Archive of Our Own

The damnable squid-headed pirates were absolutely dogged in their pursuit. Migs Mayfeld eased the controls of his rickety gunship out of hyperdrive and scanned the readouts for any sign of the rogue Quarren ships tailing him.

“This is why I don’t work with pirates,” he muttered to himself, angrily paging through the sensor computer for anything suspicious. “I deserve to be perched on top of a building with a blaster rifle and a mug of hot soup, while another idiot pilots the ships and makes the bad deals and escapes the pirates who double-crossed him,” he said as he listlessly flipped through the coordinates of places he knew he could escape to. None looked good.

He turned around in his seat with a grunt to face a holomap, and he made a disgusted face as he used his hands to spin his options around. “Think, Mayfeld, think– you just barely squeaked out of the Hydian Way and you need a hidey-hole while this whole pirate thing blows over.” Eriadu was no good, pirates loved Eriadu, and he wasn’t about to waltz onto Dathomir to cuddle with the karking rancors. He touched a couple of other systems with a hopeless little laugh.

“Where the fuck are we going, Z?” he said to his shiny new astromech droid. It wasn’t anything like the Zero he worked with on the Roost. It was a dome-headed little R3-unit, but it did have a zero somewhere in its R3 model number, Migs was fairly sure. And Migs would have to forgive himself somehow for thinking it was easier to just call every droid Zero. Wasn’t their whole thing ones and zeros? Migs slept through that class in the Imperial Academy.

R3-Something-Zero whistled pitifully in binary, but Migs ignored it like he was always planning on doing anyways.

He stopped spinning the hologram of the planet he was idly rotating. Nevarro? Why was that familiar?

Oh. Mando. Right.

It all flooded back to Migs, little tidbits of terse comms conversations he had with the Mandalorian after Migs was freed on Morak. Yes, he got his kid back. Yes, he had land there, on Nevarro. No, it wasn’t covered with lava. It was by the hot springs, if Mayfeld absolutely needed to know. What was he wearing right now? His armor. What kind of question was Mayfeld even asking? (The Mandalorian hung up the transceiver once he figured it out. )

Migs punched in coordinates and hit the accelerator before any familiar ships blinked out of hyperspace on his tail.

It was easy enough to find the Mandalorian’s homestead. Man was infamous. As low a profile as he might try to keep, people tended to notice you when you were that shiny and competent and also lowkey their savior several times over.

R3-Something-Zero was rolling behind Migs on the path to Mando’s house, warbling worriedly in binary, not that Migs asked it to come. Thing thought of itself as more of a nursemaid than an astromech droid, from the way it kept carrying on about Migs’ wellbeing. Migs crinkled his nose in disgust. He’d have to wipe its memory and exchange it for a more unattached droid at the next parts dealer he came across. Migs didn’t fuss about Migs as much as this glorified tin can did.

“Zero, can it,” he whined. Zero poked him in the leg with its utility arm. Migs swatted it away, but the droid produced three more arms and drummed them urgently against Migs’ thigh as Migs stared at it incredulously. Satisfied it had Migs’ attention, the droid used all four short, stick-like arms to gesture emphatically at the shadow of a tree further down the path.

“That’s a tree, buddy. You okay?” Migs said slowly, cackling slightly to himself as R3-Something-Zero gave an exasperated whistle. Migs’ eye was keener than that, though, and he scanned the sun-dappled shadows of the tree carefully.

There was a little green figure tucked neatly against the trunk of the tree, oversized robe sleeves rolled up and little green hands clutching a fruit nearly as big as his own head. The kid’s big black eyes were looking right at him, and the expression on his tiny face was wary. The kid squinted at him over the distance.

“That’s his kid,” Migs said to the R3-unit. “We’re here.”

“Hey, kid,” Migs shouted down the road, raising a friendly hand. “We're here to see your Dad.”

The half-eaten fruit the kid was holding came winging full-speed at Migs’ head, bouncing off Migs’ bald forehead with a wet thunk. The kid softly yelled something in his little alien language that Migs could only imagine was “oh shit.”

“Kid!” said Migs, jogging after him as the tiny alien hopped away with ridiculously long leaps, like an ash-rabbit on performance enhancing drugs. “I'm not mad! You've got good kriffing aim!” Don't swear. He's a child. You’re going to scare him. “How are you getting away so fast! Is this because I dropped you that one time?! Fuck!” Okay, only scare him a little.

Zero, who was keeping pace rolling beside him, chuffed an admonishing little series of beeps.

Migs rounded a corner on the path to find the kid standing in the doorway of a cabin, staring up at him balefully. Migs held up his hands placatingly. “Kid,” he said, nearly out of breath. He searched his memory for a name and settled on something he thought he heard Carasynthia Dune say. “Grogis.”

A paint dart fired out of the kid's sleeve and barely missed Migs as he pivoted out of the way. It splattered green paint on Zero's circular black photoreceptor, blinding the droid. Zero wailed and swivelled his domed hull pitifully.

“Grogu. Grogu!” Migs corrected. “I need help, Grogu. I need your Dad.”

Grogu glared suspiciously up at him with big, shiny black eyes.

R3-Something-Zero produced a clean rag from somewhere inside his hull and wiped his mechanical eye clean with a utility arm. Grogu very graciously gestured with his hand and floated the cloth into a trash disposal just inside the cabin door.

“Why can you do that,” said Migs. Grogu just squinted at him.

“Can I come in and talk to your Dad, buddy?” said Migs with patience he didn't feel.

Grogu was using his tiny body to block the open door. Migs dismissed an urge to just punt him out of the way. That was cruel and counterproductive, just one of those thoughts you had when your brain was being more of an asshole than you were actually allowed to be…but the kid was a good size for kicking. He was knee-high to a porg. He was three cups of caf tall. Kickable. No. Besides, who knew what the little magic freakshow could do to him with his apparent powers.

Grogu put his tiny hand up and thought for a second. Migs tried his best to radiate “I am a friendly adult who needs help,” and not “I am a dangerous mercenary who did in fact fling you across a room once.”

Grogu said something Migs couldn't understand and jumped up to pat a rustic sign hung into the tan-grey masonry of the doorframe, just above the door's control panel. In etched metal, the sign read “NO SOLICITORS. NO DROIDS.”

Migs smiled in a way that he hoped Grogu couldn't tell was fake and gave R3-Something-Zero a generous push back down the roadway as the droid yipped in protest. “It'll go back to the ship,” Migs assured Grogu. Zero protested further, pushing against Migs’ legs with its domed head, body tilted with effort. “It'll wait under the tree,” Migs said through gritted teeth, bumping the droid's wheels with the side of his durasteel-toed boot. Zero assented, wheeling away sadly.

Grogu looked up at Migs and nodded solemnly. He wandered into the house.

“Can I just come in? Was it that easy?” Migs said.

Grogu shrugged and hopped up onto one of the benches by the table. Nestled into a corner, it was stacked with mismatched cushions to make Grogu tall enough to easily reach.

The house was mostly one open room, with an ornate rug covering most of the floorspace, and a small kitchen area, set to the side with a chimney for the thermal cooker. Din’s bed was practically in the middle of the room. A large weapons chest took up most of the real estate of one corner, and the ‘fresher was nowhere to be found, most likely stationed a short walk outside.

“Is Mando somewhere inside the house, kid?” said Migs, favoring leaning against the table instead of sitting down, in case he had to book it. There was no way Mando was in the house unless he was playing hide-and-seek in the weapons chest. Better to ask though; you never knew what a man got up to.

Grogu shook his head no and pointed a chubby claw beseechingly. Migs followed it with his eyes. Grogu was pointing at a short cabinet, set into the wall by the thermal cooker, latched with an old-fashioned lock.

“Oh boy. Are you supposed to have whatever’s in there? Where’s your old man, buddy?” said Migs. Grogu continued pointing.

Migs reached down and gave the door an experimental pull. It was locked tight. “I don’t have the key, Grogu,” he said, not looking in the kid’s direction.

When he turned back to face the kid, there was a ring of small keys floating in the air in front of Migs’ face, jingling gently. Migs was a hardened professional mercenary, and he didn’t startle, but he did make an unflattering noise that may have been a cut-off curse word.

“It seems to me,” said Migs slowly, “that you can open this cabinet any time you want.” The kid made some innocent cooing noises. Absolutely karking not. Acting cute isn’t going to get you out of this, you little green punk.

“It seems to me,” continued Migs, taking the keyring and studying the keys quickly before holding his best guess up to the lock, “that you’re trying to make me a co-conspirator in whatever tiny heist is happening right now. An accomplice.”

The key opened the lock easily, and Migs opened the doors with a flourish. Grogu cheered and held his arms out to Migs.

“You want me to fly you there? I might drop you, kid. I don’t have a great track record with this.”

Grogu patted his arm reassuringly. Migs rolled his eyes behind the kid’s back and lifted Grogu carefully up. He resisted the temptation to pretend to drop him. Who would that even be a joke for? He didn’t have any audience besides the kid. He settled for making speeder noises instead as he zoomed Grogu from table to cabinet.

He was genuinely surprised when Grogu found it funny and laughed. Migs was going soft. This kid was a tiny little wisp of a thing, barely weighing more than a puff of Suliana cotton. Was this why the Mandalorian was so fiercely paternal towards this little weirdo?

Grogu was waving his hands in the air, his eyes closed meditatively, and silver metallic sleeves filled with blue cookies trailed slowly through the air, like railspeeder-cars lined up in a train, from the cabinet to the table.

