Chapter Text
The first time Din Djarin feels it, he’s landing the Razor Crest on the Adelphi New Republic base, post-bounty completion.
There’s a tap-tap-tap sort of feeling in his head. It’s like someone gently drumming the tip of their finger against the inside of his skull. He doesn’t think much of it because osik, it’s been a rough day, and it’s probably the start of a migraine. His helmet’s visor isn’t helping. He wants to shut his eyes for just a few minutes.
But the metallic clangs from his ship’s lower floor—the ones he’s been trying to ignore for the last few minutes—remind him he’s got another bounty to turn in, and he’s probably going to pick up another one after this, and another after that.
He engages the brakes on his ship as soon as its landing gears touch the mix of concrete and sand below. Through the viewport, New Republic members oggle at the Razor Crest. Yes, he’s well aware it’s an antique. And yes, he can’t help but be just a little pleased with it, not that he’d ever admit that to the Colonel.
But he also can’t help uncomfortably adjusting himself in his seat as a few eyes dart to his helmet through the window. He’s still new to all of this. Working with a team that shares no background of his own. The attention and interest from others that come with it. The Children of the Watch were never this… social. Djarin’s never been one for a spotlight, and the more time he spends here, he finds that spotlight tracking him, trailing behind his footsteps. It’s anything but malicious. And yet still.
He lets the engines cool down for a few seconds before switching them off, shifting his focus instead to a line of small droids parading between X-wings, occasionally bumping into each other, as if that’s all they’re programmed to do. Then, finally, he lets his pilot seat swivel him around.
“Time to go, buddy,” Djarin automatically says, his own modulated voice filling his ears a little more than usual. He winces subtly enough that it comes out more like an exhale, but he regains his focus as he reaches over and unbuckles the kid’s seatbelt.
The tapping in his head subsides, eventually.
The second time he feels it, it’s been a mere few minutes after he’s turned his latest bounty in. It’s only been twice now, but it’s starting to get a bit irritating.
Djarin tries to listen to each of Colonel Ward’s explanations on every bounty chip she’s holding, but the more he tries to focus, the worse the tapping seems to get. He squints his eyes behind his mask, the visor’s filter adding fuel to the flames of whatever weird migraine he’s got going on.
The dozens of conversations surrounding him aren’t of much help, either. They’re louder than they usually are, filled with laughter and clinks of glasses, the air filled with an overall scent of success from their own missions. From the moment he took a seat at his booth, he was offered a drink by a pilot with a face full of glee, to which he hadn’t even needed to respond for the man to apparently realize the predicament of offering a drink to a masked Mandalorian, let out a quick apology, and walk back to his table with the rest of his drunken teammates.
“…spotted on Lah’mu,” Ward’s voice says as it fades back into his ears. “But it’s high-risk for piloting. Which, as I see it, is something you get a kick out of.” A pause. “Does he normally do that?”
Djarin’s concentration locks back into place in time to make out the visible scene around him. The Colonel is offhandedly pointing at Grogu, who’s staring directly at him, entirely soundless, with eyes narrowed.
No, he nearly says, he’s not usually this quiet.
But instead, he answers in his typical monotonic way, “No. He’s just tired. We’ve both had a long day.”
Ward scoffs, not unkindly. “You’re telling me. You’ve been to four different planets today, and the day’s not even over.” She picks her bounty chips back up, and Djarin resists the urge to reach over for them. “I think you should take a breather, Mando. I don’t think the kid’s the only one who needs it. And I certainly don’t want you becoming a flight risk.”
“I—“ he starts, but the words die in his throat just as quickly as they come up in instinctive defense. Instead, he slowly slips out of his booth seat and gives a curt nod. There’s truly no point in arguing when his limbs seem to sag a little more than usual, the weight of his beskar armor being of no help here. “I’ll be on-world,” is all he settles on.
