#f!reader

You used your knowledge of the palace to duck out of sight before Din could turn and see you.

You just… 

You still felt too conflicted. You didn't trust yourself to speak calmly and rationally to him. 

You wandered around the palace for a while, avoiding the busy areas. You didn't have it in you to be social, or even to pretend that you were alright. 

Honestly, though… seeing him again, finally, after all this time… 

It would be easy to forgive him. You wanted to forgive him, to go back to how things were. 

You wanted to spend time with him again. Him and Grogu.

Shaking yourself, you made your way up to one of the balconies, leaning against the railing. The desert cooled fast with the suns down, a gentle breeze tugging at your clothes and sending a chill down your spine. 

Briefly, you debated borrowing a speeder bike and making your way back to Peli's. She wouldn't ask questions. 

Well. Okay. She would. She'd demand to know what you were doing there so late and didn't you know she needed her rest? But she'd let you stay. 

You smiled and shook your head. No. No need to drag her into this. 

You were fine. You could manage. 

Din would undoubtedly be on his way again soon. 

“Want me to shoot him for you?”

You laughed softly at the casual offer from Fennec. “Wouldn't that defeat the triumph of the day?” You asked, not turning to look at her. 

“I never said where I'd shoot him,” she pointed out as she settled next to you, her elbow bumping into yours on the rail. “I'd aim for the beskar.”

You smiled and shook your head. “Nah,” you decided. “Sounds like more trouble than it's worth.” 

Fennec huffed softly but didn't protest. “Then why are you hiding up here?” 

You sighed slowly, letting the rail take more of your weight as you sagged forward. “I can't face him right now,” you admitted. “I just… can't.” 

Fennec nodded slowly. “What are you going to do?” She kept her voice quiet, the question non-judgmental. 

“I don't know.” You huffed without humor. “Hide up here until he leaves? I doubt he'll be here long.” 

Fennec sighed, long and slow. “You know, if I thought it would do any good, I'd lock the two of you in a room to get yourselves figured out.” She didn't turn even as the door to the balcony creaked open. “Still an option, if needed.” She threw you a smirk that you were all too familiar with. A bit of mischief mixed with her belief that she was right. 

Not that she was often wrong, more's the pity. Sometimes you thought her ego could do with a bit of a pop. 

She pushed away from the railing as measured steps approached. You didn't have to look to see who it was. 

You'd memorized the cadence of those steps long ago. 

The door shut behind her, a faint click you could only just hear over the pounding of your heart. The all-too-familiar steps slowed as he approached, and then stopped next to you. 

Din surprised you, leaning forward to mirror your pose, arms on the railing. His elbow did not bump yours, but only just.

If you moved so much as an inch to that side, you'd touch him. 

You didn't know what you'd do if you did touch him, so you held very still. A spooked loth-cat. 

“Boba said you'd be out here,” Din offered quietly. 

“Just because he's my boss…” You trailed off as Din's shoulders tensed, visible only because you had so much practice reading him. 

“He… treats you well?” He asked slowly, a little halting. 

“Better than any other boss I've had.” You shrugged a little, relaxing in opposition to his tension. “Working for him is… different. Not bad. Just different.” 

“Are you happy here?”

The soft question made you exhale hard and push away from the wall, a sudden release of tension and emotion. “I suppose. As much as I can be, given… everything.” You waved one hand between the two of you and the sky, as if that would somehow encapsulate the everything you'd spoken of. 

Din turned slowly to watch you, as unknowable as ever behind that gleaming helmet. He let the silence sit between you, heavy and full of unspoken things. 

“I couldn't find you earlier,” he said finally, low and a little raspy. “Not for longer than a few seconds.”

“I feel like I should be proud of that,” you mused, looking down at the floor between you, the space seeming much larger than it actually was. “I had things to do.” 

“I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want to talk to me.” The words came softly, like a confession. 

“It's not that,” you said, lifting one hand to rub your forehead. “It's…” You trailed off, words failing you. It was how he had left you. It was how you still hurt, deep down. It was how much you wanted things to go back to how they had been. 

Din lowered his head at that. “I don't expect forgiveness,” he started, and you cut him off there. 