Migs turned Grogu to face him as Grogu finished emptying the cabinet of his treasures. He held Grogu up at arm’s length as the little alien stared down at him, long ears tilted down and eyes curious. “Is that why the change of heart? You’re unhappy to see me until you figure out you can frame me for unleashing your favorite snacks?”

The last package of cookies floated to Grogu’s hand and he ripped it open greedily. Migs watched with minor disgust as Grogu inelegantly scarfed down several cookies. Maybe this thing wasn’t so cute after all.

Migs set Grogu down on his cushioned bench and then stiffened as he felt the cold metal of a blaster bump the back of his head.

“He can’t have those before dinner,” said the Mandalorian, voice deadly soft through his vocoder.

Oh thank KRIKE it wasn’t a pirate Quarren. This was a friendly blaster! The harsh press of the metal almost felt like a caress, knowing it was the Mandalorian wielding it.

Grogu babbled a little laugh from his virtual cloud of blue crumbs.

Migs turned around slowly, his hands raised. “It's me. It's Mayfeld. Sorry to drop in on no notice, Mando, but it’s an emergency,” Migs said, grimacing performatively.

He dropped his arms to his side when he saw the Mandalorian.

Mando was helmeted, sure, as was his proverbial Way, but the rest of him was on uncharacteristic display, draped in a thin, long-sleeved diaphaneel robe that technically covered everything but a thin slit of the Mandalorian’s chest. His skin was slightly damp. Migs was suddenly reminded that there were hot springs on the Mandalorian homestead.

Migs felt a bright red blush creep up his neck and envelop his face. Was he a kriffing teen again, sent into a stupor at the sight of his fellow cadets in the showers at the Academy, or was he Migs fucking Mayfeld, best fucking sniper in this quadrant, at least? He gathered his composure. His damnable face was still red.

The Mandalorian lowered his blaster with a disgruntled sigh. “You should know better than to let yourself into a man's house. That’s a quick way to get yourself shot.”

“I know. I need your help,” Migs pleaded. “Pirates hired me on and then turned on me when the stakes got too high. And they want me real dead. You were the nearest friend I could call on.”

“They’re tracking you?” said the Mandalorian.

“Afraid so,” said Migs, wincing.

“You led them to my house, where my child lives,” said the Mandalorian. It wasn’t a question.

“Afraid so,” said Migs.

“Dank farrik, Mayfeld,” said the Mandalorian.

Din Djarin. It was bizarre to have a name to the face. Or, well, helmet. Migs was content with the fact that he would die before he would divulge his knowledge of Din Djarin’s face. He wondered if being back together was as strange to the Mandalorian as it was to him. He was so exposed when Migs saw him helmetless. Raw, vulnerable like a wounded animal. Migs couldn’t get those sad, pretty brown eyes out of his head.

Migs would take it with him to his grave.

Migs found himself half-dozing off, half-thinking about Din Djarin’s eyes as their holo-meeting with Greef Karga dragged on and on. Grogu was already asleep, nestled in the tough, sparse grass next to Din. They sat in the shade of one of the homestead’s small trees as R3-Something-Zero helpfully projected a tiny hologram of the High Magistrate.

“Isn’t it remarkable what he’s done with the place?” asked Karga, pride obvious in his booming voice.

“It’s charming, your honor,” said Migs sleepily. “Real nice touch with the pasture for his pet blurrgs. I’m told they’re the life of the party.”

“Of course. Mando has done a wonderful job tending the land. It’s a testament to the rich volcanic soil we have here on Nevarro! I hear his crops actually bore fruit this year, now that he’s around more to tend them. And the upgrades to his cabin he’s added recently as he rebuilds are marvelous. Can you imagine how humble that place was to begin with? All that money from bounty hunting and the man still lived like a monk. I’ve been trying to teach him to live a little!”

“The pirates, your honor?” said Migs, trying fruitlessly for the fifth time to steer the conversation back to its original topic. He looked toward Din for backup. Din’s helmet was turned towards Grogu as the child slept. There’d be no help from that corner. Migs shook off the mental image of Din’s face, gentle, as he looked down at his kid.

“We’ll get there. First, you must see the hot springs by the Clan Mudhorn cabin. The waters are highly medicinal. I hear Mando has built a wonderful lodge around one of the pools so he can use it in private and keep to his strict Creed.”

“That Creed is crazy, your honor,” said Migs, earning himself an imagined brown-eyed glare from Din’s helmet. Migs shrugged as Karga’s booming laugh pealed tinnily out of the holoprojection.

“You said that, not me,” said Karga. “And of course, you must take a tour of our newly renovated city center while you’re here. The jewel of the volcano flats! We have such sights to see!”

“It’ll be a pleasure,” said Migs, hoping the exhausted look on his face wasn’t obvious on the holoimage Zero was sending Karga.

“But enough of that! Of course, any friend of the Mandalorian is a friend of Nevarro! You’ll be notified right away if any Quarren pirates breach Nevarron air space.”

Din finally spoke. “Thanks,” he said to Karga.

“He can talk,” said Migs, perhaps a trifle too ungraciously. “How do we know you weren’t napping with your kid while me and ‘his honor the High Magistrate’ talked shop? Do you always put two complete strangers on a diplomatic call and say absolutely nothing the entire time? I listened to the entire Nevarro tourism board spiel three times over.”

“That you did,” said Greef Karga, laughing good-naturedly. “And to think, before this conversation, I was planning on asking Marshal IG-11 to take you back to the Karthon Chop Fields! Hahaha.”

“Hahaha,” repeated Migs bitterly.

Greef Karga liked that a good deal. “Pirates on Nevarro again! Oh, I could kill you. Where did you even find this guy, Mando?” asked Greef.

“Chop Fields,” said Din.

“Keep him there, next time, so he stops bringing pirates down on the good people of Nevarro.”

“Come on, guys,” said Migs.

“I’m kidding. Farewell,” said the High Magistrate.

R3-Something-Zero’s broadcast blinked out and shut down.

“We'll take care of it next,” said Din, nodding the helmet towards the droid. “And then your ship.”

“I’ve been meaning to wipe and get rid of that kriffing thing,” said Migs ruthlessly as Zero squealed in protest.

“Get rid of– no, I mean I’ll have the droidsmiths come check it over for tracking devices,” Din said.

“Thought you hated droids.”

“Never said I didn’t,” Din said, grunting and brushing grass off his armor as he stood.

“A man of many contradictions,” said Migs.

Din bent down to pick up Grogu. The sun was sitting low in the sky, but not set yet. “Get some rest before the droidsmiths come in the morning. You can go into town for a meal.”

“What, you’re not going to feed me? I guess you people are renowned for your fighting prowess and not your hospitality for a reason.”

Din Djarin said nothing.

“Whatever, Mando. I have rations on my ship. My med kit’s out, though. You have a med kit? I have some scratches that could use patching,” said Migs. He wasn’t injured enough to use up one of his precious bacta patches. His back was just scratched to hell from where the pirates tore out his electrode contact implants for his neuro-linked mechanical arm, and the scratches were neglected and angry red.

“The hot springs are medicinal,” was all Din said, before silently walking up the path to his cabin with Grogu, the door hissing shut behind him.

Those kriffing hot springs again. Migs stared after him, and then made up his mind and pounded on the door. “C’mon, Djarin, let me in for the night. I don’t care that your house is the size of a scurrier burrow– I don’t want to sleep on the ship. All I got for company is Zero and that’s no way for a man to live.”

Zero spat a few disgruntled beeps and whistles and headed back for the ship, alone.

Migs hit the door once with his open palm and then stepped back and stared at it. Just as he was about to turn and follow Zero, the door slid gently open. Grogu was standing in the doorway.

Grogu showed Migs a cookie he had hidden up his sleeve, and then gestured conspiratorially for Migs to come inside the cabin. Migs easily hefted Grogu up into his arms and carried him into the kitchen area, humming a jaunty little tune that made the kid babble happily. The Mandalorian was turned away from him, crouching by the low thermal cooker to stir a pot of food.

“What’s for dinner?” said Migs, grinning like a little shit and well aware of the fact. Din didn’t seem terribly surprised to see him.

“Soup,” said the Mandalorian.

“What kind?” said Migs. trying to crane over Din’s shoulder together with Grogu.

“Soup,” said the Mandalorian.

“I’m starting to see why you aren’t terribly hospitable. You’re not a cook, are you, Din Djarin? They didn’t give you a gourmet beskar cooking pot at Mando School to practice with?”

Migs and Grogu easily dodged out of the way as Din shooed them away with a ladle.

“I’ll go into town for supplies tomorrow,” Migs said, setting Grogu down at his seat at the table bench as Din Djarin ladled hot soup into a bowl in front of the child. Grogu blew on it impatiently to cool it down. “I can cook while I’m here. Least I can do in exchange for you and your Magistrate’s protection.”

Din said nothing.

Migs rifled through the cabinets until he produced a clean bowl and spoon and served himself, sitting on the bench at a right angle to Grogu’s bench in the corner and leaving Din awkwardly standing. “Your Creed says you can’t take off your helmet to eat around me, right?” Migs said around a mouthful of hot soup. Well, it was food, and it was hot, but that was about all Migs could say for it. “You take your meals privately?”

Din nodded, but Migs could still tell that he was pissed off that Migs had unceremoniously stolen his seat. He could practically see the furrowed brow and the brown eyes flashing angrily. “Go eat,” Migs said. “I’ll make sure your little spotchka krill here doesn’t burn himself.”

Din stood still for a moment, and then served himself and retreated out of the house with his meal. The door slid shut quietly. Migs could perfectly picture Din taking off his helmet, his face underneath.

It was better if he didn’t picture it.

