Chapter Text
Din, despite his best efforts, loves the kid. If he’s being honest, he was already head over heels for the tiny creature before he tried to give them back to the Imperials - it was his own stubbornness that kept him from accepting that until it was almost too late. Part of him thinks he won’t ever forgive himself for that decision. It’s a heavy shame he carries with him, but lingering on it does him nor the child any good. Din can only move forward and protect them, and perhaps an opportunity for further atonement will show itself some day.
For now, he focuses on keeping the two of them fed, relatively content, and safe from the Imps. It’s certainly enough to keep him occupied for the foreseeable future, seeing as they get run off a planet every time they try to settle somewhere for longer than a week or two.
The baby, attuned to his mood in a way that can only be explained by his strange abilities, whines and splashes miserably. They’re clearly aware that Din’s attention was straying from his task and is unhappy about it.
“Are you feeling neglected?” Din asks dryly, picking up the scraggy washcloth and starting to scrub behind the kid’s disproportionately large ears. Almost immediately, they start to purr and lean into Din’s touch - appeased for the moment. “You’re spoiled. Like a little princess.”
Splashing some more, they purr louder and look rather pleased with themself. Din sighs - and it comes out fondly even though he means to sound exasperated. The kid is as clean as they’ll get at this point - they have a strange smell to them that must be natural for their species, as Din hasn’t found a soap strong enough to get rid of it. He sniffs them and doesn’t smell anything too putrid or rank, which is good enough for him.
He’s repurposed the small sink from the ship’s tiny kitchen as a bathtub and it works well enough. The kid is too little to use the shower on their own, so the sink is the next best option. There’s been a few times, after a particularly long hunt or tiring escape, where Din has jumped in the shower with the kid and hastily scrubbed them both down to save time and energy - forgoing washing his face for a day doesn’t matter much when any acne is hidden by his helmet, and a shower is much less tiring than a full bath for a rambunctious infant-toddler-old man.
Bath time, clearly one of the kid’s favorite activities, is a rare event considering how messy and exhausting they can be. It’s a luxury to indulge in now, when they’ve been unbothered by the many, many hunters on their trail for not nearly long enough - but when else would they get the chance to?
Spending so much time on a ship can’t be good for a child’s development. Din can’t do much about the environment, currently, so he does his best to ensure the kid gets at least a few moments of carefree fun a day, when they can spare a few minutes to play or to cuddle - not that Din would ever admit to cuddling to anyone outside of the Razor Crest crew.
The crew being him and the kid, with no foreseeable hiring opportunities or positions opening in the future. A clan of two is about perfect, now that Din has found his rhythm in childcare.
The tub is a war zone of splashing suds as the child shrieks with happiness, smiling toothily at Din who is helpless to do anything but smile back. The kid can’t see it, obviously, but the way they grin wider and shriek louder means they get the message.
Leaning over the sink and petting his head lightly, Din asks, “What do you think about Ka’ar? Ka’ar?”
The kid’s smile drops and they whine immediately, splashing coming to a slow halt as the whine grows in pitch.
“Another dud, huh? What about Syla? That’s a nice name.”
The whine gets even louder, and Din holds up his hands, surrendering easily. “Okay, okay. I get it. Start talking so you can tell me what you want it to be and I’ll stop guessing.”
It’s frivolous to use his helmet’s HUD to take baby photos, but Din does it anyway. A pouting baby covered in bubbles, eyes watery and lip jutting out - it’s cuter than it has any right to be, and Din is mortal, after all.
When the pout continues, Din shrugs and picks them up. They’re immediately laid on top of the fluffiest of their towels for a brisk drying. Din scrubs them until they’re completely dry, hushing them lightly when they start to whine.
“Yes, I know. I’m the cruelest being in the galaxy - how dare I keep you from catching cold?” He scrubs them one last time, tweaks the little one’s nose, and proceeds to wrap them up in his recently-cleaned robes. The baby pouts and huffs and is generally uncooperative, but Din has been doing this long enough that he knows how to get them snug and cozy again.
The pouting is indicative of how close to bedtime they must be. The kid is a happy baby until they get tired - then his sweet little child turns into a mean, angry tyke.