“That's just it, Din. I want to forgive you. I want to brush it all aside and go back to traveling with you like nothing happened.” You shook your head a little. “That time I spent on the Crest, with you and Grogu, was terrifying and awful and thrilling and wonderful, and some of my fondest memories are on that ship. Of course I want to go back to that.”

Din held very still, visor focused directly on you. Like if he looked away, you might vanish again. “That is more than I deserve.”

“Probably,” you agreed, cool but not harsh. “But that's my call. My decision. Nobody gets to make those choices for me. Not anymore.”

Din bowed his head, conceding to you. “I'm sorry,” he murmured. “For making that choice for you, before.” 

You breathed out slowly. “I appreciate that,” you said softly, looking at him. Ber had never apologized, for anything. The fact that Din had meant a lot to you. 

Din took a single step closer to you. “You don't have to worry about Ber,” he said, low and sincere. “Or the bounty.” 

Honestly, it had been so long that you'd kind of forgotten about the bounty on you. So many other things had happened, things requiring your attention. “Your contact got the bounty taken care of?” You asked, mildly curious. 

“Not exactly.” Din shrugged, still focused on you. “I killed him.” 

You froze, staring at him. Honestly, for a moment, you weren't sure you'd heard him properly, sure you'd hallucinate the words. “What?” You breathed.

“Ber.” Din shifted his weight, the only outward sign of discomfort. “I killed him.” 

You blinked once. And ended up flat on your butt on the floor, still staring up at him. A cracked laugh escaped you as something long scabbed but never healed in your chest broke open anew. Din crouched in front of you, concern in the tip of his head, the way gloved fingers reached for you.

But he hesitated. Unsure of his welcome. His right. 

You bridged the gap, one hand clasping tightly around his. The single point of contact helped you calm, slowly and fitfully, the occasional cracked giggle or almost sob still escaping. 

As embarrassing as it should have been, falling apart in front of him like this, it simply… wasn't. 

After all, it was just Din. He had already seen you in bad shape. 

“Kriff,” you muttered, hoarse now, your free hand wiping at your cheeks. Which was when you noticed you were trembling, a fine, consistent tremor through your limbs. “You didn't have to go to any trouble, you know.” 

“Yes I did.” Din squeezed your hand gently, pulling your gaze to him. Not that you'd looked much of anywhere else. “You needed it.” 

You swallowed at the ease at which he said that. He had no business saying things like that so… nonchalantly. 

“Guess you're right. I don't have to worry about him anymore.” One more swipe of your hand over your cheeks and you nodded, steadier already. “Any other surprises you want to throw at me while I'm sitting?” 

You'd meant it as a joke, but by Din's sudden, absolutely stillness, you'd hit on something. 

“Din?” You pressed gently when he didn't speak for a few long moments. 

Din made a noise, and it took you a moment to realize he was clearing his throat. “I, uh. Have something to give you.”

You blinked, honestly caught by surprise. “You… do?” 

Din nodded, sitting back a little to rummage through one of his pouches. He didn't release you with his other hand, instead working awkwardly with his off-hand. Then he held something out to you. 

You reached out slowly, taking it from him. Cool metal rested against your palm as you brought it closer to examine it. 

A necklace sat in your palm, the metal shaped strangely but familiar. You rubbed your thumb over the tusks of the thing. 

“It's a mythosaur,” Din told you unprompted. “They're… sacred, soft of, to Mandalorians.”

“Why give this to me?” You didn't look up from the necklace, enjoying the cool, smooth metal under your touch. 

“Because…” Din hesitated there, seemingly struggling for words. You looked up from the necklace to him, curious and unwilling to let this drop. Not this time. “You are… important. To me. You have earned that.” His fingers closed gently around yours, his gloves a little rough but warm. 

You nodded slowly, glancing down at your joined hands. Both pairs. “I appreciate it,” you murmured, tightening your grip on the necklace. You had a feeling there was something more to it, but that was enough of an answer for now. 

“So, what now?” You asked after several long moments of quiet. 

“I don't know.” Din spoke quietly, admitting it with a touch of reluctance. “I… still don't have the Crest. A Crest.” 

