Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They’ve settled into a routine, he thinks, and it’s almost calming. He’s learned that the kid is content and quiet as long as he has something to occupy himself with, so the Razor Crest is missing a few small parts that aren’t so necessary so the kid can play with them.

They co-exist, in a way.

Childproofing his ship was never something he thought he’d have to do. He kept certain things locked away, of course, in the case of bounties who decided to wander and poke around at what they shouldn’t. It’d been the case with his last bounties--before the kid, that was. But having the Child now meant going further, removing anything sharp he could hurt himself with and covering up the damaged parts that sometimes sparked.

From below comes a clatter of metal, and his hands freeze up on the controls. He flicks on autopilot and turns, standing from his chair, and steps towards the ladder. “Ad’ika?” he calls, and he strains to hear a responding coo but nothing returns. His chest feels tight.

He turns and slides down the ladder, boots hitting the metal floor with a thud. “ Ad’ika!” he repeats, looking around. There is no response this time either, and his heart feels like it’s going to pound out of his chest. He turns and sprints towards the bay doors, looking around the corner at the little alcove there, and immediately freezes in place.

The little space is only just lit up by floor lights, and the child’s figure is a darkened silhouette with one light at his back. His hand is raised, eyes shut in concentration, as in front of him three small objects are spinning in the air in a circle--all the toys they’ve made out of ship parts. They glint in the light, almost a show, and the child opens his eyes to look up at Dyn. The objects fall, all at the same time, to produce the same clatter he heard a minute ago.

His expression is almost invisible, but he’s grinning, letting out a coo as he lifts his arms up in that universal pleading of children.

But Dyn just stares. He’s never seen anything like this before. It’s completely foreign and confusing, and it’s just adding on top of the stresses of learning to caretake by trial and error. He doesn’t usually concern himself with those sorts of things. It doesn’t involve him. But he’s not completely ignorant. This is what happened with the Mudhorn.

“Is this why they want you?” he murmurs. “These powers?”

The ad’ika lets out a whimper, straining upwards to be picked up. Dyn finally crouches down and scoops it up, holding it against his beskar by his shoulder, and feels the little thing try to burrow its face in his neck. He holds it there and, his heart beginning to calm again, listens to its happy little coos as he takes it all in.

“Okay,” he says. Not particularly to the kid. Or anyone. “Okay.” He brings his other hand up and awkwardly pats his back. “Kai’tome?”

The kid looks up at him but has a quizzical expression. “Food,” he clarifies, because in his efforts to teach Mando’a he forgets which words they’ve actually worked on. Though the kid barely speaks, he seems to understand a decent amount for a baby and has been able to parrot some back at him. “Are you hungry?” he asks again, tapping a finger against the kid’s belly to make the point.

“Ah!” the kid shrieks, then nods and grabs Dyn’s finger, drawing it into his mouth to bite. It doesn’t hurt but he pulls his fingers back anyway.

“No,” he says in a firm voice, and the ears droop. Is he teething? he thinks, because he’s vaguely heard of that in children, but lately it’s been hitting him more and more that he knows almost nothing of childcare.

You’ve got a lot to learn about raising a little one.

At the time, he’d wanted to shoot back that he was doing just fine. But he is no buir, that is certain, and the decision to take on this creature as a foundling had been rash. Not a regretful sort of rash, but still made with little thought to how he was going to handle this.

“Alright,” he says, and he walks across the space to the compartment where the child’s makeshift bed is. He gently sets the creature down. “Stay right here, and I’ll make us dinner in a second. Okay?”

The child looks sad, one hand reaching out towards him, and he lets out another pathetic whimper. “Stay,” Dyn repeats, and then he turns and climbs up the ladder to the cockpit.

They’re floating through space with no destination, because he still has to find a new planet for them to go to. They’ll need fuel soon, so he has to find somewhere; his ship still isn’t in the best shape, so he’ll need a mechanic, too. But the kid is a beacon to hunters and they won’t be able to stay anywhere likely until he’s taken out all of them and then some.