Ward nods once, a smile playing at the edges of her lips on her strict expression, as if poorly disguising her satisfaction. “And I’ll be a comlink away.” She turns her attention to Grogu and—surprisingly—breaks into a smirk. “Keep an eye on him, would you?”
Grogu, in the best way he can, salutes with an affirmative coo.
By the third time the feeling starts, Djarin’s had enough.
He lies flat on his makeshift bed, the Razor Crest parked somewhere along the planet’s coastline, far enough from the base for the sake of his own privacy. He twists and turns, the tapping growing with every movement he makes and with every second that passes.
“Dank farrik,” he finally mutters, sitting up far too quickly to adjust. His ears ring, the noise reverberating off the curves of his metallic helmet, and he promptly shuts his eyes at the growing tension in his skull. Djarin grips the edges of his bed and just about moans in discomfort, head tilting down in concentrated recovery.
Grogu makes a babbling noise from somewhere near Djarin’s feet; he sounds more or less defeated, if a baby could ever make a sound like that. At that, the pressure in his head subsides to the dull ache of a past pain.
Oh. Wait a minute.
Djarin cautiously turns his head, slow enough in case another symphony of bells threatens to start, only to spot the kid staring straight at him. Again.
“Grogu,” he starts, his tone skeptical. “What are you doing?”
The kid’s powers are not a stranger to Djarin. The whole lifting-things-thrice-his-size thing, all the moments he jumps and leaps to abnormal heights. He’s more than aware Grogu has a prominent connection with the Force, enough to have him set as a cold bounty when they’d first met—hell, even a Jedi had come to recruit him for those same powers.
It’s not a moment Djarin likes to linger on, though, so he promptly hops off that train of thought.
Grogu tilts his head ever so slightly, ears perking upward at the modulated sound of the Mandalorian’s voice. He almost looks upset. “Patu,” he responds firmly.
Of course, Djarin has no idea what that means. So, as usual, he’ll have to take a guess.
“Are you hungry?” he assumes with a sigh, standing as he speaks. “You ate on the way here, kid. There’s no way you’re still—“
The feeling returns, only this time it strikes his mind like an airspeeder. He lets out a closed-mouth grunt, losing his balance and landing on one knee. He instantly props himself up with an arm, gritting his teeth as he strains his gaze over to the kid. The one who’s staring at him, once again, soundlessly with squinted eyes.
“Grogu, stop!” he manages, and at once, the pressure fades.
Regaining his composure, he barely registers the guilty coo Grogu makes. His ears are down as low as they could go, eyes wide and forehead wrinkled; more than usual, at least. He shuffles toward Djarin, close enough to reach out and pull against the fabric of his pants.
Djarin obliges, wrapping two hands under Grogu’s arms and holding him up directly in front of his visor. He stares for a moment, piecing together everything with his weary mind. “That was you,” he states matter-of-factly, tone absent of any anger. “Are you inside my head?”
Grogu nods, then shakes his head, nods again, and then lets out a frustrated grumble.
Djarin sighs. This certainly isn’t the first time he’s failed to understand the kid; he should be used to it by now. But, still. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say,” he says. “Why are you inside my head?”
At this, Grogu’s ears lower immediately, his eyes narrowing slightly in what Djarin interprets as his best ‘you know I don’t have the words for that’ facial impression. Grogu’s eyes wander around the ship while he thinks, until he settles on raising a little 3-fingered hand to his temple, and then pointing it at Djarin’s helmet.
And of course, Djarin misunderstands. “Yes, I know this whole thing is you. I just want to…” his voice trails off.
“Is he speaking?” he asked, eyeing the Togruta as she sat beside the child. “Do you… understand him?”
The robed Togruta smiled softly, watching the child with wise eyes. She paused before she spoke, calculating her words with a calmness and patience Djarin wasn’t familiar with. “In a way,” she settled on. “Grogu and I can feel each other’s thoughts.”
It’s like a dim bulb sparks and switches on in his head.
