Chapter Text
Far away from the hustle and bustle of the core worlds were the planets of the Outer Rim. Among them was Tatooine, a red desert marble planet that welcomed all. It didn't matter what you did or what you planned to do; it took you in regardless.
It was hard to believe that this was the place that Din Djarin now called home. He had been here for multiple jobs, but he had never imagined settling down here. He would live out the rest of his days, earning money by hunting animals and selling them in Mos Eisley. He could be out there, bringing back targets and earning good credits. Even the lowest-paying jobs that he had considered himself unlucky to be stuck with paid five times more than his highest-valued pelt.
But, good credits didn't mean stability, which was what Grogu needed.
Their homestead was a few klicks out from Mos Eisley Space Port. He had gotten the plot of land from a Jawa for the last bit of credits he got from his last job. A bit of negotiating and risking his life for their 'sooga,' or mudhorn egg delicacy, and the place was theirs. He never understood why they needed it. Jawas got their thieving, ship-scrapping hands on what they needed, and they were pretty damn good at their job. What stopped them from just getting one themselves?
A small part of him believed they sent him on this valiant quest, just so they could watch his ass get busted by a mudhorn. But, then again, it was hard not to admit that it wasn't funny.
Their homestead was a small domed home with only a kitchen, a bedroom for both of them, and a bath and toilet. It had to be a few decades old; no wonder Din had gotten it for such a good price. But, it was better than anything Din could remember living in. Hooks, nailed into the wall near the doors, had his tattered cloak. They had a single solar panel and a rickety, dusty antenna on their domed roof.
Din hunched over the skinned carcass of a Tatooine deer, one hand holding it steady and the other slicing the pelt away from the meat. The sun had begun its climb to the afternoon, but it was still cool enough for Din to carry on his work without having to worry about the heat. The antlers would be sold, probably to be made into piano tiles or hair combs. The air was thick and heavy with the metallic scent of blood and the tarp. His armor was covered with an apron that had seen better days, and he wore elbow-length bantha leather gloves.
He had killed the deer in the early hours of the morning, the only sliver of peace he had, since Grogu was asleep. It only took half an hour, their tracks were easy to find in the sand, and they always led to a watering hole two kliks West of the homestead.
Din still wore his second skin, his armor and helmet. From his past, paint had been chipped off or completely faded. His holsters were loaded with his sleek pistols.
Once he had cut the last bit of the pelt from the meat, he wiped his hunting knife on a brown rag. Din took off his leather gloves, discarding them. He sighed, looking at the carcass. It was a decent pelt, it would fetch them a few credits that could buy them a meal or two.
Seated on a little crate was little Grogu, the very reason Din was here instead of on the razor crest. His big, unblinking eyes stared at the fresh kill, eyeing with curiosity and a strange hunger. His head moved left and right, following Din sliced off the meat and placed it in a bowl to be salted and preserved for a meal later or sold to the butcher. The kid could eat anything, whether it be frog eggs of an almost-extinct species or a live frog. He fiddled with the edges of his robe, which were dusted finely with small specks of sand. Grogu stood up, waddling forward, with his arms outstretched toward the raw meat.
"No, no, no," Din muttered, pulling the pelt further away. "That's not for you, kid."
Grogu's eyes narrowed in defiance, his hand continuing to reach for the meat despite Din's attempt to pull it out of reach. The child let out a soft but distinct whiny growl.
"Don't give me that attitude. The meat is raw. Not cooked. You don't know where it came from, and there's a ton of diseases you could get."
Grogu let out a half-hearted whimper before putting his hand out. He closed his eyes and furrowed his little brow, further wrinkling his crinkled forehead. Din sent a Force push in his father's direction, making him scoot back at least six inches. He took the opportunity to snatch a piece of meat from the pile, his tiny fingers wrapping around it with a surprising amount of strength, and brought it to his mouth.