His mind turns towards Sorgan and his shoulders deflate.

The kid had been in a miserable state when they left and now was just starting to bounce back. Dyn isn’t quite so fast. Just last night he’d dreamed of soft hands holding his own, a gentle voice murmuring to him, and kind eyes that stared into his own even though she couldn’t see past the visor. He thought of krill dinners and simple farming and being able to relax—

A short wail draws him out of his thoughts and he shakes his head, adjusting the controls. Better to preserve fuel. He turns down the temperature moderator, turns off the engine, makes sure life support is holding steady. They’re drifting now, with no planet for parsecs around them. Then there’s another wail, and he lets out a sigh before he stands and once again walks to the ladder. The wail is a new thing the kid has started, having learned that any sound of distress will bring the Mandalorian running.

It’s a different wail. No real danger. So he takes his time climbing down the ladder and when he reaches the bottom, the ad’ika is standing at the edge of his compartment, staring at Dyn with big eyes. He holds his arms out.

He ignores it. Don’t reward the undesired behavior. He instead walks to his kitchen, which is really just a microwave and ice box and food storage shoved into a panel’s worth of wall. He has some reusable utensils and three plates all stored to take up as little space as possible. He leans down and opens the ice box, rummaging through what food he has left—

He pulls out the last of their krill. It was a parting gift from the villagers and it’s better than the freeze-dried fruits, tasteless preserved meats and the dry food packs he eats from. He puts it on a plate, sticks it in the microwave and hits a button. As it begins heating, he turns and lifts his helmet, setting it on the counter. Behind him, the baby coos, and he turns around to look.

It’s odd to reveal his face to anyone. Mandalorian code states that it is permissible to show your face to family—and as his ad’ika, the child is allowed to know his face. He makes a low coo whenever he sees Dyn’s face, as though it’s a solemn acknowledgement of the privilege. He walks over and picks the child up, letting him rest in the crook of his elbow. “Ready to eat, you little womp rat?” he says.

The kid lets out a giggle. Dyn can’t help a small smile as he turns and walks back to the microwave, leaning against the wall. Again, the kid tries to climb up his chestplate and bury itself in the fabric covering his neck. He lets out a soft chuckle, “ Copikla,” and lets his eyes fall shut. “You’re cuddly today.”

The kid lets out a yawn in response. His own internal clock is screwed about by his travels, and his Mandalorian training has taught him to sleep in bursts when he can so his energy is saved--and to go periods of time without any. So lately, the kid has been his clock, and he’s starting to feel fatigued himself.

“Dinner and bed,” he says.

Their food is done soon. He sets the steaming krill on the plate, and as it cools, takes a packet of stored potato mash and opens it. He scoops half of it into a cooking container and sticks in the microwave. In half the time of the krill, it comes out steaming, and he dumps it onto the plate. He adjusts the kid in his arm and walks to the table. He tries to lower him into his makeshift cradle, but clawed hands grip his neck guard.

“Hey,” he says. “You gotta sit to eat.”

The kid makes a soft coo that reeks of stubbornness and he frowns. “Come on,” he says, a little more firm. “You don’t sit, you don’t eat.”

The child whimpers. His grip seems to tighten. Dyn reaches up and begins to pry off the kid’s fingers, but all he gets is a shrill shriek straight into his ear. “Haar’chak!” he hisses, letting go. “Why are you acting so clingy?”

He gets no response.

“Fine,” he says. He pulls the plate closer and with a fork, cuts through the krill. He manages to shape it into a smaller bit without use of a knife and stabs through it, lifting it to the kid’s mouth. The kid leans in and takes the bite, making a happy chirp as it swallows.

Dinner becomes a slower process than normal, as the kid won’t feed himself like usual and has decided to glue to his guardian. He doesn’t usually cook more than one thing at a time, either, to save his rations, but he learned from Omera that it’s better to try to give kids more than one food at meals. Something about variety on the plate. His rations are packed with nutrients but something tells him that babies care more about the food than the calories.