Migs woke at dawn, early sunlight reflecting off the pond outside the window and shining blinding-bright through the cabin’s viewports.

He was cocooned in the Mandalorian’s surprisingly nice quality bedding, sleeping lightly on a long bench by the weapons chest that Din had helpfully cleared of supplies. He was opposite Din's empty cot; Grogu was on the floor at the foot of the bed, sleeping happily on the floor in a pile of luxurious-looking cushions. Migs suspected the bedding was Karga’s people’s work. Din didn’t seem like a man who spent money on pillows and blankets. Din seemed like a man who spent money on disintegrator rifles. Migs’ kind of man.

He checked the time on his datapad. Droidsmiths weren’t due for another standard hour, at least. He heard Grogu snoring gently on the floor, but Migs knew he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep.

The scratches on his back pulled and itched. The hot springs were medicinal, huh?

Migs rummaged through the chest he had watched Din pull bedding from and helped himself to a pile of tan nerf-wool towels. He shrugged his shirt on and thumbed the control panel to let himself out of the house.

The hot springs were a short walk away, past the pond and the blurrg pens, marked with high strings of colorful, triangular flags that were definitely not the Mandalorian’s doing. The ground was gritty black sand, interspersed with long-petaled red flowers and tiny, spindly purple ones, big tufts of dry grass, and short, thin-trunked trees with their trailing aerial roots. There were pools of warm water of various sizes and depths, each cordoned off with a decorative border of rocks and marked with an etched sign describing the uses of the pools. Some were shallow enough to sit comfortably in, and some looked neck-deep. All of them steamed gently and gave off a strong smell of damp dirt and metal.

Migs walked around the pools and studied his surroundings. There was plentiful steam in the air, so it would be hard to get a visual if he was attacked. That could also work in his favor– a scope couldn’t spy him out through the steam. They would have to come to him. The stones were slippery. A physical fight here would be a disaster. He’d have an advantage if he kept his blaster close and his wits about him.

Migs supposed that picturing himself getting attacked by pirates was against the relaxing ethos of the hot springs. He didn’t care. It wasn’t like he could turn it off.

Water flowed from one spring into a building made of the same grey-tan masonry as the Clan Mudhorn cabin. That must be the Mandalorian’s lodge, his private hot springs where he could relax his sore muscles and heal his scars without prying eyes looking at his face. Did he take his helmet off in there? His clothes? Was this where the Mandalorian let his guard down, defenseless, guileless, wrapped only in that diaphaneel robe that Migs saw him in yesterday–

Migs knelt down and used a faucet to splash cold water on his reddening face. He supposed that was how the hot springs worked. There was a series of faucets and washbasins to use before getting in the communal water. He methodically took off and folded his clothes, wrapped his lower torso in a towel, and set to work absolutely dousing himself in water as cold as he could tolerate.

Okay. That got that out of his system.

Thoroughly scrubbed, Migs picked a shallow-seeming pool and eased himself in, hissing at the heat of it. There were stone benches built into the side of the pool, and he sat on one and leaned back. The water was indeed very hot, just this side of bearable, but Migs felt his muscles relax almost immediately. He realized wasn’t ready to let go of that tension yet; it felt like a part of who he was. The cuts on his back were instantly soothed by the earthy-smelling water.

He didn’t know for how long he sat there, luxuriating in the water, when he heard footsteps padding from the Mandalorian’s lodge. Migs sprung to full attention and peered through the steam. Would it be worse to be attacked right now, or to see the Mandalorian in some state of dishevelment? He ignored the thought that one of those would be quite nice, actually.

Surely, if it was an enemy, he’d be attacked already. He couldn’t possibly be any more vulnerable than mostly nude in a steamy bath. He cleared his throat and announced himself. “Hey. I’m here,” he said, betting it was just Din.

Din’s helmet looked straight at him through the steam. Din made a cut-off choking sound. “You okay?” said Migs, starting to lift himself out of the water.

“Don’t,” said Din, strangled.

Migs stood anyway, quickly wrapping himself in his towel and pulling himself out of the springs. He told himself that he was just flushed from the heat. “Hey, my mistake, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he started, awkwardly stumbling closer to Din over the wet rocks. “I didn’t think you could startle. Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of untouchable badass?” Migs knew better.

“It’s fine,” said Din.

Now that Migs was closer, he could see that the Mandalorian was straight out of his private hot springs lodge, dripping wet with that robe on and a towel around his shoulders. His helmet was his only bid at modesty. The damp cloth of the thin robe clung to his body. Migs swallowed.

“Can that thing see through the steam?” Curiosity took over his always-running mouth, and Migs rapped his knuckles on the helmet, twice, without thinking. The helmet’s expression was as blank as always, but Migs could imagine Din leveling him a look. “That’d be a pretty big tactical advantage, if your HUD could compensate for particles like that. I know we had a pretty primitive version of that in the Trooper’s helms when I was an Imp.”

“I can see through the steam,” confirmed Din.

“Oh,” said Migs.

“You got an eyeful,” said Migs.

“What, am I supposed to be bashful about it or something? I'm not. You’re welcome,” said Migs, grinning like the tooka who got the cream.

There was a warm flush to the exposed skin of Din’s neck. Migs had seen him without his flight suit all of twice now. Three times, if you counted the tank trooper getup. It felt as forbidden as seeing his face. Migs couldn’t make a habit of this.

“Dry off and get dressed,” said Din, voice even now. “The Anzellans will arrive soon.”

“And spoil our fun?” said Migs, still grinning. Din threw a towel at Migs’ face.

The two droidsmiths were waiting by the time Migs and Din returned to the cabin, dried off, dressed, and ate leftover soup for breakfast. R3-Something-Zero was also waiting nervously outside, swivelling his dome back and forth to take in everything that was happening.

Grogu was awake and practically vibrating with excitement. He started to run to the Anzellans as they dismounted their tiny speeder, his green hands outstretched greedily, when Din scooped him up and talked to him sternly instead.

“Grogu. Remember not to grab or squeeze. Be good and you can help them.”

“You a grabber, kid?” said Migs as he rummaged through his pack. He thought it was around here somewhere; he just knew the little guys would go crazy for it. “You gotta keep your hands to yourself or somebody’ll chop ‘em off and cook ‘em in a stew someday.”

Grogu looked at him with big, alarmed eyes.

Din heaved a sigh. “Don’t listen to Mayfeld. Do keep your hands to yourself.” He set Grogu on the ground and the youngling stayed obediently by his side, hands quiet.

Migs found what he was looking for; he whipped the tiny bottle out of his pack with an exaggerated flourish. “You gotta present your best self to get what you want, kid,” he said to Grogu, whose lower lip was still wobbling. “And sometimes that involves greasing the wheel. Basic bribery. Hello, gentlemen,” he said, squatting down to be as level as possible with the approaching Anzellans.

“Just me, Minch, an’ new boy Clang today,” said the head droidsmith in careful Basic. “Clang must learn tracker removal. I teach. Who's ginger man?”

“Migs Mayfeld, legendary friend of the Mandalorian,” said Migs, scruffing his graying red stubble in acknowledgement.

“Legendary friend…?” said Din under his breath. Migs smiled up at him.

“I have a gift for you droidsmiths, as thanks for saving my skin like this on such short notice,” said Migs, proffering a small burgundy bottle, the glass sparkling and full of a vibrant liquid. “Bitterfruit liquor.”

The bottle was small but it was still as big as the accepting Anzellan’s torso. Clang clung to the bottle, looking blank, but Minch’s eyes sparkled appreciatively. “Good. Good stuff. Very good,” he said, and then translated something into Anzellan for Clang, who repeated “Very good!” with a big thumbs up.

“Don’t drink more than a thimble’s worth unless you have a death wish,” said Migs.

“Hangover would kill me. Wife would kill me!” said Minch, and he and Migs guffawed heartily at the universal language of shitty wife jokes as the Mandalorian looked on blankly.

Grogu toddled towards the bottle, arms outstretched curiously. He tapped it gently with a chubby claw.

“No, baby,” came the chorus from the Anzellans, and then “That’s adult beverage. Adult. You baby,” said Minch.

Grogu looked to Din, who nodded. Ears down, dejected, Grogu retreated to his position at Din’s heel, looking longingly at the bottle. Migs would have to get him a similar one full of juice when he went to the market.

Migs patted Grogu on the head. If he couldn’t find a cool bottle for him without liquor, Migs and Din could enjoy the liquor themselves and they could clean it and fill it for the little guy.

Since when was Migs so attached to someone else’s kid? Not that the “someone else” was anyone to take lightly either, not with his gorgeous competence and equally gorgeous face that literally only Migs had lived to see. What a galaxy.

The Anzellans set to work taking R3-Something-Zero apart to strip him of any trackers the pirates left on him. The tiny droidsmiths assured Migs that they could fake Migs’ location, make him seem like he left Nevarro and was several systems away. The pirates might know his location now, but they would have to backtrack carefully to find him or be thrown off the trail.

Migs was impressed with their work. They spent the morning like that, Grogu handing the Anzellans their tiny tools as Din kept a watchful eye and Migs taught the younger Anzellan to swear in Basic. They repeated the process on Migs’ ship, and by the time they were done, the Anzellans had a scrap heap as big as they were of rice grain-sized tracker parts that they had removed and reprogrammed.

Din seemed relieved once the Anzellans’ work was done. Migs felt as bad as his shrivelled conscience would allow about potentially leading Very Angry Pirates to Din’s home, but if there was anyone skilled enough to handle it, it had to be Din Djarin, didn’t it?

The Anzellans bid them farewell, zooming off clutching their prized bottle of bitterfruit liquor between them, as well as the generous heap of credits Migs paid them.