“I know,” you admitted just as quietly. “Peli told me she found you a ship, but it's not exactly anything with room for passengers.” 

Din nodded after a moment. “There are some things I have to do,” he said. “This isn't the only thing I need to make right.” He squeezed your hands gently, ever aware of his strength. 

You blew out a slow breath into the space between you. “Well, not like I'm going anywhere,” you joked. 

Din sighed softly, just audible. “I don't want this to be all there is,” he murmured. “Can I… come talk to you again? After I get done with what I need to do?” 

You considered the question rather than saying yes immediately. Of course you wanted to say yes immediately, but you forced yourself to actually think about it. 

You'd already lived without him for a while. You could do it again, for as long as you needed to. Kriff, even if he never came back, you still had more closure now than you had before. 

Plus, you wanted to see Grogu again. And maybe, just maybe, you could even be of help. 

So you nodded. “Yeah,” you agreed. “That would be fine.” 

The line of his shoulders relaxed, just enough for you to notice. Had he been worried about your answer? “Okay. Good.” 

You smiled a little and accepted that. “When are you leaving?” 

“In the morning,” Din said, leaning back from the emotional talks. “Grogu is asleep, and Boba is letting us stay the night.” 

You nodded. “Okay,” you murmured. “I should get some sleep. So should you - it was a long day.”

Din huffed a sound that could have been amused. “Yeah, it has.” He stood with a soft groan, probably aching after the day he'd had and being thrown around. But he still paused once he was on his feet, holding both hands down to you. 

You took his hands and accepted his help up to your feet. A few aches of your own made themselves known, and you grimaced. 

“You'll feel better in the morning,” Din said, still holding your hands. 

“Probably.” Your smile felt lopsided, small. But you made the effort, at least. 

Din stood there for a long moment, just looking at you. Then he nodded once. “Get some rest,” he encouraged, finally releasing you. “I won't leave before I see you.”

You nodded, shoulders relaxing. You hadn't even realized you'd been worried about that until he'd reassured you. 

Din reached past you to open the door, and you slipped back inside with a nod to him. But Din didn't leave you, not until you reached your room. 

You stopped at the door, looking at him, letting the silence stretch as you studied him. His armor looked the same now as it did when he'd walked away from you. You could see the weariness in the rounding of his shoulders, the way his hands rested empty by his sides. 

“Get some sleep,” you told him, opening the door to your room, just enough for you to slip inside. You weren't ready to give him a peek in. Not yet. “I'll see you in the morning, Din.” 

“Sleep well.” Din dipped his head to you before he turned and left.

you're vaguely embarrassed by yourself, sometimes. the cliche you've become. unable to stop thinking about him and that night.

but now you have an excuse to text him, a reason.

you've already started rehearsing it in your head, trying to make it sound casual. 

hey, not pregnant, by the way… want to hang out?

something that didn’t sound like you’d been waiting.

the universe has other plans though. 

it doesn't care about your rehearsed lines.

what you want. 

how you pictured your life going.

two pink lines.

you had sex once.

once.

and you've ended up with two pink lines staring back at you, bright and undeniable, on the plastic test sitting on your bathroom counter. 

your fingers find your temple, pressing in, half convinced a pain response will wake you up and this will all be a nightmare. 

it doesn't. 

this is very much your real life. 

the memory you've been clinging onto tarnished like old copper in just under three minutes of waiting.

your hand closes around the plastic test. for a second, you’re ready to throw it, to get it out of your sight, like that might undo it, make it less true.

your arm tenses - then stops.

you hesitate, breath catching somewhere in your throat.

you pull out your phone with a trembling hand. make sure the time stamp is on, like you know the proof will matter. take a picture of the test staring back at you from the counter.

 you grimace. toss the test into the bathroom bin, staring at the closed lid for a moment, wishing - desperately, irrationally - that everything else could be dealt with just as easily.

three weeks and two days later 

“12:30 tomorrow? yeah, i can make that.” your voice comes out steadier than you expect. your heartbeat still kicks hard in your throat, but your words don’t waver. “do I need to bring anything?”