So they work through the food together slowly, until it’s gone and both are full. He’s used to not eating much, and the baby looks at the empty plate and just buries his face in his neck guard again without whines for more. It’s a relief, because he knows if the kid asks for more he’ll give in. Stupid big eyes.

“Alright,” he says. “Bed.”

He stands and walks to the compartment-turned-nursery and this time manages to pry the kid off without anymore deafening shrieks and he instead wraps him up in his blanket, laying him down to sleep. “Night, ad’ika,” he murmurs, before he closes the panel and turns around. He walks to his own cot, beginning to de-armor.

His armor has so many bits and pieces that it takes him a decent amount of time to take it all off. He stores it in a pile by the cot’s end for when he wakes and slumps into bed, feeling colder in just his bodysuit. He drags a blanket up over half his body, staring up at the ceiling as thoughts run through his head.

This is your life now, he thinks. Better not screw it up for the kid. 

Then he closes his eyes and wills himself to sleep.

Sleep comes easy in this environment, when all he can hear is the hum of his ship and the lights are dim. He lulls his head to the side and slips into the darkness.

But his eyes soon open and the first thought is that not much time has passed. The second thought is that something is moving at his side, and it feels as though his skin recoils to get away from the unknown threat. He jerks away, reaching for his blaster, when a soft little coo reaches his ears and he freezes.

“Ad’ika?” he says, and lifts the blanket. The child turns and lets out a whimper, staring up at him with wet eyes, and he holds his arms out with another short whine escaping. Dyn’s heart seems to tighten in his chest and he scoops the child into his arms. “Nightmare?”

The child grabs onto his arm.

Just this time, he thinks, as he turns and adjusts himself to lay down again. He lets the kid tuck into his side, and once again he closes his eyes.

And opens them again, because the kid has squirmed up higher and is pushing himself right beneath Dyn’s arm, almost trying to bury himself in his armpit, and he stares at the kid. “What are you—“ he starts.

Then sees the kid give a violent shiver. Oh. Oh. His mind flashes back to turning the temperature down and suddenly the kid doesn’t seem as cuddly as he is cold. Guilt threatens to stab its way through him. “You’re cold?” he murmurs, then picks up the kid again. “Whoa. Hey. Here.”

They need to save fuel, and the heater will burn through too much of it. He grabs his blanket with one hand, then pauses. Wait. There’s a better idea than more blankets, but it’s like a memory buried in the back of his mind. He tries to think of the frozen wastelands of planets he’s visited, tries to remember what he’s seen.

It was a village he stayed in while looking for a target, if he’s remembering right. With enough credits, he’d been given lodging, and a young woman had tended to him. She had an infant. He asked how they all kept warm when it was too cold to expose skin to the air, when the wind could send you stumbling. How they were able to even take their children outside.

And she’d showed him how. Showed him by bringing her son along and letting him see that she kept him curled up beneath her layers, pressed against her bare chest as he slept, her body’s heat keeping him warm and the layers just insulation.

He looks down at the child in his own arms who gives another shiver, a pitiful whimper escaping, and Dyn sighs. Well. It’s not like there’s anyone around to see.

So, reluctantly, he sets the child in his lap and unties the front of his bodysuit, just loosening the top to expose his collarbone and an inch or so lower. Then he lifts the kid and holds him by the exposed skin, and the reaction is instant, as if the kid could sense the heat, and blunt claws are dug into his skin and the little creature is pressing as hard against him as possible. Shocked at the results, he slowly ties up his bodysuit again, this time loose enough to be snug around the kid. The happy cooing has returned and he stares up at the ceiling.

It’s oddly comfortable.

It seems it was the right choice. The kid soon squirms closer to his chest than neck, his ears resting by his collarbone as he lies flat against his breastbone, and his breathing has evened out. Dyn takes a deep breath and drags a blanket up over both of them, smoothing it over the lump that is the kid, and considers the choices that led to this.