Zero, rattled by the whole experience, was recharging on Migs’ ship, which Migs had left on the lava flats halfway between the city and the Clan Mudhorn cabin. Din seemed inclined to go back home for the day, to cautiously lie in wait for Migs’ enemies. Migs had other inclinations.

“Take me to the market,” Migs said to Din imperiously.

“What?” said Din.

“Me, you, and Grogu. We’ll go to the market in the city square. I’ll get us something worth cooking tonight and in return you’ll protect me from any vicious malcontents looking to maim my person, of which there are many, I assure you.”

“Shouldn’t you be laying low?” said Din, but there was a tinge of amusement to his voice.

“If I’m going to be horrifically killed by backstabbing pirates, I deserve to die out in the open, with as many witnesses to traumatize as possible. Right, Grogu?” he said, scooping Grogu up.

Grogu cooed in assent.

“Fine. We’ll walk to town. I don’t trust you on a blurrg,” said Din.

“That’s good. You shouldn’t,” said Migs, setting Grogu on Din’s shoulder and sauntering onwards down the road.

They travelled in companionable silence for all of ten minutes before Migs couldn’t take it any more.

He started talking about his little pirate problem to fill the silent void:

It wasn’t like Migs was planning on stealing from the damned pirates to begin with.

It was just a job. They were just clients. Migs didn’t particularly care if his employers were hijacking merchant ships or pulling orphans out of burning buildings, but it turned out that the mission he was hired on for was relatively morally acceptable, as far as Migs was concerned. They were salvaging the wreck of a gunrunner’s ship that had been marooned in the Karbonni asteroid belt. The gunrunner was a paranoid sort, and he had been hauling quite the cargo, so the whole bulk freighter was booby-trapped to hell and back. The pirates couldn’t survive it on their own, so they hired Migs, who was clever enough to get them in and out of there with all their tentacles intact, and with the cargo intact to boot.

They turned on Migs when they figured out that the gunrunner was also carrying a fortune’s worth of glitterstim, and suddenly the pot was too valuable to give Migs a cut. They took his weapons, they tore out his third mechanical arm, and they left him to die of thirst with his hands bound in stuncuffs, locked in the hold of the freighter.

Dumbasses. Migs knew from experience that when you double-cross someone smarter and stronger than you, you had to kill the guy. Case in point: Din Djarin. Not that he still had nightmares about the Mandalorian hunting him down like a wild animal.

Getting out of stuncuffs was a party trick that Migs had easily mastered as an Imperial cadet, and picking the lock of the hold was trivial. Migs quietly crept through the freighter and found an untouched crate of weapons. Blasters weren’t hard to come by on a gunrunner’s ship.

Migs caught up with the pirates as they hauled the last of the cargo into their docked ship. He shot all six of them before they even saw him and left their bodies on the gunrunner’s freighter.

He probably should have hidden the bodies.

He unloaded the goods at the nearest fence, traded in the pirate’s recognizably Quarren ship for a functioning, if not ostentatious, jalopy of a gunship, and sold the glitterstim for much less than if was worth to get his payout in hard credits instead of more goods he would have to fence. He also took an R3-unit as payment, which he shouldn’t have, because the thing was soft and also loaded with trackers. Migs suspected it cried itself to sleep every night that it should have such a callous owner.

(Grogu made sounds of sympathy for the plight of poor R3-Something-Zero. He could have the damn thing, if he wanted.)

The fence paid out, but Migs suspected that she was the one who called the pirates’ friends, because as soon as he left her shop, he was attacked by multiple ships of Quarren pirates, screaming vengeance for their friends and family that Migs had cruelly slaughtered.

And that was how Migs Mayfeld ended up on Nevarro, telling a pirate story to a little green sorcerer as small as a butcherbug, and spending the pirates’ credits to pay for said little green sorcerer’s snacks.

Grogu applauded Migs’ story solemnly, before stuffing a handful of colorful, freshly popped bang-corn into his mouth.

“If he has nightmares, he’s sleeping on the bench with you,” said Din. He was sorting through a display of vibroknives, hefting them in his hand and holding them up in the sunlight to scrutinize them judiciously, while Migs held Grogu and his huge bag of bang-corn.

“You take him on way worse missions than that,” said Migs, feeling unjustly scolded. “Hey, just pick one.”

The helmet gave him a blank look. Migs could imagine the consternated expression underneath and his smile brightened. Cute. He had the thought and completely refused to unpack it, because he was pretty sure that he would come to the conclusion that he, Migs Mayfeld, was being driven insane by the forbidden memory of the Mandalorian’s face. That just wasn’t a mental journey he wanted to take himself on in the middle of a crowded market.

He sheepishly scanned the perimeter for enemies instead of thinking about Din. Still all clear.

Din held up a vibroknife that seemed to pass his quality check and nodded to the vendor. Migs got a better look at the knife as he reached over to hand the man his credits. It was a small, wicked thing, more the size of a paring knife than a weapon, with a thin, pearlescent handle.

“Did you just buy a vibroknife for your baby?” said Migs.

“It’s time for him to learn how to use one properly,” said Din. “It’s safer if he knows how.”

“No no no. He needs a blaster first,” said Migs, “because he’s too little to be in melee combat yet! He can’t tank hits like you can! Give him that thing and he’ll be running straight at every bad guy like he’s got a suicide wish. What’re you gonna give him next, a bandolier full of grav charges?”

“Learning how to use a weapon won’t put him in danger. Not knowing how to use it will. This is the Way.”

”’The Way,’ sheesh. What a load of– …so teach him how to shoot, too! Kid’s got good aim! Ask me how I know.”

Grogu was watching both of them raptly, with an attention usually reserved for amphibians he’d like to bother. Migs hefted him onto his own shoulder.

“Maybe something small,” said Din. “And only to practice with. Supervised. Extremely supervised.”

Migs reached up and gave Grogu a high-five. (Well, a high-five on Migs’ side, a high-three from Grogu’s.) “I knew you were a reasonable man! Well, other than the cult thing. That’s not your fault, though. We find a dealer, get him a microscopic little holdout pistol– I think a CS14 would fit in his hand correctly and he could keep it up his sleeve when he’s more responsible. Kickback’s not too bad–”

Migs shouldn’t have been surprised that it was easy to convince a Mandalorian to get his son a weapon. He was covered in weapons. He was a weapon. They were part of his religion, even.

What did surprise Migs was the easy rhythm they were settling into. They companionably argued over which sidearm would be best for Grogu as they bought ingredients for dinner. Who would have thought that the Mandalorian was a Shard 3-A man? Shard quality just wasn’t what it used to be.

Din wandered away with Grogu while Migs haggled with the meat monger over an overpriced qartuum tenderloin. Finally satisfied with the price, Migs tucked away his prize and looked around, but they were nowhere nearby. He scanned the perimeter, the rooftops, the crowd. No pirates, no Din.

Was it overstepping his bounds if Migs stepped into a furniture stall and bought a chair for himself at the kitchen table? He ordered one delivered ahead of them to the Clan Mudhorn cabin and tipped the delivery droid generously. His plan was to just put it at the table with the benches and never say anything about it.

Din and Grogu met him as he spent a small fortune on a bottle of Toniray wine. He hadn’t had the wine since he was Imperial, well before the Empire exploded Alderaan, where the wine originated. But the real prize was the bottle, shiny crystal, patterned and faceted and sparkling. He and Din could share the wine, and then they’d put meiloorun juice in it for Grogu. And Grogu could take potshots at it with his new blaster when he was bored of it.

“What’s the occasion?” said Din.

“This,” said Migs. “This is nice.”

“Your imminent demise-by-pirate?”

“No, beskar-for-brains, what comes before my imminent demise-by-pirate. Your life on this planet is nice. I haven’t had a home that wasn’t a barracks in eons. And I think spending too much time with myself like this would eventually drive me fucknuts-batty, but–”

Grogu pointed accusingly at Migs as he swore.

Migs said, “Sorry, kid,” to Grogu. And then he continued, “But I can see the appeal of the little life you carved out for yourself and Grogu. Don’t take it for granted.”

“You can stay,” Din said.

Migs felt a rush of something tender. Ugh, no. He didn’t want to feel that.

“Until the pirates kill you, at least,” Din said.

“I see you’re confident you can protect me,” Migs said.

Grogu leapt off of Din and wrapped his arms around Migs’ neck in a fierce, tiny hug. “Hey. Hey little guy. Didn’t you hate me yesterday?” Migs said, and if his voice was a little choked up, the Mandalorian had the good sense not to comment on it.

Migs patted Grogu’s back awkwardly until the kid let go of him. Grogu climbed his way over them both, into Din’s bag. “Patu!” he announced proudly.

“That’s right. Should I show him, Grogu?” Din said. He produced a truly miniature blaster pistol and a tiny holster to match.

“That’s the cutest damn thing I’ve ever seen. You got the CS14?”

Din nodded.

Migs smirked and lifted his hand to bestow his approval, patting the Mandalorian on the top of the helmet. “Good boy. It’s a good pistol. Way better than any subpar Shard holdout blaster. The kid’ll be knocking the head off an oggdo from half a kilometer away in no time.”

“I hope not,” said Din. Concern; Migs could picture the worried eyes, the turn of his frown.

“We’ll start with womp rats and sandhawks. Don’t you fret your pretty little head about it,” said Migs, hoping Din wouldn’t notice the last thing his idiot mouth said.

“How about we start with a training remote instead?”

“Boring,” denounced Migs. Grogu very clearly agreed with him, from his excited murmuring.