“lovely. just your last period dates if you have them, and a list of any medication you’re on. you’re all booked in. have a nice afternoon, love.”

the line clicks dead. you lower the phone, stare at the dark screen for a second, then toss it onto the sofa. for a moment you just stand there, pulling at your hair to try and feel something other than numbness.

one night. one careless, stupid night with a man who didn’t know what to do with you the next morning, and now here you are.

you know you have to tell him. you told him you would. 

you reach for your discarded phone, tap out a quick message, attach the photo of the pregnancy test with its two pink lines. send it into the ether before you can overthink it..

“congratulations. you managed to knock me up. let me know if you want to talk about it.”

three weeks and three days later 

you’re ten minutes early because of course you are. the clinic is softer than you expected - warm lighting, pale wood, colourful posters that try their best. it doesn’t change the weight pressing down on your chest, but it makes it slightly easier to breathe.

you’re sure about this. you have been since the second line appeared. this isn’t the right time, you’re not ready, and you refuse to bring a child into the world tethered to a man who you really don’t know.

still. the certainty doesn’t stop the ache.

simon hasn’t replied. not a single word. and yeah, he warned you he might go dark, but the knowledge doesn’t ease the bitter twist in your stomach. it took two people to create this situation. yet here you sit - alone in a padded chair, with clammy palms - carrying every consequence while he’s off doing fuck knows what.

the nurse calls your name with a gentle smile. the appointment moves quickly: medical history, questions, blood pressure. then she gives you an apologetic look. “we still need to do a scan for accurate dating. you don’t have to look at the screen. i can keep it turned away.”

your shoulders lock. you nod once, sharp. 

you’re too early in your pregnancy for an abdominal ultrasound, so you end up half-naked on the couch, knees apart, heels together, trying to focus on the nurse’s stream of chatter - her dog’s carpet accidents, the awful new Italian place on the high street, how the weather’s been all wrong lately. 

it’s nice, really. helpful. 

the transvaginal ultrasound wand is uncomfortable but not unbearable. the nurse lets you know where she's going to touch you and when, when to expect pressure, when to expect discomfort. she keeps her promise; the screen stays out of sight. when it’s over she gives you privacy to dress, then hands you two leaflets.

“scan puts you at just over three weeks. you’re eligible for either medical or surgical. medical you can do at home. surgical is a day procedure, but you’ll need someone to collect you afterwards.”

you stare at the leaflets, the words blurring. the reality crashes over you again - not doubt, but a deep, hollow ache that this is even happening. that you’re the only one that gets to make the decision. that it’s a responsibility you can’t share.

that there's not even anyone next to you to carry the weight. you could've told a friend - should have, really - but you couldn't bring yourself to turn something they tease you about over drinks into a life lesson about the importance of contraception.

but still. the company would be nice.

the nurse covers your hand with hers, “take a few days to think, love. call us when you’re ready. and if you need to talk, we’ve got counsellors.”

you nod, throat tight.

you’re doing the right thing. you know that in your bones.

it just stings that you’re the only one dealing with the consequences of your shared actions.

four weeks and three days later 

you'd decided on a medical termination. considered surgical for the benefit of waking up and knowing it was over, but the idea of being able to curl up on your own sofa whilst going through the process won out. 

you'd been to the clinic yesterday, taken the mifepristone, started the process, stopped the pregnancy developing any further.

now you stare at the second tablet, the misprostol, aware that once you take it there's no changing your mind. not you think you will. in fact you know you won't. but the finality of the decision still registers.

you tuck the tablet onto your tongue, take a sip of water, feel the pill get stuck slightly in your throat as you swallow. text a friend to let them know you've taken the meds, promise you'll check in every thirty minutes; unwilling to let any of the friends that offered actually sit with you and watch this happen.

you send Simon one more text:

"bit late to talk about it now."

then you… wait. 

the first message simon sees when he turns his civilian phone back on at base is yours. 

"congratulations. you managed to knock me up."

the words blur on his screen, breath catching in his chest. 

shit. 

then he sees the date you sent it. a week ago. 

his breath catches again. 

a week. a week that you've had to deal with this by yourself. a week to decide what you want to do with your situation. the situation he got you into.

then he sees the second text.

