the seams in green, not to represent duty, but for his child.
Such was the focus of his life now.
Cast out from the tribe, he had no one but Grogu to care for.
He was still working on a fixed address, still trying to figure out if that should be a house with a foundation rooted in the earth or if it would be possible and right to emulate their earlier time together and get a ship they could both travel and live in. Until he had the funds for either, they lay their heads on pillows that didn't belong to them, in temporary homes here, there, anywhere.
For the most part, they accepted Boba's invitation to treat the palace as their home, or they let Greef and Cara sway them into staying on Nevarro. Sometimes, they hid out with Mayfeld, Din ever marvelling at the place in the community of Morak the ex-Imp had carved for himself. If a job took them too far away and the return trip in the starfighter was just not feasible, they called a room in a local inn or motel their home for the night.
That was the plan today but it wasn't simply out of necessity.
Din had taken a string of jobs—some freelance bounty work, some favours for the New Republic, more than a few off-the-books jobs for Boba. It had been a month straight of hopping about, planet to planet, chasing bail-jumpers, Imps on the run, and spice smugglers. While the pay was decent (and going a long way towards solving his ship or house debate), the work was taking its toll quickly on him and the kid.
Life without armour also meant a life without protection from blades, blasters, and beatings.
He had copped his fair share in the month behind.
And the child had had to witness them.
So today he set out, destination set for a little backwater planet too small to hold trouble.
Shymm: a small, soft, unassuming jewel crouching among colossal swirling gas clouds, laying a fair ways off the trade lanes like a shiny pebble tossed off the beaten path. Settlements dotted the landscape, sheltered by forests and fed by rivers and farms. The northern hemisphere was in winter: lilac snow blanketed the land.
Din set them down a fair walk away from the town. There was no starport, but a beacon directed any travellers or delivery workers to land here in the fields.
Stiffly, he climbed out of the starfighter. It had only been a short flight—just three hours—but on a body still healing, it was brutal sitting upright and rigid so long.
(He sorely missed the Razor Crest…)
Grogu clambered down from his perch in the hulled-out droid port and popped up on Din's vacated seat. He was more than capable of getting out by himself, but he raised his arms when Din reached for him and let him lift him out.
Din saw the very moment the cold hit Grogu's face. His eyes screwed closed, he ducked his head and tried to bury his face in his scarf and then in Din's neck.
He chuckled.
"Now you see why I got you all rugged up?" he said, pinching the rim of the little beanie he had fought tooth and nail to convince the child to wear and tugging it slightly down as if to fix it in place.
He couldn't quite hear Grogu's disgruntled chirping, but he felt the warm puff of his breath against his neck as he tried to burrow into his scarf.
"Oh, come on. It's not that bad," Din told him as he reached in and, with one hand, pulled out a satchel stuffed with some necessities. "We've been in colder places."
Another series of little puffs—a counter argument.
"It just seems so cold because we've been living in deserts for a while. You'll get used to it soon. Come on."
It was an unnecessary prompt: he was carrying the child, not leaving him to float in his pod beside him and certainly not setting him down in the snow: his boots sank into the powder; the child would be swallowed whole.
They set off for the town.
It was a short walk, less than twenty minutes. Arranging a room in the local inn was a breeze—they were just about the only visitors this time of year; the woman running the inn nearly shouted for joy at having a customer despite the off-season.
Din checked out the room right after booking, partly to ensure they didn't have to look for another place to stay, mostly to make use of the facilities (small ship, no refresher, and as willing as Peli was to install a solution, his dignity drew a very defined line there).
Down in the lobby of the inn, he purchased a meal for himself and Grogu—a hearty local soup, stored in a thermos—and then set out for the forest.
As they went, Grogu gradually extracted himself from his cocoon in Din's scarf. Lured by curiosity and an undying fascination with nature, he turned his gaze out to the world they were making their way through at an appreciative pace.
Din could feel the snow crunching under his boots. The sun had a shy warmth to it as it spilled between the trees, bereft of their foliage but still beautiful, their branches intertwined like lace. The air was cold but without a wind to agitate, the cold could settle almost pleasantly.