“Make dinner and we’ll talk about it,” said Din with an air of finality, and Migs couldn’t help the boyish grin that sprung on his face.

It didn’t take long for Migs to whip up an edible meal out of qartuum medallions and some sort of local root vegetable in a rich glaze. It was better than generic soup, at least. He served Grogu, who dug in with gusto, and sat himself at the table facing Din. The chair looked like it was always meant to be there.

“Take a snifter of Toniray with you when you go eat,” Migs said, gesturing with the bottle of wine.

The Mandalorian said nothing for a moment, and then, “We’ll share the wine after dinner,” Din said.

Okay, that sounded pleasant enough. Wait, what? “What, are you gonna sip it politely behind a napkin so no one sees you? You have a special bendy straw that fits into a port in your helmet? Or are the rules that flexible? I’m telling you, Din, you have to pick a lane and stick to it. I shouldn’t be the one lecturing you about your Creed and yet here we are, again.”

“Don’t make me regret this,” said Din, taking his plate outside to wherever it was he usually took his meals. The door slid closed behind him.

“I never know what to make of him when he starts to bend the rules,” Migs said to Grogu as Grogu sorted his plate into perfect bites of meat and veggies, half with his fork and half with the Force. “The rules aren’t my thing to begin with. You make a rule against me running my mouth and I’ll break it, every time. But they matter to him, so why is he so set on bending them and then beating himself to death about it?”

Grogu looked at him, chewing his food carefully, and said nothing. Migs patted him on the head.

“You’re not much of a conversation partner right now, buddy,” he said, sipping his glass of Toniray. “You tired?”

Grogu had finished his dinner and started to doze off in his chair by the time Din came back.

“I think the little guy’s all tuckered out,” said Migs.

Din lifted Grogu and carried him to bed, placing him carefully on his pile of cushions and tucking him in with a soft, Grogu-sized blanket.

“Outside,” he said, and it was a command, even as quiet as his voice was with it. He and Migs sat side-by-side on the bench outside the door, where Migs had seen Din sit to watch Grogu as he splashed in the pond. Migs set the wine and their glasses down between them, Din’s helmet looking away from Migs all the while.

“You don’t have to do this,” Migs said.

The helmet looked at him now. Underneath, Migs could imagine a bit of a glare, a resolute pout. Determined brown eyes. Din lifted his glass for Migs to pour.

“You sure you don’t want me to leave you alone?” Migs said, eyebrows raised.

Din shook his helmet no.

“Alright. I’ll drink to that.” Migs raised his glass and clinked it against Din’s, watching him carefully.

Din held up the wine as if considering it, swilling the teal liquid around the glass thoughtfully. “You’re stalling,” Migs said.

“Shut up,” said Din, and he tilted his helmet back just slightly– a tiny tantalizing glimpse of his stubble and jawline and oh fuck, his mouth, how had Migs survived without seeing that mouth ever since Morak– and downed a sip of his drink. He slotted his helmet back into place and turned to Migs, braced for whatever Migs had to say to him.

Migs met his eyeline and downed his whole glass, like it was a shot instead of a very expensive sipping wine. He watched Din watching him, felt his brown-eyed stare through the helmet as Migs swallowed. Migs set down his glass next to him with a resonant clink. He leaned his head back against the cabin. “This isn’t going to be nearly enough alcohol to get you drunk enough to not regret drinking with me,” Migs said.

“I have more. None as fancy,” said Din, stilted like he was remembering how to talk again after showing a sliver of his face. “I didn’t take you for a man of refined tastes.”

Migs stretched. “I’m plenty refined,” he said. “I like all sorts of expensive shit. You thought I was an easy date just by looking at me? You thought just because I was an Imp, once, you could woo me with a diet of only army rations? Get a grip, Djarin, because I’ve got pirate money now, and a very short amount of time to spend it before they part me from this mortal coil.”

“They’re not going to–”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter. Listen. I bought the stupid expensive wine because I thought your kid would like the bottle. And I don’t know what this tip-of-the-helmet thing is about, or what self-flagellation you’re going to put yourself through because you dared to try it, but I am fucking delighted by it, Din Djarin. Let me hold your hand and lead you into the darkness. Let me get you so karking sloshed that you forget you ever had a Creed.”

Din tilted back his helmet and took another sip. Migs watched every movement he made, absolutely hypnotized. Din wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and then put his helmet back down, again.

“Din,” said Migs helplessly. “Why are you doing this?”

Din said nothing for a long time, staring into his sparkling, effervescent drink, and then spoke quietly. “It means less, if I’m with you.”

Migs let out a big breath of air he didn’t realize he was holding. “I probably deserve that. No, I definitely do.”

“Not like that,” Din said. “You’ve seen me already. You know I’ll break my Creed for Grogu. You saw me do it before. So it’s less difficult, if I’m with you when I break my Creed for me.”

Migs poured himself another drink and downed it. Din followed suit, finishing his glass, covering himself back up.

“This conversation is going to need a lot more liquor,” said Migs.

“Just the Toniray is enough,” said Din.

“You’re not going to like remembering what you’re doing right now,” said Migs.

“I can live with it,” said Din, tilting his helmet and taking another drink.

Migs turned it all over in his head. “What changed, Mr. This Is The Way? You finally manage to pull your Mando religion’s insidious hooks out of your skin? Or are you so fucked over by showing your face once that it doesn’t matter if you do it again?”

“I showed my face more than once. I showed it to Grogu, before we parted ways for a time.”

“Kriffing hell,” said Migs. “What happened? You get booted out of your covert for good? Is that why you’re doing this?”

“No. I was an apostate, but I bathed in the Living Waters and was redeemed.”

Migs set his drink down to bury his head in his hands. “You realize that to someone not in your happy little in-group of metal murder monsters that that sounds insane.”

“It is the Way,” said Din.

“Oh, good, the Way,” said Migs through his hands. They both drank.

There was silence, for a while. Din seemed to be struggling to find the words for something. If there was a problem Migs didn’t have, it was throwing words at the wall and seeing what stuck.

“So let me get this straight. You’re drinking with me right now just because you want to drink with me. You’re doing something for you.”

“Yes,” said Din.

“You’re showing part of your face because you want me to see it. And because by your personal code– not the Mandalorian bullshit Creed but by what matters to Din Djarin– it’s okay because I’ve seen your face before.”

“You respected my Creed even though you didn’t believe in it. You were kind.”

Oh, that made Migs’ skin crawl. “Shut up!” said Migs.

“I like that it was you.”

“Oh my god, be quiet.”

“You’re turning red.”

“I could kill you right now. I could kill you and throw the body into the lava and tell Grogu his Dad spontaneously combusted and no Magistrate would ever convict me.”

“You like that you and Grogu are the only ones ever to see my face and live,” said Din, tipping his helmet back again to finish yet another cup of liquor.

“Would you look at that!” said Migs. “Liquor’s gone. Time to go to bed and forget this ever fucking happened! Or should I go spoon Zero in the ship for the night?”

“Stay here,” said Din. “We can go to the hot springs in the morning.”

“The fucking hot springs!” said Migs. “I don’t want to hear about the fucking hot springs ever again!”

“Mm,” said Din, amused.

“I’m glad you find this funny. I envy the dead,” said Migs. His face felt hot. He felt dizzy. He didn’t drink nearly enough to blame this on the alcohol.

“I’ll see you when we wake, Mayfeld,” said Din, heading inside.

Din did, in fact, wake him to go to the hot springs in the morning, but Migs retreated further into his blanket cocoon on the hard bench and blearily told the man to go fuck himself. Din shrugged and left without him.

Migs drifted in and out of sleep, too defeated by losing the upper hand in last night’s conversation to commit to waking up. There was no way he could go back to sleep, but he was trying to out-stubborn that fact.

Grogu finally made the decision to wake up for him. One minute, Migs was closing his eyes, and the next time he opened them, the kid appeared out of nowhere at his feet. Migs cursed and flailed ineffectually at the blankets, tangled up in them.

Grogu pointed at him for swearing.

“Sorry, kid,” said Migs, straightening the blankets out and sitting up. Grogu hopped up next to him and flipped a corner of the blanket around himself. “I thought you were a ghost or something. You can’t just appear like that. You’ll give an old man a freaking heart attack.”

Grogu burbled a few sentences back at him. “Still have no idea what you’re saying,” said Migs. “I mostly speak Basic. I don’t speak Baby Green Thing.”

Grogu grumbled at him, frustrated. Finally, Grogu took Migs’ hand and started manipulating it; Migs let him, amused. Grogu outstretched Migs’ pointer finger and folded his other fingers back against the palm of his hand. He took Migs’ wrist, lifted the makeshift finger-gun, and made sound effects in his little voice: pew, pew.

“You want me to show you how to use a blaster? I don’t think that’s a great idea without your Dad giving the go-ahead first. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’d fight me if I just handed you a blaster.”

Grogu looked at him with big, sad eyes, tilting his head dejectedly.

“I’ll tell you what, kid. We’ll have breakfast, and then we’ll go outside and make do with what we find there. Least I can do is teach you some trigger discipline. Then, when your Dad comes out of the hot springs, maybe, maybe we can show you how to use your little holdout pistol on stun. And only on stun. You’re too little for murder yet.”

Grogu cheered, lifting both his arms and fiercely whooping like a tiny warrior that just won a battle.

“Stop that,” said Migs, who didn’t drink enough to have a hangover, but definitely pissed himself off into some kind of headache.