"Grogu, no!" Din scampered forward. It prompted a string of annoyed coos from the little one. "You are going to get sick. You can't just eat everything you find, you understand? I'll cook you some pieces after I'm done."
Grogu wasn't hearing any of it. With the most innocent expression, he slowly brought the piece of meat to his mouth.
"Alright, alright," he grumbled. "You want to taste it so bad, fine. Go ahead. But, if you get sick, it's on you."
Grogu's face lit up with excitement, and his little mouth closed on it. The meat barely touched his tongue before the child's face curled in disgust. He gagged, immediately spitting it out onto the ground. He looked at what he hadn't eaten, as if he were offended, before he threw it onto the ground with his spit-up.
Din couldn't help but chuckle as he fetched a clean rag from his pocket. He shook his head as he wiped the remnants from his son's mouth. "That's what I've been trying to tell you," he teased. "It's not exactly a delicacy."
Grogu looked up at him, and then shot the piece of meat a glare as if it had betrayed him. He stretched his arms up to his father, who pulled him into his arms without hesitation. Grogu squirmed, his tiny feet kicking at his chest plate. Then, he let out a dramatic sigh, his tiny three-fingered hands resting on Din's chest in defeat.
"If you didn't like the taste of that, I wonder how you'd react to Bantha meat. Now, have we learned our lesson?"
Grogu gave him a small nod, his ears flattened against his head. He whined and nuzzled against Din's chest. It earned a chuckle out of the usually stoic Mandalorian. He picked up his leather satchel and gently placed Grogu inside.
Grogu buried himself into the satchel, allowing Din to flip its flap over. He cooed.
"Yeah," Din sighed, as he took his dark cloak from one of the door hooks. "I know you want to explore, but you know how Mos Eisley is."
It was filled with pirates, smugglers, and bounty hunters. It was Din's crowd. A crowd that he hoped not to be a part of and that he hoped Grogu wouldn't join.
Din took the deer pelt outside and hung it one of his many pelt dryers, pulling all corners taut. He looked at them, all in a row, for a moment. It reminded him of the rows of frozen blocks that used to be kicking and screaming prisoners on the Razor Crest. Questionable, maybe unethical in other books, but it was a way to get multiple prisoners transported and multiple jobs done.
He took down the dried pelts and took them to his old speeder bike, piling them on the back and securing them with cables. Din mounted the speeder and started it. It hummed to life, gray smoke sputtering out of its exhaust pipe. He gave Grogu one last check before the speeder cut through the dunes.
The dry wind whipped past them in sharp gusts, and the sun hung high in the sky. On hand firmly gripped the handlebars, while the other rested on the satchel. Every now and then, Grogu would wiggle, and Din would gently rub the bag to soothe him.
The familiar weathered and dusty walls of Mos Eisley came into view as the speeder went down a small hill. It was out of place in the desolate desert, bursting with life. Water and power distribution plants were arranged, steam rising from their vents. There were landing bays, stores, and the city market.
Din pulled the speed handlebar back, slowing the speeder. His eyes scanned the area, finding the gaze of many. Mandalorian armor was rare nowadays. Either the glints he saw in their eyes were curiosity and awe, or greed and malice. He hoped it was the first option. He wasn't looking for a fight, not today.
Grogu was too busy to watch out for thieves. Rather, he was more fascinated by the sand the speeder kicked up.
They parked near the small market district, and Din dismounted, untying the bundle of pelts from the back. He weaved through the small crowd, making sure not to bump into shoulders. He had learned from many encounters of his adventures across the galaxy about what happened when he bumped into the wrong person on the wrong day at the wrong time.
The trader, a grizzled Weequay with tough, leathery skin named Garr, looked up as Din approached. The Mandalorian carefully laid them on the table for inspection. He crossed his arms, studying the pelts with the practiced eye of a man who'd seen thousands of them.
"Not bad, Mando," Garr muttered, his voice like rough gravel. "You did well this week, huh?"
"How much will this fetch me?"
"This'll fetch ya...around seventy credits."