"bit late to talk about it now."

so you decided, then. without him. good.

he doesn't know why guilt settles heavy on his chest.

maybe because he should have been more responsible, grabbed a condom, made sure to at least pull out. 

maybe it's because he knows that your first time having sex is always going to be vaguely tainted by the outcome. 

maybe… maybe because he hasn't stopped thinking about you either. the noises you made. how soft you were under his hands as he split you open. the way your gaze lingered as you parted ways. the way your number has sat in his phone, ignored in practice but thought about in theory.

and maybe? because he's glad that you've made the decision he would have wanted you to. he doesn't want a kid. never has.

his thumb hovers over the call button on your contact, hesitates. 

he doesn't dial. 

instead he turns, heads down the corridor to one of the tech guys offices, walks in without knocking.

“need you to get me an address.”

one hour and forty two minutes later your doorbell rings; that deep, croaky chime of an original victorian era doorbell.

you're curled on your sofa with a film you've seen a hundred times before on your tv, hands wrapped around a mug of tea, just… waiting. you haven't had much other than mild cramping so far; twinges across your lower belly that remind you of period cramps. your head snaps to the hallway, staring at the front door of your garden flat like you can see directly through the white PVC of the door and identify who's on the other side with sheer willpower alone.

you can't. obviously.

so slowly you stand, roll your shoulders, tuck the hot water bottle you've been clutching to your stomach into the front of your leggings; the action rounding out the silhouette of your stomach in the very way the medication you've taken is going to avoid becoming real.

when you pull the door open simon riley stands on your doorstep like he doesn't quite no how to exist in a quiet suburban neighbourhood bathed in afternoon light - too big, too broad, dressed in a dark hoodie and jeans that make him look like he'd rather be blending in with shadows than stood here at two in the afternoon. his eyes drop immediately to the hot water bottle bulging in your leggings, then flick back up to your face.

you stare. just for a moment. and when you speak your voice is cracked, "how the fuck do you know where i live?"

he smirks, slightly, because of course your first response is that. then he shrugs, "got my ways." a beat and then softer, as soft as a man like him can manage, "gonna let me in?"

you hesitate, then step aside. he moves past you, careful not to let brush against you - but you still catch the faint scent of him. clean soap, gun oil, something warm and unmistakably him that you remember from the night you spent in his bed.

he stops in the middle of your living room, eyes scanning the blankets, the half-drunk tea, the dimmed television before he turns to face you.

"you doin' this alone?"

you lift your chin, "didn't have much choice. there's a time limit on these things. couldn't wait for you to get back to me."

he flinches, almost imperceptibly. "wasn't a criticism." he mutters, voice rough. "i'm… askin' if you want me here whilst you do it."

the question lands between you like live ordinance.

at the same time a sharp cramp coils through your lower belly - sharper now, twisting - and you press the hot water bottle tighter against yourself.

"why?" it comes out sharper than you mean for it to.

simon's gaze doesn't move from yours.

"because i put you 'ere. least i can do it sit with you through it, love."

you try for a laugh, but it cracks halfway. "you don't owe me anything, simon. this was a… joint endeavour."

"i know." he mutters, taking a step closer. "but i'm still askin'."

another cramp hits, even harder, your breath catching in your throat as you bend at the middle, pressing the hot water bottle against your skin like you can burn away the pain. you turn away, walk slowly back towards the sofa. he follows, lowing himself into the armchair across from you like he's worried he might crowd you.

for a long time, the only sounds are the television murmuring and your occasional sharp inhale as the misoprostol does its job. simon doesn’t fill the silence with useless words. he just watches you, quiet and steady, until the pain builds enough that you curl onto your side with a low groan.

at that point he moves without being asked, shifting onto the sofa, carefully sliding in behind you and pulling your back against his broad chest. one hand presses against the hot water bottle on your stomach, replacing your own trembling one.

"breathe, love." he murmurs against your hair.

you do. in through your nose. out through your mouth; focussing on moving oxygen rather than how safe you feel pressed against him.