Grogu was so happy that he was practically floating as Migs prepared a simple porridge with sliced fruit for them both; he hummed a happy tune as he spooned it into his mouth without even bothering to wait for it to cool. Grogu hopped alongside Migs all the way to the hot springs, matching Migs’ strides with his high leaps, all enthusiasm like a Corellian hound pup.

“Alright, kid, I have a mission for you,” Migs said. Grogu snapped to attention, saluting Migs, as colorful pennants streamed in the wind overhead on their strings. Migs bent over and drew in a patch of grainy black sand with a stick, marking off the exact size and shape of various objects he needed for their training. “I need a stick about this big, a curved twig, and a round pebble. Go!”

Grogu scurried off, gathering supplies in the plants and greenery around the stone surrounding the hot springs. Migs watched him idly from his seat on a stone wall. Grogu was all energy and no elegance, hopping with his comically big Force leaps and flipping in and out of the water like a bog guppy. Finally, breathing heavily, Grogu returned with all of the items on Migs’ list, bearing them proudly in his little clawed hands.

Migs had pilfered a long length of twine from the blurrgs’ paddock for this purpose. He accepted Grogu’s treasures and set to work tying them together, keeping his work out of Grogu’s range of vision and moving his body to cover it when Grogu tried to peek around him.

“Hold on, kid, I’m almost done. There.” Migs tied his last knot and looked at Grogu smugly. “Put out your hands and close your eyes.”

Grogu did as he was told. Migs put into his hands a Grogu-sized toy blaster, crudely fashioned of sticks and broken droid scraps and string, but not shaped completely unlike the CS14 that they had bought for Grogu to eventually use.

Grogu looked at it blankly.

“See that bit of circular metal right there? That’s a piece of scrap that we’re going to pretend is the trigger. You squeeze that to fire. And this stick is the barrel, and this little bit at the end here is where the blaster bolt comes out. We call that the business end.”

Grogu still looked blank. Migs fit the toy weapon into the kid’s chubby hand and stepped back to survey his work.

“And we’re gonna pretend that this pebble,” Migs said, placing the little round rock into Grogu’s other hand, “is the blaster bolt.”

Grogu still looked blank, and then, in a heartbeat, he pointed the toy gun at Migs and tossed the pebble at him with his other hand. It hit Migs right in his center mass and bounced off harmlessly.

“Okay, see, that’s what we’re learning not to do today,” said Migs, who was screaming internally for all his outward calm. “Our first lesson is: don’t point that thing at me. What happens when you point that thing at me is this: I get mad, and then I die. What happens when I die is that you never, ever get to touch a real blaster for the rest of your life. Understood?”

Grogu nodded seriously, the mischief out of his system.

Migs drew another picture in the sand with a stick. Grogu watched patiently. “This is the first blaster I learned how to fire. It’s an EC-17, and it’s a little bigger than your CS14. But you know what the most important difference between your blaster and an EC-17 is? EC-17 is Blastech, Blastech manufactures Imp weapons, and stormtrooper blasters were always hot garbage. Say it after me so you remember: stormtrooper blasters are hot garbage.”

Grogu repeated something that wasn’t that, but close enough.

“So what we are going to learn today, Grogu, besides the very important lesson to never trust the equipment the Empire issues you if you ever find yourself hopping merrily down that walk of life, is called trigger discipline. Repeat it so you remember. Trigger discipline.”

Grogu said something with the right amount of syllables. Progress!

“Trigger discipline means never touching the trigger until you’re ready to fire– hey, I said don’t point that at me. I know it’s a toy gun but we’re going to pretend it’s real, okay? Now show me how you hold it.”

Grogu held up his hand, claw wrapped around the trigger of his fake gun. “See, right here, buddy. You want that finger to always point straight until you’re ready to fire. And you only fire at things you’re willing to kill, because that’s what a blaster does, Grogu. It’s not a toy…although this fake one is. Don’t get confused.”

Grogu looked at him with a furrowed brow, and then looked back to his small wooden blaster. He straightened out his trigger finger, carefully avoiding the trigger.

“That’s it! Always hold your blaster like that unless you’re firing. Good job, buddy!” Migs clapped him on the back a little too hard. Grogu stumbled forward.

Migs ran Grogu through a series of drills, carrying his blaster properly around without touching the trigger and then pretend-aiming at a target, squeezing the trigger, and throwing his little rock at the target to represent a blaster bolt. Grogu got the hang of it surprisingly quickly, always careful to not squeeze the pretend trigger except when he was instructed by Migs to do so.

Migs made Grogu stop before he tired himself out fully, and they sat together by the running water of a hot spring-stream, waiting for Din. There were tiny fish swimming upriver in the steaming waters, sun flashing on their glittering emerald-green scales and black-dotted fins in reds and yellows. Grogu pointed at them and babbled inquisitively.

“I have no idea what kind of fish those are,” said Migs. “Too small to eat.”

Grogu scampered off, intent on something. He found a wooden washbasin as big as he was and dragged it, laboriously, from its home near the faucets, to the river where Migs still sat. He positioned it by the water carefully, checking it against some unknown metric that Migs could only guess at, and, satisfied, stepped back and said something Migs couldn’t understand.

Grogu closed his eyes and raised his hand, concentrating hard. A washbasin-sized ball of water erupted from the stream, perfectly round and rippling gently on its surface. It was full of the tiny fish, who swam around the ball in a panicked school. Grogu raised his hand higher. The sphere lifted high off the surface of the stream and then slowly lowered into the washbasin. Grogu cooed contentedly and peered over the side of the makeshift pond.

“Are you going to take them home with you?” asked Migs. Grogu nodded happily, trailing a claw across the surface of the water and giggling as the tiny fish nipped at it to see if it was food.

“Aw, krike’s sake. I don’t want to be a downer, but if you take them home, they’ll die,” Migs said, not relishing the look of dismay on Grogu’s face. “They live in the hot springs, so they need their water hot, and it’s not going to stay hot in that bucket,” Migs pointed out. “And that’s not even going into the nitrogen cycle or the other things they’d need to stay alive. Like, what do they eat? I certainly don’t kriffing know. For all we know, they munch all day on microscopic biofilm, and if you take them home, they’ll starve.”

The noise Grogu made was pathetic. Migs patted him on the back and hoped to hell that the kid wouldn’t start crying. Migs Mayfeld was cut out for many things, but this was emphatically not one of them. Why the fuck did Din trust him not to somehow kark up his kid for life? Was he stupid?

“Come on. Let’s put them back in the stream,” Migs said, and Grogu waved a teary-eyed goodbye to the fish as Migs scooped each tiny one out with his hand and let them swim back into the hot spring.

Din found them like that, waving goodbye to the fish. Din was fully dry and dressed in his armor. He must have heard the racket Migs and Grogu were making outside of Din’s private hot springs lodge.

“Cadet Grogu! Attention!” shouted Migs in his best drill sergeant voice.

Grogu snapped to his best approximation of attention, which was mostly correct, but he was a baby, so it was a little wobbly.

“Present your weapon, Cadet Grogu!” said Migs. Din’s helmet stared at them blankly; Migs considered the quizzical face underneath.

Grogu held out his wooden toy blaster, careful to not squeeze the trigger.

“Note his impeccable trigger discipline! Any words for Cadet Grogu, Commander Djarin?”

“Good job,” said Din, ruffling the sparse hairs on Grogu’s head as Grogu squealed delightedly. He scooped the child up into his arms. “I’m proud,” he said. Grogu was beaming.

“Hey, Din Djarin,” said Migs, dropping the act. “You ever look into life support systems for hot springs fish?”

“What? No,” said Din.

“I think your kid would like a pet,” said Migs.

“We’ll talk about it later,” said Din. “There’s no room in the house.” Migs could picture the grimace.

Migs was mostly alone in the hot spring pools at night, soaking mindlessly in the steam as he stared up at the stars. The “mostly” was because R3-Something-Zero had insisted on following him there, shining a light for Migs the whole way because it was afraid Migs would fall and eat shit in the dark. The R3-unit was using its tinny speakers to broadcast relaxing music, which was driving Migs absolutely silently insane.

“What was that in the song, a fuckin purrgil call? Space whales don’t belong in music. They belong in space, light-years away from my delicate ears.”

Zero whistled an argument but changed the music anyway, playing a different relaxing song that seemed to be all chimes and soft bells. It was more annoying than the purrgil calls. Migs chalked it up to the galaxy testing his newfound patience and sank deeper into the hot water.

The days had started to blend together. Migs was on edge all the time now. If the pirates were going to attack, it would have to be soon, unless they were waiting for him to make a move so they could flush him out of his hidey-hole like a rat fleeing a crashing ship. It was only a matter of time before Din and Grogu would leave on a mission, maybe called in by the New Republic, maybe leaving because Din just decided it was time to do so, and where would that leave Migs on Nevarro? He’d have Zero and Greef Karga for company. Well, Greef probably knew how to party, at least. Zero, on the other hand…

Relax. The hot springs were for relaxing, and healing your wounds, and limbering up your old scars. Migs didn’t know how medicinal they actually were, but the cuts on his back had healed nicely, and soaking in the springs was just. Nice. Uncomplicated.

Din used them every morning without fail. Said they made him enervated and ready for battle, if it came that day. Migs peeked into the Mandalorian’s private hot springs once while Din wasn’t using it; it wasn’t locked unless he was in there. It was painfully Din, with practical shelving to store his armor and helmet, a shallow pool to sit in and a separate deep one for full standing immersion, a weapons chest full of knives and blasters and a whipcord launcher in case of attack. There was a tile mural of a Mudhorn on the far wall, a hanging metal Mythosaur skull above the exit door. Migs had shut the door feeling like he had intruded into something far more private than an unused hot spring.