Din's eyebrows raised. The most he had gotten so far was fifty. But he said nothing, as the trader pulled back the pelts and gave him his payment. He nodded to him in thanks, putting them into his pocket.
Grogu peeked out of the satchel, his large eyes locking onto the tail of one of the pelts. He reached out for it, but Din managed to see it and guided his little hand away. He rubbed the small palm with the pad of his thumb.
"You hungry, little one?" Din asked, looking down at the satchel.
Grogu peeked out, just enough to peek out his ears, and Din got a quiet, happy chirp.
"Yeah, me, too."
Mos Eisley Cantina was infamous as a hangout for Hutt hirelings, bounty hunters, factory workers, and bay techs. Din had spent more than one night here, and he felt the danger of it wrap around him like the embrace of an old friend. The blast doors hissed open as they sensed motion. What hit him first was the smell of alcohol, sweat, and spice. A live singer sang on the stage, earning a few whoops from a few rowdy patrons.
The bartender, a gruff-looking Rodian, nodded in their direction as Din sat at one of the bar stools. "What'll it be?" He pushed him an old menu.
He looked down at it briefly, then placed a couple of credits on the table. "Two veggie-and-steak stews, please. And...something sweet."
The bartender grunted before walking off to place the order and care for the other patrons. Din glanced down at Grogu, whose ears were perked up at the mention of dessert. He couldn't help but smile at the way Grogu's eyes glistened with excitement, bouncing in the satchel.
A few minutes later, the bartender returned with their food and two cups of water. The stews were some brown mixture with chunks of meat, carrots, and potatoes. Not the most appetizing, but it was better than nothing. An orange popsicle wrapped in some plastic was slid in next to the plates.
Din took the food and went to the most secluded booth of the cantina. He gently placed Grogu onto his lap. The child's ears shot up when he saw the popsicle and clumsily rolled up his sleeve.
"No, you eat your food first," Din reminded, sliding one of the bowls of stew closer to him. "Then, you have dessert."
Grogu and Din ate in silence, savoring the warmth of the stew. It wasn't bad, but Din could cook better. Each time the Mandalorian needed to take a sip of stew or water, he would simply turn away from the cantina and tip the bowl or cup into his mouth.
As soon as Grogu's stew was done, he grabbed the popsicle and unwrapped it with a speed that made his father's eyebrows raise. He gnawed on it, licking the syrup as he chirped happily and leaned into Din's chest.
"Enjoying that, huh?" Din smiled, wiping a bit of the syrup off his son's mouth.
"Patuuu," Grogu replied.
In the metal of the cup, Din caught two men hunched at a table across the cantina. From the sun-battered faces and their patched, mismatched armor, Din knew they were local scavengers. They were the kind who spent most of their lives scraping through wrecks or picking fights they couldn't win.
The scrawniest of them, who Din would've mistaken for a tall womp rat, had eyes that were dead set on the dull and scratched armor beneath Din's cloak. One of them nudged the other and nodded toward Din's direction. The other leaned in with a smirk.
Din didn't need to hear them to know what they were saying. He'd seen that look a thousand times before. It wasn't admiration, it was hunger.
"We're leaving," Din said lowly, his tone sharp.
Grogu, who was now happily gnawing on the finished popsicle's stick, blinked up at him, as Din swept him off his lap and into the satchel. He grew quiet, as he knew that tone. He pulled the flap over himself as Din got up from the booth. The men didn't follow immediately, but Din could feel their eyes on his back like the aim of a rifle. He stepped out of the cantina, back into the blistering Tatooine sunlight.
Din turned into an alley as he heard the cantina doors hiss again, two pairs of heavy boots on the sand. The alley was quiet and smelled of rotting garbage. He moved casually, never quickly, never nervously, but he could feel his heart beating against his chest plate.
"Hey," one of the men called, tone friendly on the surface but twisted beneath. "Hey, friend, where you going?"