Din pulls him up into the cradle of his arms and gives him his free hand to play with. It’s immediately repurposed as a chew toy, tiny teeth nibbling on calluses.
“Time for bed, little princeling. In the opinion of your most humble servant, your highness is a few more minutes away from a loud tantrum. Hm?” He nods at the babbling he receives. “Yes, of course. Only the finest blankets for you, my prince.”
He wishes it were true. He’s accumulated enough to make a fine little nest for the kid, but all of it has been acquired as add-ons to random deals with the locals and mechanics he comes across. “Fix my ship and give me those pillows, and I’ll pay you extra,” type of deals. It means he’s created a mishmash of soft bedding, all smelling faintly of motor oil or hay, depending on where the jobs took them.
His tiny companion has few, if any, complaints, which makes Din feel better about the subpar accommodations he’s been providing for a growing child. There’s never any fuss when Din goes to place them within the small, makeshift bedroom. Laying them down to sleep is relatively easy, assuming the kid isn’t too cranky and assuming that Din isn’t trying to go somewhere without them.
The kid, fifty years old but barely out of infanthood, clearly has some abandonment issues.
Tonight, the kid is already dozing off in Din’s arms, and they’re more than willing to curl up and let Din tuck them in. They say a sleepy sort of “hmph” when Din moves away, but no whines are heard. Their eyes fall shut before Din’s back in the cockpit.
Time is strange in space when there isn’t any natural sunlight to help your body’s internal rhythm along. In general, Din is awake through one or two of the kid’s sleep cycles - partially because they’re a baby who needs significantly more sleep than Din does and partially because Din’s never managed to keep a consistent sleep schedule since he started hunting alone.
Now, even though he recognizes it would be a good opportunity for rest, he isn’t quite ready. Maybe in an hour or so more, but his mind is struggling to find calm when there’s so much to think about.
The kid, first off - their powers, their lack of familial history, why the Imperials - a dying breed - are pushing and pushing to get them, their age and what that means for theirs and Din’s relationship, to name a few. They’re a veritable fountain that spews wondering and stressful thoughts, if Din thought too long about them.
Logistics, too - how much money does he actually have, how much of it has to go to fuel, how much food they have, how long can they coast before they’re in danger. These are scarier thoughts, but practicality is easier to conceptualize if nothing else.
The worst, unfortunately, are thoughts and worry surrounding Din himself - how is he meant to watch over something so small, the decision of whether or not to take a bounty from Greef when he has delicate cargo, his inability to provide adequately and what that means about him as a person and as a Mandalorian, his remaining grief over the covert that may or may not be well, the fear he feels when he thinks about the many, many ways he’s let down those he cares for -
He inhales deeply and leans against the steering console, closing his eyes. A few more breaths lets him find his center - another one, then one more, and he’s calmer.
Most of his worries are useless, functionally. He can worry about how much money is going to ship repairs all he wants, but that won’t change the fact that the ship needs repaired and he will need to spend the credits. He can worry about why the Imps want the kid so badly, but worrying won’t change anything about their situation.
His self-doubt, too, is nothing. Fear and uncertainty regarding himself is a distraction with no real purpose or reason for hanging around other than self-pity. Any issue he has with himself won’t be solved by sitting around and moping. Resolution can only be found through action.
He opens his eyes and starts plotting their next route. It’s awhiles out, closer to the inner rim than he normally prefers and farther than he’d like to go from the relative safe haven of Nevarro. Greef has been generous with sending him the highest-paying low-risk jobs, though, and his request for Din to take this job would’ve been hard to refuse without losing said generosity.
The target is an ex-spy from the war who’s been dipping his toes into the Hutts’ business - making a Mr. Anpa Pleit an extremely valuable wanted man. Rumors say he isn’t much to speak of in hand-to-hand combat, but he’s slippery.
Greef had said: “Expect to spend at least a few months on this job - I’ll send you milk runs if they pop up, but you’re going to want to find something planetside in the meantime if you want to keep the baby fed.”
“Find something planetside,” Din repeats with a sigh. He finishes plotting their course and lets the ship’s autopilot adjust as needed. “As if there’s an abundance of wealth and jobs to go around on Jakku.”