He wouldn’t change anything.

The next time, he has changed something. He’s isolated the power and heating to the compartment and now it is controlled outside of the main ship, letting the space remain warm even as the rest of the Crest is cold. It’s still burning some fuel but not as much as he would otherwise.

After they’ve eaten--and this time, they eat separately--he carries the kid to the compartment and settles him down. “You’ll be warm here,” he says. “I fixed it. Okay?”

The kid stares up at him with big eyes. He raises a hand and lets out a soft coo.

Dyn presses the button and the door shuts.

When his armor is removed, he lays in his cot, his arms folded beneath his head, and he lets himself simply relax. He closes his eyes and takes a long, deep breath.

Then there’s soft whimpering and the scrabbling of claws. He turns his head and lets out a sigh as a green head pops up over the side of the cot and the baby coos at him, pulling himself up onto the frame. Then he crawls over and onto Dyn’s thigh, making his way over his hip and up to his chest. He promptly plops himself there, the same spot as before.

Dyn lets out a grumble. “That was a one time thing,” he says. “Don’t--no, no, don’t stare at me like that. I’m not that gullible.”

The baby lets out a gurgle, then a soft whine, before he lets out a shiver. He stares at Dyn again with those big eyes. When a moment passes, there’s another little shiver, and the kid looks at him again.

The little con! he thinks, narrowing his eyes at the kid, before he sits up. He lets out a sigh, then grumbles and begins to unlace his top. He opens it a little more, then brings the kid up to lay down.

Once again, the baby snuggles down against his chest, resting his cheek by his collarbone, and the suit is brought together again and laced. The blankets are returned. The lights are dim, he’s surrounded by warmth, and sleep pulls at him.

But he resists.

After it feels as though an hour has passed, he looks down. The kid is drooling against his chest and is thoroughly out cold. Even though his body has been lulled towards sleep, he brings himself to sit up. He keeps the child firm against his chest, swings his legs around, and is careful as he walks towards the compartment. The kid never stirs. He stops before the door and slowly lifts him out of his bodysuit, instead laying him down in his bedding.

The compartment is dim, near dark, and warm air is gently blown in through the vents. Dyn looks down at the sleeping child, his hand hovering beside the button panel.

“Goodnight, cyar’ika,” he says, before he shuts the door.

He waits there for a moment, waiting to hear any noise, any heart wrenching wails when the baby wakes and finds himself alone. But nothing comes, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he steps away from the door.

Instead of going to bed, he finds himself at the workbench.

He’s no artist, but he makes a barebones drawing of the craft he intends to make. He’s got all the parts but his concern is comfort. He saw such things on Sargon for the smaller children and he can build a harness that switches from back to front if he makes the straps right. It should be comfortable for the kid, lined with something soft, and perhaps a lid on it to hide him if needed.

He has no programmed bassinet anymore, and he can’t always hold the kid.

Beside him, a screen is lit as he runs a search through a database. How to make a child sleep in their own bed.

He glances over at the results. Sleep training, huh? he thinks.

Chapter Text

“No,” he says. “No, no, stop--you can’t stay there. You’ll go in the carrier.”

The baby lets out a high-pitched whine as he’s lifted out of the bodysuit, his claws finally out of the fabric, and Dyn walks to the compartment to put him down. When he’s been put down with the blankets, he turns around and begins retying the front, tightening it up again. He walks to his pile of armor and begins redressing.

They need fuel, and he dreads the thought of spending so many credits to fill the tank, but they’re almost running off fumes and they could be attacked by hunters at any second. With a sigh, he secures the last buckle and adjusts his pauldron. Then he turns and walks back over, scooping the kid into his arm, and with one hand he climbs up the ladder to the cockpit.

He settles into the pilot’s chair and lets the kid stand on the control board. He begins cycling through the computer’s database of the nearest planets that have a known fueling station. Too populated, he thinks. No. No. Too far. Hm.