He couldn’t get his mind off Din, alone in the hot spring, armor shed and helmet off; Din, drinking with his helmet tilted back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand; Din, so fierce but so gentle with Grogu, teaching him to fight and navigate and survive in a world so hostile to the little guy; Din, helpless with his helmet off, trying to lie to an Imp about who he was and failing miserably, brown eyes searching for help and finding it in Migs.

Migs felt the red blush creeping up his face again. It was easy to tell himself it was just the heat of the hot spring.

Migs’ datapad blasted an alert, but he was deep asleep, so he just thumbed it off without looking.

R3-Something-Zero banging its body against the door to the Clan Mudhorn cabin and beeping urgently was harder to ignore. Migs slid off the bench, casually stretching, and pressed the door panel open, looking down at the droid, still half-asleep. “You can’t come in. No droids,” he said.

Zero beeped several things at him that implied that Migs was deeply stupid and projected its message over the darkened threshold:

Greef Karga, not dressed in his usual embellished finery but in a simple sleep shirt instead, leaned close to dictate a message to a droid. “Mayfeld. Mando. The pirates have breached Nevarron airspace. We shot most of them down, but there’s a troop transport headed your way. We’ll follow with reinforcements. The Mandalorians will rendezvous from the west. You’ll have to hold them off until then.”

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” said Mayfeld, gathering his blasters and slipping on his shoulder holsters. “Shit. Din! We’ve got trouble!” he called out.

Din didn’t answer. “Goddamnit,” said Migs, slipping on his boots and strapping a vibroknife to his thigh strap. It was the first one he grabbed; it was small.

Migs hit the panel for the lights. Grogu looked up at him sleepily from his blankets and cushions, but Din’s cot was empty. “Shit!” said Migs. “He’s at the hot springs already. C’mon, kid! I’m not leaving you alone to get stolen by pirates. We have to go get your Dad and fight!”

Grogu jumped up and started sleepily strapping his beskar rondel over his robe. Migs tightened the straps for him in a hurry and scooped him up, placing him in his pack and closing the canvas over the kid’s head. “Stay quiet and stay hidden,” said Migs, hoping that bringing Grogu wasn’t a mistake.

He raided the Mandalorian’s weapons chest quickly before leaving the house. He grabbed a rifle and slung it over his back, and he took the little CS14, just in case.

R3-Something-Zero led the way, zipping haphazardly on his wheels down the path to the hot springs. Migs followed close behind, blaster drawn and ready, sticking to what little cover there was in the sparse trees and boulders lining their way. The air was cooler than usual and the steam from the hot springs was thick.

There was a crackle and a rumble in the sky as an old Imperial troop transport passed overhead, although the paint job was garish and unfamiliar. Repurposed by pirates, then. There was their foe. Migs dipped into cover and waited for them to pass. The lodge where Din was bathing was so close, he could see it through the fog.

A pair of low-altitude Nevarron gunships zipped through the sky behind the troop transport, hot on its tail, twisting and writhing through the fog to line up a shot on the former Imperial ship. “Calvary’s here already, kid. We might be okay,” said Migs quietly to Grogu in his bag.

“Patu,” was Grogu’s tiny reply.

“We’re almost to your Dad. Stay hidden until we reach him, okay?”

The gunships took their shots simultaneously, plasma scorching through the air and cutting straight through the rear hull of the troop transport. The troop transport started to fall from the sky in great, creaking pieces, crashing into a line of rocks not far from the hot springs. Migs was relieved, for a moment, before he saw with sick certainty four swoop bikes launching out of the wreckage, headed straight in their direction.

“Zero, head them off! We gotta go!” said Migs, running for the hot springs lodge and banging on the door. Zero was right behind him, using its little utility arm to add to Migs’ knocking. “You fucking coward!” cursed Migs, although he couldn’t fault it for being an astromech and not a fighter. Zero beeped apologetically and swivelled its domed head from side to side in a panic.

The door slid open and Din burst out of the lodge, helmeted, blaster at the ready, clutching a towel around his waist with one hand. “Oh holy fuck!” said Migs, who didn’t have time to take in Din’s thick, muscled body, covered in scars. “Armor! Now! We got swoop bikes coming in hot!” Migs said.

“No time,” said Din, trying to tie the towel so it’d stay in place.

“Yes kriffing time,” said Migs, drawing his rifle and struggling to see through the scope in the heavy steam. “I’ll cover you.”

Din hastily went to work pulling on his flight suit and armor pieces, too harried to worry about modesty. And if Migs took a quick glance as he lined up a shot on an approaching swoop bike, that was between Migs and his maker, who Migs was pretty sure he would soon meet.

Migs fired, and the speeder shot out from under the pirates riding it and exploded. The rider behind them couldn’t turn in time, and the explosions compounded as the second swoop went down. Acrid clouds of smoke joined the steam in the air, making visibility worse and stinging Migs’ eyes.

“Two of four down,” Migs reported, stealing a glance at the Mandalorian, who was mostly dressed, pulling his flight suit over his shoulders. “They’re riding double.” He tried to peer through the fog at the two speeders gaining on them. There was no way he could get another rifle shot off, not with visibility like it was. The incoming speeders weren’t keeping pace with the exploded swoops because they were being slowed down by what looked like a huge metal-walled repulsorlift cage being dragged behind them on thick chains. “They’ve got something big with them, Din, we’re fucked.”

“Do we have reinforcements?” said Din, pulling on the last of his armor.

“Two low-altitude gunners are here and your people are on the way.”

“We’re fine,” said Din, standing between Migs and Grogu and the pirates like a beskar wall.

The Nevarron gunships were making a run at the surviving Quarren pirates from the other side. Migs watched through the rifle scope as a passenger Quarren leapt from his swoop bike onto the repulsorlift cage they were dragging. He drew back a large lever, and the top of the metal box cracked open, sitting ajar for moments.

The gunships fired on the metal box. The Quarren on top of it fell off, charred and unrecognizable, but a giant tendril unfurled from within the box, impossibly big for how tightly it was contained. It pulsed neon blue with internal power, and it curled smoothly around a ship and smacked the ships against each other with a dull metallic thud.

Grogu peeked his head out of the bag, yelled, and darted back inside.

“What the fuck is that,” yelled Migs, voice hoarse.

“Retreat, now,” said Din, who had a better line of vision with the HUD in his helmet.

Migs shouldered the rifle, gripped the bag with Grogu in it tight in his arms, and ran for it. He saw Zero jet past him on rocket thrusters that, until this moment, Migs had no idea the little droid even possessed. “Z! Take the kid somewhere safe!” he shouted, and Zero doubled back to grab the bag holding Grogu with a claw-like utility arm before jetting off into the steam again.

Another tendril unfurled from the box, and another, all pulsing with the same neon blue light. The beast was as big as a starfighter, round-bodied like a jellyfish with tendrils trailing many times longer than its central mass. It moved towards them with the hypnotizing slowness of a persistence hunter.

The swoop bikes were upon them, and the three remaining pirates leapt off the bikes, wielding zap rods that shimmered sinisterly. The light of the zap rods reflected bright off the clouds of steam. Migs and Din were trapped, stuck between the pirates and the pirates’ monster, with only the hot springs to escape into.

Not a hard choice to make. Migs pulled his blaster on the nearest Quarren and shot him dead. He didn’t like that they seemed to want him alive.

In the same movement, another Quarren brought his zap rod down on Migs’ shoulder. Searing pain shot through his entire body all at once, and then, he felt nothing but a sick numbness. Migs staggered, losing his footing on the slick rocks. He hit his head, hard, and his body tipped stiffly into the nearest pool of deep, hot water.

Din’s voice saying “Mayfeld,” hopelessly was the last thing Migs heard, and then darkness.

A breath of air, and then darkness again. A floating sensation, like he wasn’t in his body anymore. Another breath of air, and then he could feel his face again. He opened his eyes.

Din was airborne, using his jetpack to dodge the tendrilled monster’s sluggish strikes.

There was a dead Quarren half-floating in the pool of water with him. There was a hole through his torso. Migs could only assume Din put it there.

There was a grip around his throat. Migs could move his arms now, but only slightly; he felt what was grabbing him with stiff hands, still awkward. It was a tiny pair of three-clawed hands, holding him up in the deep water with the only grip they could manage. Grogu was using great effort to keep Migs’ head out of the water.

“You should run,” croaked Migs. “I can’t get out yet, but you shouldn’t be in danger.”

Grogu said something in his little language that sounded extremely like a swear. Migs chuckled, and then regretted it, because his throat stung terribly.

The last Quarren stalked out of the steam and looked down on Migs and Grogu with death in his eyes. He pulled a blaster from his holster and pointed it at Migs threateningly, his face tentacles vibrating with rage.

“Grogu, go,” croaked Migs.

“He can go if he lets you drown, Mayfeld,” sneered the pirate. “You know it’s you we’re after.”

Din dodged a heavy blow from the monster, the creature’s long tendril crashing to the ground and embedding in the black sand. Din slapped a grav charge to the juncture where the tendril met the body and took back off into the air.

Grogu let go of Migs’ neck with one hand and raised it up in the air, straining both from the Force he was exerting and the physical weight of Migs in the water. Migs couldn’t quite see what Grogu was doing, but Migs was gaining feeling back in his legs. If they could stall, Migs could drag himself out of the water somehow and fight the pirate to protect the kid.

“Did you know it isn’t actually me you’re after? You have no proof I killed your pirate friends. You’re going on what a half-baked fence plastered out of her mind on glitterstim told you. How do you know it wasn’t her? I was just in the wrong place at the wrong fucking time!”