“Grogu…” he says carefully, patching together the puzzle pieces he’s been given. “Are you trying to talk to me? Is that why you’re in my head?”
Grogu’s head could practically roll off with how emphatically he nods.
It’s dusk by the time they finish their meals. It doesn’t slip Djarin’s notice, the way the kid leans forward to sneak a look under his helmet with every sip of soup he takes. It never really does.
“Patu,” Grogu declares, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth to clean off remnants of whatever’s left. He promptly hops off his makeshift crate seat and waddles toward a clearing on the ship’s floor. His breath pants softly as he adjusts himself, eventually sitting on the bare floor, before glancing back up at Djarin.
He points a finger at the empty space in front of him, and makes a quiet chirp with a motioning gesture between the Mandalorian and the floor.
Djarin raises a questioning brow. Pointless, of course, but the notion stands in a motionless stare.
Grogu must understand his bemusement, because he makes another noise, this time louder and a little more impatient.
“Okay, hold on,” Djarin finally responds, scooping up their two empty bowls and setting them aside. “I’m coming.”
He hesitates, but ultimately stands and makes his way over to the spot that almost glows with how long Grogu’s been pointing at it. He settles in a sitting position, legs crossed in front of him, a few feet away from the kid. Awkwardly, he forms and unfurls fists with his hands at the edges of each knee, leather gloves squeaking in protest. Djarin is not a fan of being confronted with these powers. He’s seen what they can do.
A long pause later, Grogu’s hand long-gone from its statue-like pose, he hums calmly and rests both hands on his own legs. He pinches two fingers together and turns them upward, shutting his eyes.
Djarin watches in a bizarre concoction of confusion, mild wariness, and a half-pinch of interest. From his understanding, these headaches—whatever they’re called—they’re because of the kid. And the kid is doing it because he wants to… talk. And to talk, he has to… share his thoughts. How does a toddler share their thoughts? Are they pictures? Coherent words? And if they are coherent words, are they even in Basic?
No, Djarin doesn’t understand this concept one bit. He decides not to continue that train of thought for too long, either.
Instead, he steers that train elsewhere: Grogu’s only ever done this with one person, who happened to be another power-wielding person. How was he supposed to—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It’s gentler than any of the first four times, but prominent between the silence of the ship and over his own breaths. Djarin’s attention snaps back to the kid. He sits quietly for a beat, waiting for something, anything.
Nothing.
Djarin blinks. “Is there something you need me to—“
Grogu huffs, lifting his hands away from his knees and placing them back down in emphasis.
“Oh,” is all Djarin says before he awkwardly flexes his fingers, observing each hand as he touches the tips of his thumbs against his middle fingers. He rests the back of his hands on his knees. He feels like an idiot. “Like this?”
Grogu, once again, huffs.
“Well, I don’t know what you want me to do, kid,” he grumbles, immediately letting his hands rest normally on his knees.
Grogu opens one eye, looking up at the Mandalorian in… is that irritation? Djarin nearly speaks up, until Grogu’s shoulders raise as high as they could, and slowly sag as he lets out a long sigh.
Oh. He’s asking him to relax. Right.
Djarin nods once, wordlessly, and adjusts his posture. Raising his shoulders just the slightest, he lets out a long, steady breath, and releases tension he hadn’t even realized he held in—well, everywhere. It feels good. Great, actually.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
There’s a hum that echoes in his silent head, no longer the bells he heard before, but metallic chimes swinging in a passing breeze. He breathes in deep, deep enough for his lungs to take up most of the space in his chest. He exhales. Over, and over, and over again until he realizes that he’s closed his eyes at some point. It’s utterly calming, the way the world seems to quiet down; almost fascinating, in its own peculiar way.
Tap.
It takes him by startling surprise, that last tap. It’s loud, and attacks his senses enough to make him jolt involuntarily—
—and he stumbles on his feet. Wasn’t he—?