He doesn’t want anything like a city—he can’t be looking over his shoulder every second at all the ambush spots. It can’t be so sparse that there are no places to get supplies, because they need some more food. There’s got to be small town sized populations. Preferably only one or two.

A planet pops up. Population: avg. clusters of 4,000-6,000. Okay, that’s not terrible. It’s no city. A town that big should have some good stores for supplies. He’ll be on edge, but sacrifices will be made. It’s the perfect chance to try out the new carrier, too.

An image of the planet pops up. Belovia. Then he lets out a groan--it’s frozen over. Shit. He immediately thinks of the harness and how clingy the kid has been just in the cold of the ship. It’ll be nothing compared to a wasteland like this. Maybe he can pack the carrier with blankets. The lid might trap heat.

Dyn sighs. He glances at the kid, who’s staring out the window and cooing at the stars. He refuses to stay in place, so he better like the carrier.

He puts in the coordinates.

When they land at the fueling station, he hands the operator the credits. “Need to fill with fuel,” he says.

“Got it, sir,” the man says. “Throw in a little more and we can fix any issues you might have there.”

He looks at the man, then hands over a bit more. “Just inspect it,” he says. “If it’s not important, I don’t want to pay for it.”

“Yessir,” he gets, and there’s a whistle. Three young boys, all wrapped up in fur clothing, run out to the ship. Two others start dragging out the tube to connect for fuel. Snowflakes begin to fall as Dyn turns and walks back up the ramp, the cold already finding its way inside.

“Time to go, kid,” he says, walking to the workbench. He picks up the harness by one of the straps and walks to the compartment, setting it inside beside the kid. Better give it some time to warm up. He grabs a warm blanket that’s already there and stuffs it inside, folding it to line the cool, thick plastic. He grabs another blanket and begins to wrap it around the child.

The kid is whimpering, a little shiver coming through his body, and this looks real. “I know,” Dyn says. “But I can’t leave you here.”

When the box feels warm, he lifts the kid and settles him into the carrier. There’s little room to move but he isn’t being squeezed, so it’s satisfactory. The baby coos as the lid is shut, the plastic muting it. He lifts the carrier by a strap and moves it around to his back. Hopefully, it simply looks like a backpack. He straps it on secure and then grabs his cloak, connecting it to his collar, then adjusts it to cover the carrier.

“Quiet,” he says. “Be quiet, alright? I’ll get us somewhere warm.”

The pack is snug against his back plate and satisfied, he begins walking off the ship. He hits a button on his wrist controls and the ramp starts lifting as he walks towards the operator. “Any places to stock up?” he says.

The operator looks up, then points beyond the station. There’s a path leading out towards the walls of a town. “Keep goin’ straight and you’ll find the market. Plenty o’ shops there.”

“Thank you.”

He feels squirming from the carrier as he walks out of the station, and there’s a soft little whimper from within. The kid is clearly unhappy about being shoved in a box and carried through the cold, but it’s not like he has a say. The snow is picking up and there continues to be fussiness from within the carrier that is ignored.

The walls of the town are large, imposing as he approaches, and as he walks up a guard steps out through a door, gripping a cloth around his shoulders with a scowl around his face. He looks Dyn up and down before speaking. “What business has a Mandalorian got here?” he says.

“I’m looking to buy supplies,” he says.

“Armed?”

“Yes.”

The guard eyes him. Then nods and turns, walking back to the door. “Don’t go starting any trouble,” he mutters, before the door shuts behind him.

Alright then. He continues walking, boots crunching in the snow.

The homes are half-buried in the ground, each one’s presence made known by a shell-like dome roof that poked out. The native Belovians are human, and few are out and about. Those that are see him and their faces scrunch in confusion, they whisper to each other, they turn away and disappear into their homes. He’s not here for any bounty, but they may think he is.

When the crying starts, the market is in sight.