“Shut up,” said the pirate.

A tiny holdout blaster rose up behind the pirate as Migs talked, shaking upwards through the air like a falling leaf in reverse. The CS14 rotated and then steadied, aimed at the pirate execution-style from behind.

Grogu hesitated.

“Pull the trigger, kid!” said Migs, fighting his stiff muscles.

Grogu used the Force to pull the trigger. A blue ring pulsed out of the tiny blaster and fried the pirate’s synapses, sending him limp and unconscious to the ground.

Migs rallied, surging his way out of the springs and lifting Grogu up in a wet hug. “Din is going to be stupid proud of you. Holy shit, kid, that was beautiful. You’re a natural!” Dripping, they watched together as Din slapped another charge on the round bell of the monster, darting out of its way like a shriek-hawk in flight.

Zero appeared out of the steam and prodded the unconscious Quarren over and over with its electro-shock arm.

“Don’t do that,” said Migs, to a series of grumbling beeps from Zero. “I’ll finish this. Grogu. Don’t look until I tell you to.”

Grogu obediently hid his face behind his hands.

Migs drew the vibroknife he had grabbed on his hurried way out of the cabin. Small, wickedly pointed, with an elegant, pearlescent handle. Grogu’s knife. Migs tilted the Quarren’s head back and slit his throat with one smooth motion, and then discarded the corpse onto the floor.

Migs picked Grogu up, uncovered his eyes, and they turned to watch Din together.

Din keyed a few buttons on his vambrace and the grav charges exploded, blowing off several of the creature’s arms and ripping through the thing’s soft body. It oozed pulsing neon blue blood, and then knitted itself back together, but it was slowing, its heavy blows even more sluggish than before.

Migs and Grogu slumped down on a rock wall together to watch the fight, both exhausted. Din wasn’t even tiring yet.

Reinforcements appeared on the horizon. The Mandalorians who remained on Nevarro soared to Din’s aid, armor painted shades of green and blue and burgundy like jewelbeetles. A whipcord seized a tendril as another Mando sliced it off with a vibroblade. A heavy gunner sank his blaster bolts into the creature’s bell, unrelenting. Little by little, the Mandalorians chipped away at the creature’s massive stamina together, until the thing’s blue blood stopped pulsing through it at all, and it sank to the sandy ground, transparent, soft and lax and finally fucking dead.

Zero wheeled up to it and poked it with its utility arm. Definitely dead. The droid crowed a victory shriek like it was the one who defeated it.

Din landed in front of Migs and Grogu, rushing in to pat Grogu on the head with one hand and then, mortifyingly, rub his other gloved hand against the side of Migs’ cheek, brushing his thumb against Migs’ stubble.

“Don’t fucking embarrass me in front of the other Mandos,” Migs hissed. Din ignored him and continued what he was doing.

“Are you hurt?” Din finally said.

“Yes, I’m hurt. I banged the shit out of my head on my way down,” said Migs, looking up into Din’s helmet’s viewplate.

“The hot springs are medicinal,” Din said wryly. What would that tender little smile look like on Din’s face? Migs had no idea. He would die to find out.

“I never want to go to the hot springs again. I never want to hear about the hot springs again. I’m going to start a campaign to have the High Magistrate fill them up with gravel and put pavers over them to turn this whole damn place into a city street,” Migs said.

“We can always come back to them together later,” said Din.

“Holy shit,” said Migs, and Din picked up Grogu and started walking back to the cabin, listening seriously to Grogu’s excited babbling about the misadventures he just had. “Hey, wait for me,” said Migs, and he took off after them. “Grogu is freaking amazing. LIsten to this–”

Greef Karga sent a clean-up crew as soon as he could, but it still took weeks to rid the hot springs of speeder parts and ship parts, corpses (of both the pirate and monster variety,) and all the various rubble and detritus from the fight. R3-Something-Zero was the first to deliver the news that the job was done, speeding to Migs with Karga’s holovid the second it received it.

“You still can’t come into the cabin,” said Migs unsympathetically, patting the droid on its domed head as if to comfort it. “But you were exceptionally brave back at the hot springs battle, for a renowned metal coward, anyway. I probably don’t need to sell you to the first parts dealer I see after all.”

Zero cheered like that was something to be celebrated. Migs was starting to feel bad for the thing.

“What’s your actual designation, Z?” Migs said.

The droid popped a chit with a serial number out of its domed hull. Migs bent down to read it, squinting; Zero helpfully used a utility arm to shine a light on the tiny text.

“R3-R0, huh? Well, I’m the biggest fucking idiot in the galaxy for not remembering that one. Remind me when I forget, alright?”

The droid chirped cheerily. Migs shut the door on it.

“I hear tell that the hot springs are finally all fixed up,” he said, sitting in his chair at the table across from Grogu and Din at their benches.

Din and Migs had finished their dinner, but Grogu was still sleepily spooning food into his mouth. “Grogu, it’s time for bed,” said Din with what Migs imagined was a significant glance. Grogu yawned widely and nodded in assent.

Din carried Grogu to his pile of cushions and set him down. They watched him burrow deep into the pile with a contented sigh and start snoring quietly.

“Shall we?” said Migs, thumbing the door panel open, and he and Din ventured out into the night, past the paddock where R3-R0 was in sleep mode with the blurrgs curled up on either side of it, past the pond where Grogu had whiled the day away levitating frogs, lit only by the light of the stars.

“I didn’t miss the smell of this place,” said Migs, sniffing the scent of the hot springs deeply, snorting as if offended. “Smells like dirt and metal. Reminds me of the taste of blood in your mouth when you get socked in the face.”

Din said nothing. His helmet, shining silver in the starlight, gave nothing away.

“Guess you don’t get punched in the face too much. You’d have to have your helmet off for that. Where’s the opportunity? You’re missing out on the human experience,” Migs said.

“The human experience of getting punched in the face,” said Din dryly.

“I never realized you were funny before I came to this place,” said Migs. “It really pisses me off. Save something for the guys who don’t shut up, like yours truly.”

“I get punched in the face plenty,” said Din. “It just usually bounces off.”

“See? Unfair,” said Migs.

They passed the beds of long-petalled red hot springs flowers, growing tall again after being trampled, and the pennants streaming high, restored to their strings, and the school of miniscule emerald fish that Grogu had tried to bring home, and reached the Mandalorian’s private lodge. Din hit the control panel to open the door and turn on the lights.

Migs stopped at the doorframe, halfway in and halfway out of the lodge, and took a good look at Din. Din was still, staring into the waters of the hot spring as if mesmerized, steam rising hotly around him and condensation beading on his armor.

“Do you want me to offer you an out, or would that just piss you off?” said Migs, raising his eyebrows until his forehead wrinkled.

“The latter,” said Din, and Migs imagined the determined glower. But he didn’t have to imagine anymore, did he?

“Come here,” said Migs, and he slotted himself up against Din, pressing him against the cool-tiled wall of the lodge with his body.

“Gloves,” said Migs, and Din took them off with unsteady hands, dropping them to the floor one by one.

Migs took Din by the bare hand and slotted their fingers together, holding them up to show Din’s viewplate. “How far breaks your Creed, Din? How much can you give today?” Migs asked, his voice rough.

“As much as I want to,” said Din, and Migs grinned at that, holding Din’s hand up to his smile.

“And what do you want?” said Migs, squeezing Din’s hand almost cruelly tight.

“I want you to see my face,” said Din, voice defenseless.

Migs felt a rush that he couldn’t stop himself from verbalizing. “Did you know I thought I would die without ever seeing you like that again and that I was okay with it?” he said. Din was breathing heavily, squeezing Migs’ hand back just as hard. Migs couldn’t stop. “Do you know how much I fucking like you, how I obsess over every little tilt of your helmet, every word you say?” Din let go of Migs’ hand and grabbed him by the wrists, dragging them up to the bottom of his helmet. “Do you even realize how much of an effect you have on me, Din?”

“Do it,” pleaded Din.

Migs took off Din’s helmet, easing it over his chin and nose and eyes and curls. He looked away from Din’s face for one tortuous moment to reverently place the helmet down out of harm’s way, and then Migs’ eyes snapped back to studying Din’s face.

Din was flushed from neck to forehead, not as red as pale-skinned Migs, but every bit as affected as he was.

“Kriffing hell,” said Migs fondly. He reached out to touch Din’s face, and Din leaned into the touch, nuzzling against Migs’ hand. “Fuck, you look good. This isn’t a one-time only thing, is it? Because I’ll die.”

“No,” growled Din, and Migs laughed at that and patted Din on the cheek affectionately.

Din held Migs’ wrist and moved Migs’ hand from his face to his chest, onto the cold armor there. There was a gap between them that Migs suddenly couldn’t stand, and he leaned in to kiss Din, not soft or careful but still tentative, new. Din broke the kiss, breathing hard, eyes glazed with overwhelm and want, and he slid a hand behind Migs’ head to press their foreheads together.

“Can I just look at you?” said Migs, pulling back as Din whined to protest his absence. Migs put a finger to his lips, and Din bit at it petulantly. Migs laughed.

“I want to take my time with you. I don’t have anywhere else to be, do you?” Din shook his head, the kind of tiny gesture that was undersized without his helmet on to exaggerate his movements. “So let’s stay like this for a while. I want to know every expression you make under that helmet.”

“Fine,” agreed Din, though his tone and his scowl betrayed his true feelings on the matter. Migs gentled the disappointment by running a calloused hand through Din’s curly hair, watching Din melt into the unaccustomed contact.

“Besides, we need to get the rest of that armor off,” said Migs, and Din reddened again, to Migs’ delight.