Din kept walking, not responding. He turned the corner sharply, and he came to a dead end. But, he just calmly took off the satchel and set it down behind a few wooden creates.
"Stay down, Grogu, it's okay," Din assured, as the small child peeked out nervously.
The men came around the corner a second later. One of them had a vibroblade strapped to his thigh. The other had a blaster on his hip that looked like it had misfired more times than it hit anything.
"Didn't mean to spook you, friend," the other man said, flashing him a toothy grin. "Just...admiring the craftsmanship. You don't see that kind of stuff out here, you know. Just wanted to take a closer look."
Din didn't answer, but his head tilted slightly. He simply stood there, as the men inched closer. His hand went to his holster, feeling the cold steel of his blaster.
"You don't look like a bounty hunter anymore, just a drifter playing dress-up. We could give you a good deal for it. You sell, we walk, and you walk away with a few credits."
"We'll give you the chance to just give us the armor," the first man said, slowly pulling out his blaster and pointing it at Din's chest. "Just be smart. You can walk away unscathed. Be smart, mate."
There was a beat as the man put his finger on the trigger. In one breath, Din grabbed the stranger's wrist and made the blaster point toward the sky. The weapon discharged into the air with a loud crack, the blaster shot finding an old sandstone wall as its target. It left a scorched mark, smoke rising from it.
In the next breath, Din struck the man in the gut with his elbow and grabbed his vest. He shoved him hard into the wall, and the impact left the man limp. He slid to the ground, groaning and clutching his gut.
The second man barely had time to reach for his blade before Din turned and leveled his blaster at him. Unlike the now crumpled man on the floor, he aimed the barrel at his head.
"Try it," Din growled.
He stopped, hands raised.
"...Be smart. Walk away."
The second man nodded furiously, helping his friend stumble back toward the cantina. They disappeared, like womp rats hurrying under shade, occasionally looking over their shoulder to make sure they weren't being followed.
Din turned back to the hidden satchel, which was slightly trembling. He walked over and reached down, taking it into his arms. He took the flap off, and Grogu looked up, gaze wide and uncertain. "All clear," he said, as he rubbed Grogu's white-whispy head. Then, he put on the satchel gently. "I think we've had enough adventures."
By the time the speeder crested the last dune, the sky above had begun to burn with the orange-red glow of dusk. Among the desert, their small homestead looked like a pale dot among the endless expanse of sand. Din parked the speeder and powered it down, gently lifting Grogu from the satchel. The child clung to him lazily, belly full and the heat making him a sleepy weight in those strong arms.
"You didn't even do anything today," Din muttered, amused, as Grogu yawned and curled into his chest. "I was the one who did all the fighting."
Din tapped his security code into the outdated keypad, and the security bolts disengaged with a mechanical click. The door slid open and he stepped inside, immediately re-arming the lock. The crude evaporator unit hummed faintly as it worked to make the air cooler.
He tossed the satchel away as he walked over to their bedroom, barely the size of a cockpit. Din set Grogu on the old cot, which only had one small pillow and a brown blanket. He was barely aware, opening his eyes for a moment, before letting out a sleepy chirp and spreading his arms out like a starfish.
As Din was getting his armor and gloves off, something hit Din's nose. It smelled sweet and syrupy. He narrowed his eyes, leaned in closer to Grogu, and sniffed. The child cracked one eye open.
"You're not sleeping like that," he kicked him up, earning a grunt in protest. "Come on, bath time."
He carried Grogu into the washroom, a compact chamber of salvaged tiles and rusted pipes with a weak yellow light. He set his son's washing basin onto the floor, beginning to fill it up with water. He poured in a drop of floral soap, giving it a swirl to bring out the bubbles. He carefully undressed Grogu and dipped him into the cool water.
Grogu splashed, reaching for the soap bubbles. Din worked quickly, scrubbing Grogu everywhere with a wet cloth. He hummed lowly under his breath as he got all of the gunk of the day off him. As he scrubbed behind his large ears, he paused.
