Just A Place For Random Reblogs

—

Garbled images flare in his head, pulsing white and blue around the edges. A light that blinds and blurs and shines whether his eyes are closed or open.

Grogu’s face looking up at him from under the floorboards, determined, knowing what to do. Din tries to call out to him. Tries to tell him to run, to go, to get himself out of there. All that comes out is a rattled breath.

Grogu laughing in the surf, leaping over Rotta’s bulk as the waves gently lap against the sand. They splash and play and frisk like foundlings chasing each other through the Nevarro underground, and Din remembers running through the sands long ago, the water splashing to his knees as red-robed figures smiled and waved. He has to give the kid more time like this, he deserves it — he can’t let him be taken again —

Grogu caged. Cuffed. Surrounded by stormtroopers, threatened by Gideon. Din tries to move, tries to fight, tries to reach him, but his hands spasm and fall numb and twisted to his lap.

More moments flash by, frantic, confusing. Where the hell is he? When the hell is he?

The kid sleeping in his little bed with a stuffed green tooka doll —

The kid laughing through a mouthful of cookies —

The kid jumping on the cot in the new ship —

The kid holding the mythosaur pendant —

The kid asleep in his arms —

So small a thing. It’s everything.

—

The lights shrink to singularities instead of blurry starfields as he slowly comes back to himself. There’s a ringing in his ears and a muzzy echo in his head, and everything’s too bright even through the filter of his helmet. Little slips of memory scatter, thoughts of Grogu, half-remembered.

He blinks, jerks, starts. Plays through the fragments he can recall clearly and puts things together. Pouring rain on Nevarro. A chase in the mud. Got caught up in a stun-net, outplayed on his home turf.

The ship hums around him, its noises unfamiliar. Probably something custom and heavily modded. Must have cost a fair amount on the black market. Whoever it is who’s gotten him is clearly someone who knows what they’re doing.

Din swears under his breath. What else does he know? Bars are inches in front of him, stretching to the ceiling, wide enough for a hand but not an arm. He tries to shift his limbs and barely manages the movement, muscles still weak from the stun-net. He concentrates, focuses as much as he’s able, runs a mental inventory of what he can feel against his waist, legs, forearms. His beskar sits too light. He’s missing weapons.

Din reaches to grab the bars and pull himself to his feet, but all his numb and prickling hands do is weakly rise up into view, held together by the bindings on his wrists.

The full scope of the situation hits him, knocks him back into the wall like a blow. He’s being hauled to the Hutts to be made an example of, bound and caged. They’ll want to kill him, but they’ll want to do it slow. He could deal with that, if he has to.

But can Grogu?

He’s miscalculated how angry the Hutts would be. Badly. And if it costs him his son — or his son his father — His teeth grind in frustration, anger, guilt.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

They’re taking a break, dank farrik. They should be on Nevarro and waking up for breakfast right about now. Grogu should be making a fuss about the bath he’d been evading for the past few days. Din should be replenishing his supplies and taking the kid into town. They should be working on the Crest with the Anzellans. He hopes they made it out —

Oh, shit. He focuses on the center of the room. There’s an Anzellan right now. Trapped in the mouth of the hunter’s hound, covered in its saliva.

He sits up, shaking his head, and takes a breath. This is something he can work with. He remembers Grogu’s cookies — sorry, kid, I’ll get you a crate of them next time — there’s going to be a next time, there has to be — and tosses one for the hound as the Anzellan scrambles away. He can get intel from the Anzellan on Grogu, and they’ll figure out some kind of plan.

He’s got to get back to Grogu. He’s all that matters, not Din’s own fate, not the Hutts’ fury. Maybe this will work.

Maybe. The Anzellan surges forward, but he can’t fit through the bars — the hound’s after him —

Maybe not.

—

Embo sighs, a rumble under his breath. There’s a commotion down below he needs to investigate.

All seems well as he steps out of his pilot’s seat and surveys the hold. The Mandalorian is still slumped on the floor in his cell, but somehow he’s managed to rile up Keibu, who growls and snaps at the prisoner. It is an irritation Embo does not need. Embo calls Keibu to heel and she leaves her prey reluctantly. He turns to his quarry and regards him without expression.

The Mandalorian hasn’t managed to get himself to his feet yet. It’s to be expected given how long the stun-web’s shock lasts. But the man is quietly desperate beneath the stillness. Embo can see need in every line of him, the direct and careful gaze, the way his hands curl slightly, coiled and ready for a fight.

The Mandalorian is a decent actor though. He tries talking to Embo first, voice rasping in clipped Basic, a calculatedly casual effort at professional commiseration.