It all comes to him in sporadic bits and pieces. He’s surrounded by a void, not a grain of color or shape around him as he hectically spins around on his feet. He can’t tell where the edges of this place are, where one side ends and another begins. The only contrast he can possibly find against this place is Grogu, who’s standing across from him.
Grogu, whose green skin and beige robes are much more colorful than they are with his HUD vision.
Djarin’s gloved hands fly to his face and find it bare of any beskar.
His face. The Creed.
Shab.
He stares down at his arms, relieved to at least have kept his undersuit, but utterly baffled at being stripped of his armor. Does beskar not transcend the Force? Is this the Force? This has to be the Force. There’s no logical explanation. How is he here? Where is here?
A touch against his leg has his spiralling questions coming to a halt, and he’s partially grateful for it. He meets Grogu’s gaze, arms reaching down to scoop the kid up out of habit.
Again, he holds him at arm's length, this time face-to-face. He’s extremely aware of the difference. “You…” he struggles to start, wincing at his unfiltered voice and the million questions he’s mentally shuffling through until he lands on an actual sentence. “What is this place?”
Mind.
Djarin blinks. It’s all he can muster at the thought that’s certainly not his own. There’s no voice to the word, it just… appears. In his head.
Oh, he did not sign up for this. Nor did he sign up for the headache this amount of questioning is going to cause. Not today, not ever.
“Mind,” he repeats, visual attention never wavering from Grogu. “Is that you? Did you say that? Or… think that. Or. Uh.” His mind sputters like a damaged ship’s engine.
Grogu babbles happily and nods, ears flapping wildly at his delight. He reaches his arms out in an attempt to reach Djarin’s face. If he can feel Djarin’s three million additional follow-up questions, he’s doing an excellent job at ignoring them.
Mind. Inside.
“Mind, inside,” he says aloud, like the kid needs any confirmation he’s being heard. When the words click, however, he’s left dumbfounded in realization.
Bond. Mind.
“Hold on,” Djarin has to say, because these words are coming a little too quickly for his stubborn mind to process fast enough. He draws Grogu in toward his chest, cradling him in one arm as he runs his free hand through his tousled hair. “Bond? What does that—?”
“The Force can be found within all living things. But some living things carry it more than others. Like you, Grogu.”
The bamboo trees of Ossus creaked and squeaked outside the temple, the wind ruffling their leaves high above. He’d only been here for a day, but he’s never seen a more harmonious place in his 53 years of life. Grogu’s head leaned to the side in interest, beckoning Luke to continue.
And he does. “The Force is strong in you, as it is with me. Think of it as a song. Do you hear it?”
Grogu’s ears stretched out like he’d been physically straining for a sound, but he knew. It’s the tranquil hum he always hears in his small body, a peaceful melody he learned to stay in tune with and pick out everywhere he turned. He blinked up at the Jedi and nodded.
Luke gave a satisfied smile, grateful for the Padawan’s understanding. “Now, not all of us hear it. Sometimes, it’s not loud or strong enough to hear. Other times, we choose to ignore it.” A dissatisfied noise came out of Grogu’s mouth then. Luke held up a hand to signal patience. “Yes, well. You can’t always be quick to judge, Grogu. People sometimes fear what they can’t understand.”
He’s back on the cold floor of the Razor Crest, legs crossed over one another exactly as they previously were, before he can even begin to comprehend whatever’s just come across his mind. He doesn’t even notice the way he’s panting, panic swelling up in his body like fuses being lit in his veins, until there’s a ginger touch to his left hand.
It’s never failed to ground him, but—well. There’s always a first for everything.
Just like there’s also a first for entering minds, and a first for experiencing memories that aren’t even his, and a first for… feeling things that he knows aren’t his feelings, because he, Din Djarin, feels the furthest thing from content right now, and yet it’s in the air, and he knows it’s around him, and it’s—
Grogu stands at his side, ears high and eyes slightly squinted, all accompanied by a soft, closed smile that Djarin probably would describe as content.
It’s coming from the kid.
Dank farrik.