Chapter Text
By the fourth day, the mission had stopped being exciting.
It had become tedious.
Long stretches of hyperspace punctuated by dead ends, bad leads, and arguments.
Mostly arguments.
The target—a notorious pirate financier who seemed to have an uncanny talent for disappearing hours before they arrived—had slipped through their fingers three separate times.
The cockpit had become headquarters for increasingly irritated bounty hunters.
Bo-Katan stood over the holographic map.
"We know he's getting supplies somewhere."
"He can't keep vanishing."
Boba folded his arms.
"He has someone feeding him information."
Mayfeld snorted.
"Either that or the galaxy just personally hates us."
"Could be both," Cara muttered.
Din sat quietly in the pilot's chair, listening more than speaking.
One gloved finger rested against his chin.
Thinking.
"We're assuming he's running," Din finally said.
"What if he isn't?"
Everyone looked toward him.
"He keeps leaving just before we arrive," Din continued. "That's predictable."
"So?"
"So maybe he's making us chase him."
Silence.
Bo's eyebrows rose.
"...Go on."
"He wants us tired."
"He wants us frustrated."
"He wants us to stop thinking."
Fennec slowly smiled.
"I hate when he's right."
"You hate when anyone's right but you," Boba corrected.
"Also true."
They bent back over the map.
The discussion grew increasingly technical.
Supply routes.
Fuel consumption.
Potential informants.
Escape vectors.
A quiet voice interrupted them.
"Dad?"
Every head turned.
Grogu stood hesitantly in the cockpit doorway.
Eleven years old now.
Taller.
Still small by most standards, but no longer the tiny toddler who had once hidden inside Din's satchel.
His ears drooped apologetically.
He held a datapad against his chest.
Din's entire posture softened instantly.
"What is it, ad'ika?"
Grogu shuffled his feet.
"...I tried."
Din recognized that tone immediately.
"And?"
"I don't understand the fractions."
Mayfeld blinked.
"...Fractions?"
Grogu nodded miserably.
"My teacher assigned them before we left."
"I've been trying for like..."
He sighed dramatically.
"...forever."
Din glanced toward the others.
They were in the middle of planning.
But they'd also been planning...
For almost three hours.
He looked back at Grogu.
The kid had spent most of the last four days alone in the back of the ship.
Reading.
Watching movies.
Doing schoolwork.
Trying very hard not to complain.
Din's heart pinched.
He held out one arm.
"Come here."
Grogu immediately crossed the cockpit.
Din lifted him effortlessly despite the fact that eleven-year-old Grogu was no longer particularly light.
He settled sideways across Din's lap.
"Let's see."
Grogu brightened immediately.
"I knew you'd know."
Bo stared.
"...We're still doing this meeting."
Din looked up.
"I'm listening."
"You are about to teach math."
"I'm capable of both."
Nobody even questioned it anymore.
Mostly because...
Unfortunately...
History suggested he probably was.
Grogu handed over the datapad.
Din studied the screen.
"Okay."
He pointed.
"Walk me through what you've done."
"I multiplied."
"Why?"
"...Because?"
Din chuckled quietly.
"Not a bad guess."
"But?"
Grogu looked at the numbers.
"...Not multiplying?"
"Good."
Behind them—
Bo resumed the briefing.
"The eastern sector has fewer patrols."
Din nodded absentmindedly.
"Take the western."
Bo frowned.
"...Why?"
"They'll expect eastern."
"Oh."
She made the change.
Din returned immediately to the datapad.
"So."
"Fractions."
"They're actually easier if you stop thinking about numbers." Grogu looked horrified.
"...Math without numbers?"
"I know."
"It's terrifying."
That earned a grin.
Mayfeld watched the exchange.
Then looked at Cara.
"He's doing it again."
She didn't even ask.
"I know."
"The denominator stays the same," Din explained patiently. "Why?"
"Because you're only changing how many pieces you have." "Oh."
Grogu frowned.
"I still don't get it."
Din looked around the cockpit.
Then grabbed three ration crackers from a nearby container. Broke one in half.
One into quarters.
Left one whole.
He arranged them on the console.
"If I give you half..."
He pushed one piece over.
"...and then another half..."
Another piece.
"...how much do you have?"
Grogu's eyes lit up.
"A whole cracker!"
"Exactly."
"So one-half plus one-half equals..."
"A whole!"
"Which is?"
"...Two halves?"