Birds flitted about between the trees. They were like little feathery puffballs, obviously built and garbed for the weather. Grogu's head turned sharply and Din's gaze followed to find them: he supposed they were making some kind of sound which drew the child's attention but it went unknown to him.
He didn't walk them too far into the woods. He wasn't familiar with the landscape, though all accounts rendered it safe. What was more, he could already feel his healing injuries twinging and complaining at just the light exertion; without a rest, he would struggle to make it back without worrying the child.
"Here seems as good a place as any," he said, sliding the satchel's strap off his shoulder and letting the bag fall to the ground. Bending carefully, he set the thermos down and released Grogu.
Except Grogu hung onto him, claws latched on his scarf.
"Come on, ad'ika; I promise it won't hurt you," he cajoled, gently prying the claws to open. "Look." He sunk his gloved hand in the snow. "It's shallow."
Grogu's ears whipped about as he turned his head, switching his gaze between the snow and Din's face.
That was… one advantage of life without the helmet, he selfishly, perhaps wickedly revelled in. Whenever Grogu was trying to figure out how to feel about something he didn't understand, he looked to Din. With his face open and on display, he could immediately determine if he had to be afraid of something or not.
Now Din gave him a soft look, purposely letting out a smile and making the corners of his eyes crease. "It's safe," he insisted.
Grogu huffed; Din felt his whole body deflate. He clambered down to the ground and Din thought he was conceding and going off to enjoy the snow but, instead, he did so to free his hands so he could sign freely.
"Is it safe to play?" he asked.
It was a simple, straightforward question; it had no business squeezing Din's heart so much.
"Of course it's safe to play," Din assured him, signing along now that his hands too were free. "I wouldn't let you play in something that would hurt you."
Grogu shook his head, thinking that Din had misunderstood him.
(He hadn't.)
Din sighed. "We're safe. Okay? You don't have to worry about someone coming to hurt us. We're off the clock."
The child's face twitched at the "us" phrasing. He wasn't worried about someone coming after him, just his father… and that was even more heartbreaking.
Din dragged his hands through the snow, clumping it together and patting it into a rough shape. He set it down in front of Grogu and waited, holding his breath, hoping the child would take the bait and just play, just be a kid.
Grogu snorted and turned away.
Feeling defeated, Din sat back on the ground. Had he been smart, he would have sat down on a fallen log, not the snow-covered ground, but here he was and he was too tired and sore to resituate himself.
He poured some of the soup into the thermos lid. Taking off one of his gloves and setting it down on the ground, he tested the temperature and, finding it acceptable, took a swig.
He watched the boy waddle slowly along through the snow for a while, glancing around, probably still on guard for a potential enemy lurking about. He wasn't going far for once, so Din let his own gaze drift over the forest, his mind wandering further than he could see.
The boy was simultaneously older than him and much, much younger. The two realities were difficult to grasp and fuse together. He had lived longer than him, would go on to live well after he passed, but he was still, as he had been all along, a child, little past his infancy.
He had chosen to forgo his Jedi training and stay with Din. Long ago, he realized he couldn't train him as a Mandalorian, but he figured he could adapt the curriculum, prepare him for travelling the galaxy, if nothing else. He thought he could do so while continuing his own line of work but it was clearly taking a toll on the little one.
He needed, maybe not to stop entirely, but to find more balance, create more opportunities like this, seek occasions without the threat of death or dismemberment where the child could grow naturally and in peace.
Well.
He had paid for three nights here. Maybe somewhere in that time he would come up with a solution.
He had finished his portion of soup. He poured out the rest for Grogu and looked around for the tyke.
For a moment, fear gripped his heart: he couldn't see him anywhere.
Then he caught something moving in the corner of his vision. Looking down, he found his discarded glove squirming.
Fear collapsed into a relieved smile. Putting down the soup, he pinched one of the glove's fingers and pulled it just enough that he could see the naughty little face hiding within.
"Huh. I was wondering where that went," he said with a joking inflection that was just enough to elicit a genuine, beautiful giggle.
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