Embo prefers silence to conversation. Especially meaningless conversation intended to provoke pity or a sense of false rapport. That kind of talk loses credits, and more importantly, reputation. Embo does the Mandalorian the similarly casual professional courtesy of activating the cell’s built-in stun-web.

The stun-web crackles. The Mandalorian crumples again, his chest heaving. The visor stares at an odd angle.

Embo nods to himself and turns off the signal. He is unsure of the Mandalorian’s species, but suspects human by the general appearance, build, fighting style. He’s received more than enough voltage to sufficiently knock him out. They should have no more disruptions the rest of the way to Nal Hutta.

The Mandalorian’s legs and hands twitch erratically, which is of no concern to Embo. Hutts do not need their prey in mint condition. He shrugs and allows himself to run a hand over Keibu’s ears, and she nudges against his palm, giving him a bored whine. He’ll find her a target to play with soon. But first, he has to deliver a plaything to someone else.

Pity he hadn’t been able to also bring in the Mandalorian’s little green offspring. The Hutts had promised him a hefty bonus for the kid, though they’d made it clear the Mandalorian was the real prize. He climbs back into the pilot’s seat, considering if another trip to Nevarro might be worth it after he collects his payment.

Summary: Din comes to inside a hollow tree trunk on Nal Hutta and wonders where the kriff he is and just what happened.

I was inspired by the whole scene of Grogu caring for Din and the snuggling under his arm to wait it out.

Din groaned softly. He could taste something earthy on his mouth, like…like dirt?

Dirt with a hint of…fish?

He swallowed and gagged slightly at the odious taste on his tongue.

As he lay there, he felt his senses slowly returning. He felt out of sorts with his body. Every cell screaming at him. He felt sore everywhere, all at once. Especially his head—that felt like he'd suffered a repeated blunt-force trauma.

How long had he been here?

He couldn't answer that question, it could be hours, it could be days. The stiffness in his muscles made him think it was more likely to be several day cycles.

Carefully, he tried to prise his eyes open. Attempting to peer through the visor, Din was temporarily panicked—all he could see was darkness. 

Was he blind? 

His breathing quickened and his pulse rate soared at the thought he might never be able to see again. A cold realization washed over him with that thought. He was blind and all alone in the Hutt's lair.

He would never escape from this place. Not without his eyesight.

Never getting away from this place would mean that he would never see Grogu again. The thought jarred, and his gut twisted tightly into a knot. He tried to suppress the surge of emotion that welled up within him.

Focusing his efforts elsewhere, he strained his eyes and his vision swam into focus behind the visor. Shapes appeared out of the inky blackness and he relaxed. He was not blind, but it was dark. Very dark.

Where was he?

As a man of logic and reason, Din tried to piece his memories back together. To pull the threads out of thin air and stitch the tale into a whole.

He had fought the Dragonsnake. Its bite had pierced his flightsuit. He had barely escaped its deadly clutches with the help of Grogu and the Anzellans. Recalling running through the swamp, he remembered his dismay at realizing that their ship was too small to carry him with them. But he had also known that his end was almost upon him and bought them time so that they could escape safely, whilst he…he drew his last breath and succumbed to the poison flowing through his veins.

Din breathed heavily as the memories rolled over him. He should be dead.

Why am I not dead?

The thought swirled around in his head.

Why aren't I dead? And where the kriff am I?

He cautiously reached out a gloved hand, his orange-tipped fingers meeting a solid, but uneven surface. 

Was it wood?

It wasn't durasteel. It was definitely organic. 

Definitely wood.

As his mind flowed with more questions, Din noticed regulated breathing. Another living creature in his space. 

A light purring noise. The soft hum of sleep. 

Snoring? 

Feeling unsure, he craned his neck to look down for the source of the noise. There, nestled tightly into the crook of his arm, as though using it as a comfort blanket, was Grogu. Eyes closed. His breath rising and falling rhythmically.

Din's panic melted into instant relief and awe. He was awed that his child hadn't climbed aboard the spacecraft, but was here, right by his side—where he truly belonged.

Din lay back down flat to take a moment of reflection. Overcome with a wild rush of love and affection for his sleeping foundling, Din quietly and softly, reached out with a tentative finger to lightly stroke his small, wrinkled brow.

In his sleep, Grogu snuffled, murmured, and burrowed deeper into Din's body, unconsciously seeking comfort by his father's side.

Turning his head away, Din lay quietly for a moment, basking in the unbreakable bond between father and son.