"Also correct."
Behind them—
Fennec pointed at the map.
"We'll need two teams."
Din answered without looking.
"Three."
"Three?"
"The pirate has snipers."
Fennec paused.
"...Right."
Three teams.
Grogu gasped.
"I get it!"
Din smiled beneath the helmet.
"I knew you would."
"So..."
Grogu worked through the next problem himself.
Din watched quietly.
Only stepping in when necessary. "Check your denominator."
"Oh."
"Right."
Fixed.
Next problem.
Done correctly.
His confidence grew with every equation.
Meanwhile...
The strategy meeting somehow continued.
Boba sighed.
"If we approach from orbit—"
"Too obvious," Din said.
Still watching Grogu write.
Mayfeld leaned toward Cara.
"I'm almost offended."
Cara whispered back,
"I passed out after helping my nephew with multiplication tables." Bo overheard.
"I once forgot my own name while reviewing battle plans." Fennec nodded toward Din.
"Apparently parenting increases cognitive processing."
"No," Boba said.
"That's just him."
Twenty minutes later...
Grogu set the datapad down triumphantly.
"I finished!"
Din reviewed every answer.
Carefully.
"Nope."
Grogu deflated.
Din pointed to one line.
"You forgot to simplify."
"Oh!"
Quick correction.
Done.
Din nodded.
"Perfect."
Grogu beamed.
"I got them all?"
"You got them all."
The boy threw his arms around Din's neck without hesitation. "Thanks, Dad."
Din hugged him back just as tightly.
"Anytime."
Grogu hopped down.
Halfway back toward the hallway...
He turned around.
"Oh!"
"I got an A on my history paper."
Din looked up immediately.
"You did?"
Grogu nodded proudly.
"Ninety-eight."
"What happened to the other two points?"
Grogu groaned.
"Daaaad."
Din laughed.
"I'm kidding."
"I'm proud of you."
"So proud."
Grogu smiled so brightly it seemed to light the cockpit. Then disappeared back toward the living quarters. Probably to tell R5.
Silence lingered.
Finally...
Mayfeld looked at Din.
"I've been meaning to ask."
"Hm?"
"How."
Din blinked.
"...How what?"
"How do you manage..."
He gestured vaguely.
"...all of this?"
"You just helped an eleven-year-old with fractions." "While simultaneously reorganizing an assault strategy." "You didn't even stop either conversation."
Din considered the question honestly.
Then shrugged.
"I practiced."
Cara laughed.
"For years?"
Din nodded.
"He used to ask questions while I was flying."
Bo smirked.
"I remember."
"'Dad, what's that bird?'"
"'Dad, why is space black?'" "'Dad, can frogs wear armor?'" "'Dad—'"
Din chuckled.
"There were a lot of questions." "A lot," Boba agreed.
"So many questions."
"And now?" Cara asked.
Din glanced toward the hallway where Grogu had disappeared. "Now they're algebra questions."
Mayfeld rubbed his face.
"I hate to admit it..."
"But watching you parent is somehow more intimidating than watching you fight." Din tilted his helmet.
"...Really?"
Cara smiled.
"I've seen you take down twenty stormtroopers." Bo nodded.
"I've seen you fly through impossible odds." Boba crossed his arms.
"I've seen you win fights you should've lost."
Mayfeld pointed toward the hallway.
"But raising a kid who still comes to you first when he's confused..."
He smiled.
"...that's the impressive part."
Din was quiet for a moment.
Then looked down at the few broken crackers still sitting on the console.
He gathered them into his palm.
"I don't know."
He smiled softly beneath the helmet.
"I think helping him understand fractions is probably easier than understanding why he still thinks I know everything."
Cara laughed.
"Oh, give it a few years."
"He'll be a teenager."
"He already is a teenager," Din said dryly.
From the back of the ship came Grogu's indignant voice.
"I heard that!"
The cockpit erupted in laughter.
For the first time in days, the tension dissolved.
The pirate could wait another five minutes.
Somehow, amid bounty hunts, tactical briefings, hyperspace jumps, and the endless dangers of the galaxy, Din Djarin had still found time to sit down with his son and explain fractions using ration crackers.
And to everyone else on that ship, that seemed perfectly absurd. To Din, though, it wasn't remarkable at all.
The mission mattered.
The bounty mattered.
His friends mattered.
But if Grogu needed help with homework...
Well.
That was the easiest priority decision in the galaxy.