There was syrup behind his son's ears. Syrup.
"How did it even get there? I didn't even see you touch your ears while eating."
By the time the bath was done, the basin water was a mix of sand and the last bit of bubbles. He wrapped Grogu in a soft towel that Din had traded for a few weeks back, holding him on his hip, as he emptied the basin. Din carried him back to the bedroom, changing him into clean brown robes.
Din stretched, joints cracking as he turned toward the washroom. He stripped off his armor and clothes until he stood bare. His body was a canvas for old criss-crossed scars from all of his hunts. He had a few blaster shot scars, while others were knife wounds. Din stepped into the stall, letting out a small gasp as he let the cool water run over him. He scrubbed away the sweat, grime, and tension of the day from his hair and body.
He shut off the water, dried off, and threw on a soft tunic and trousers.
Din peeked his head into the bedroom, just to check, and saw Grogu curled up on his side. His chest rose and fell evenly. His lips pulled into a barely-there smile as he carefully moved his son to have his little head on the pillow and pulled the blanket over his body.
Din froze as Grogu moved, but exhaled with relief when he grew still again.
Din never believed that he would become a glorified housewife.
But here he was, moving through the living area, folding blankets and adjusting pillows. He swept the sand that had managed to get in. Then, he took their laundry basket and scrubbed the fabrics clean in the washroom. Afterward, he pinned them up to dry in the outside laundry line. The wind flapped them like sails, and he had to chase after a shirt that had been blown out of his hand. Thankfully, he wouldn't have to wash it again.
Inside again, he reinforced the security and triple-checked the locks. He dusted the shelves, careful with each relic and token he'd collected from jobs and places that he would never revisit. Then, as he came to a crate of old tools that he had used to fix up the utilities, he found it.
It was exactly where he'd left it, in a thick container that had nothing special about it.
He never touched it unless it was necessary. Even then, he barely wanted to. It had been weeks since his fingers so much grazed its surface. However, his hand seemed to move on its own as he reached down to brush the cover, his gut clenching. He hesitated, but it was too late, as he unlatched the locks and opened the container.
There it was, wrapped in a thick cloth, and wordlessly, he pulled it back.
Its beskar hilt shone in the dim light, resting like a sleeping beast. The Darksaber was an ancient and unique lightsaber that belonged to the first Mandalorian Jedi, Tarre Vizsla. It was passed from generation to generation of hands soaked in blood.
He took it from its case and held it up to his face.
You run from what you are.
The voice was neither male nor female, and it didn't even sound like one; it sounded like many joining to become one.
Din's breath hitched. His jaw clenched, and a surge of anger he never knew he could have rushed into his veins.
You would rather run, hiding behind a child and pretending to be a hunter, a father. But you're not. You're a killer. You are meant to be a killer.
"You don't know anything," Din growled aloud, his hands becoming fists.
You want power.
"No. I don't want anything."
And yet you kept me. Why?
Din started at the hilt, its sleek, dark metal reflecting his weary eyes.
The voice came again, softer now, but mocking.
You are afraid that what you have done, what you have given up, will never be enough for him. You are afraid.
"I am not afraid," he took the hilt in his hand, squeezing it and imagining it was a neck. "I am not afraid of you.
No. You are not afraid of me. But you are afraid of losing him.
Din slammed the case shut before it could say anything else, and the voice stopped. His hands shook as he locked the case and turned away. He abandoned his duster, hanging it on a hook, before he went back to the bedroom.
Grogu let out a soft snore, still asleep on the cot. Din walked over and sat beside him, the canvas sinking under his weight. He brushed a strand from his forehead, reaching down and pressing a soft and reverent kiss at the spot. Grogu stirred, only slightly, and blindly reached for him. Din fully got on the cot, lying beside his son, and pulled him close to his chest.
"...Goodnight, kid."
His eyes closed, heavy from what had been done in the day. Then he took one last breath and drifted to sleep.