"i've thought about you." you whisper during a lull between waves of pain. "too much."

"me too." he murmurs back, voice rough, like he's confessing something.

you twist your neck to look at him, "you didn't call. or text. or… anything."

“neither did you.” his thumb strokes slow circles over your hip, careful. “thought maybe you regretted it. the whole night. me. how it 'appened"

“i don’t regret the night,” you rpely quietly. “or you. just maybe… the consequences. there’s a difference.”

simon is silent for a long moment. when he speaks again, his voice is lower. “i 'aven’t stopped seein'you under me. the way you looked at me. like you were surprised you could feel that good.” his hand presses a little firmer, pressing the warmth against your aching stomach. “then I got that message and all I could think was… i did this to you. and you were handlin' it alone. 'ad to, because i wasn't 'ere.”

tears prick at the corners of your eyes. you don’t know if they’re from the pain or from the weight of everything else.

“i didn’t want to need you,” you admit. "but i… wished you were there to talk through it with. not… to have an opinion. just…" you trail off, unsure how to describe the fact you wished he'd been there just to be there.

“i'm sorry.” his lips brush your temple - the barest ghost of a kiss. “but i'm 'ere now.”

the worst of it comes two hours later.

you start shake and sweat through it on the sofa, and simon stays exactly where he is - solid behind you, murmuring quiet things against your hair when the cramps turn brutal. he helps you to the bathroom when you need it, doesn’t flinch at the blood, wipes your face with a cool cloth after. runs you a bath whilst glancing around your tiny bathroom - the art on the walls, the disco ball light, the fluffy pink towels that seem a world away from the situation you're in - watching from his seat on the closed toilet lid as the bathwater turns pink.

at one point you cry.

not loudly, not dramatically. just silent, fat tears that leak out of your eyes and down your cheeks and drip into the bath water.

simon silently reaches over to wipe them with his thumb. he doesn't say anything stupid like it'll be okay.

the worst passes. he helps you change into clean pajamas, lets you curl up against him in your bed, exhausted and hollow, head on his chest whilst he holds you in the circle of his arms.

“i'm not good at this,” he says quietly. “the normal… stuff. relationships. stayin'. but i haven’t stopped thinking about you. not since outside the pharmacy.” a beat and then, "and i half convinced myself you'd wished you'd done it with someone… softer. who didn't call you a fuckin' slut whilst he was inside you."

you manage a small, rough laugh. "didn't bother me what you called me." you reply, honestly. the sex wasn't the problem. the result of it was. then you sigh, tilting your head back against his shoulder. "what are you saying, simon?"

“i’m sayin'… if you want me to leave after this, I will. but if you want me to stay - for a while, or longer - i’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to.”

you’re quiet for a long time, listening to his heartbeat under your ear.

“i’m a mess,” you whisper.

“so am i.” his hand strokes slowly up and down your back.

you close your eyes. imagine a life where you wake up with him in your bed and not as a memory.

and right now? you can't.

not with the memory or your first night together tangled up with the consequences of it.

"maybe now… maybe this isn't the right time. for anything. for either of us." it's almost painful to say. the words catching in your throat like tiny blades, chest aching in a way that's agonizing but sure.

he makes a small, gruff noise of acknowledgement, something that hides the way your rejection feels like a kick in the ribs. "maybe not love. but i'm stayin' for this."

and he does. he holds you through it. through the night, until the worst of the pain has passed and you're left with nothing but relief and a slightly hollow feeling in your bones.

when he leaves neither of you offer to call.

six months later

same pub garden. same man. six months of distance between you.

six months of going on dates and taking much less interesting men home from the pub with you.

six months of life experience. of finding your feet in a post-simon world.

your eyes find his across the crowd of tables and chatter. you freeze, just for a second. but then you smile - real, open, unguarded.

one hundred and eighty-two days have softened the sharp edges of everything that happened. what once felt like a knife between your ribs has changed into something that feels almost tender.

he stares for a moment, expression unreadable, shoulders tight.

then something shifts. a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, barely there, but enough.

as you start walking toward him, the only thought in the back of your brain is that maybe now is the right time.