—

”You’re making friends,” Din said as he and Grogu prepared dinner. Grogu sorted the tableware, carefully setting out some of his smallest dishes, which made for large platters to the Anzellans. Din pulled out meat from the freezer, remnants of their last trip into town a week or so ago. Good thing he hadn’t left it for fresh, given how long their recent missions had taken. He tossed the meat on the glowing grill and Grogu smacked his lips at the sizzle.

Grogu pointed to the Anzellans, who were busy cleaning up from the mud. He gave Din a questioning look.

“Yeah, looks like they’re your buddies now. The droidsmiths, Rotta… good job, kid.” He reached down, patting Grogu on the back. Grogu babbled, saying something that almost sounded like “friend” if Din thought hard enough on it, and then returned to carefully setting up cups beside the plates for the Anzellans. They were using their entire stock of meager dishware. Not like they had a lot of visitors over for dinner, between their distance outside of town and the missions they’d been on lately. Maybe they’d take the blurrg in tomorrow once the weather cleared, stock up on more provisions, stop by Greef’s office.

Din winced as he pulled the meat off the grill and worked on rehydrating some grains from their little pantry. He was stiffening up. Bruises and aches from the recent fights were making themselves apparent, and he rethought his plans. Maybe that blurrg ride could wait a few more days. They were well-tamed, but the path back to town was still a bumpy one.

He dumped a good measure of salt and spices into the moistened grains, giving them a good stir. He snorted to himself. Salt on the ration. He didn’t keep a huge variety of seasonings around, but what he had would apparently have been worth a damn lot on Shakari. Now that was a job that had gotten messy.

Din knew his own skill, could weigh and measure it objectively. He’d thrown everything he had into the last mission. Muscle, speed, weaponry, the use of his armor, the ability to think on the fly. And there was a good chance it still wouldn’t have been enough. He’d been lucky Rotta hadn’t crushed him beneath his vast bulk; lucky that Rotta had taken out the security system; lucky it had gone down the way it did capturing Coin despite not having the Crest ready to go.

He was getting older, and he knew it. He took a long breath, let it hiss out between his teeth.

Grogu still needed him.

He saw the kid in a tiny cage again, Coin’s little plaything. Grogu had his powers and the training Din had given him, but it was clear he wasn’t able to figure out how to break out of the cage, or had been left too weak from the gas to attempt it. It was too much like what the Imps had done to him, what Gideon had done to him, and Din hadn’t been able to stop it. His chest ached with it, even though the kid was safe and sound beside him now.

He finished with the grains and worked on slicing the meat. Grogu lifted the first juicy slice with his powers and directed it into his open mouth, and instead of correcting him to wait for their guests, Din let him have it. Kid had earned it.

”Don’t worry, Grogu,” he said, half under his breath. “We’re taking a break for a while.” Grogu looked up at him and licked his lips, clearly pleased with how the meat had come out.

A break would do them good. Time to rest and recover, to double down on Grogu’s training, to get the Crest just how he wanted it. Time to look at his own weak points and do better. For his son.

Din set the ready food down on the table. He knew Grogu was perfectly capable of jumping to his own seat. But he couldn’t help from scooping the kid up into his arms to bring him to the table, holding him a little closer and a little longer than he needed, and Grogu, for his part, didn’t squirm away.

—

Din had offered the Anzellans his own bed — he could sleep anywhere — but they deferred, choosing the lumpy old pillow on the floor that Grogu kept rescuing every time Din tried to throw it out. Grogu, to Din’s bafflement, often preferred it over the small raised child’s bed Din had procured for him. The kid snuggled right up to the droidsmiths and managed to keep his hands to himself. The pile of them had fallen asleep together. It was an odd sight, but charming in its way.

The rain drummed on the roof in the quiet, a steady fierce rhythm that should have been comforting in its familiarity. Din considered stretching out and falling asleep, but a part of him still felt restless. Maybe it was knowing there was work undone on the Razor Crest. If they needed to get off planet in a hurry… if the Hutts decided to come after them…

Better not take the chance.

He finished clearing up after dinner and headed to the door. He paused at the threshold as the door slid open, the rain sluicing past him, the puddles growing larger by the moment. He glanced back at Grogu again.

Grogu’s chest rose and fell peacefully, his face calm and content, still a little sticky from dinner. He’d need a good bath in the morning between the engine grease and the meal. Something they’d been slacking on these past few missions. Not that either of them minded — Grogu could be a terror about baths, putting them both to the test.

Din smiled at the thought. That was his kid all right, stubborn through and through. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He sighed, the sound swallowed by the cacophony of the drumming rain. He stepped out into the dark and mud and wet, and the door slid closed behind him.