It’s muffled by the blankets and the container, the howling wind providing even more cover, but Dyn still freezes. It’s high-pitched and loud, a miserable wail threatening to draw eyes, and he reaches back and taps his knuckles against the carrier. “Shh,” he hisses, “just a little longer.”

It quiets, but only a little. Cold must be seeping into the carrier’s walls. The market isn’t an outside structure but a large circle of shopfronts, each with a well sealed doors and lights in the windows. Without thinking, he turns and darts into the nearest door, being hit with a wave of heat as soon as he pushes it open.

Thank the stars.

The crying dies down to pathetic whimpering and he looks around to see that there’s no one else in the shop besides the young woman behind the counter who gives them an odd look. She looks unthreatening, so he steps behind a rack of knitted clothing and reaches back, slipping the straps off his back. He swings it around and sets the carrier down, lifting the lid. A green head pops up, and little arms immediately reach for him. The kid’s hands make grabby motions as weepy cries fall from his mouth.

“No,” Dyn says. “Stay there. I know you’re cold, but we both have to deal, okay? I’m ciryc , too.”

The kid whimpers and strains to reach for him.

“No. I’m serious. You have two blankets—“

“Excuse me?”

His head jerks up and he stares at the woman ahead of him. She’s young, twenties maybe, and wearing fewer layers with being in the warmth. Her belly is swollen like she’s expecting a child soon, and her expression is both kind and fearful, looking at him nervously.

He pushes the baby down and closes the lid, earning a surprised squeak and a muffled, mournful coo. The woman leans back, one hand resting on her belly. “I’m s-sorry,” she says. “I mean no harm. But I sell warm garments here. They’re made from our… our sheep wool. They may do the trick in keeping you and your…” She looks at the carrier. “Companion. Warm.”

Dyn stares at her, then stops and looks to the side. Next to him is a display of scarves and mittens, each with different patterns and shades of colors. Then the baby whimpers again and he takes a deep breath. “Um. Well,” he says.

He opens the lid. He reaches in and lifts the ad’ika from the blankets and cradles him against his chestplate. The woman’s eyes widen in adoration. He clears his throat, “Got anything small enough for him?”

“You can continue your shopping,” the woman, Fali’ia, says. “It will take a bit of time to alter this to his size. There’s preserved food for sale three doors down.”

Dyn shifts in his seat. They’re in the measurement room in the back of the shop. The woman is sitting at a work table, her hands working on an infant’s bluish-white sweater, the baby’s measurements laid out before her. The child is occupying himself on the floor with a pile of yarn that Fali’ia insists was spare. 

“I’d rather not leave him alone,” he says.

Fali’ia looks at him and has a small smile on her face. “He’s a sweet little thing,” she says. “What’s his name?”

He pauses. He looks at the kid, who’s stuffed yarn into his mouth and was gnawing at it. He doesn’t have a name—or maybe he does, and Dyn just doesn’t know it. Did he have parents who named him when he was born? Did the mercenaries guarding him have any sort of nickname they used?

Or was he genetically engineered, and given a code for a name by his creators?

“Are you okay?” Fali’ia says, staring at him.

He jerks out of his thoughts, then swallows and stands. “Spit that out,” he says in a stern voice, walking over and crouching beside the kid. “Hey. No. It’s not food.”

The baby gurgles and stares up at him. He reaches and pulls the yarn out, careful to not be rough. The kid coos and reaches up for it, looking absolutely enchanted by the thick wool.

Then he stands and looks over at Fali’ia and braces himself. “I think I’ll go buy our stores,” he says. “I’ll just be a few minutes. If you could watch him.”

He doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want to leave the kid with a stranger. But by the stars does he hate being social with strangers and the discussion about a child he hasn’t named for months.

“Oh. Okay,” Fali’ia says, and Dyn gives the baby’s shoulder a small squeeze before he walks to the door. He hears a shriek behind him, and he looks over his shoulder to see the kid has climbed to his feet and is toddling after him.

“No,” he says. “Stay here. It’s warm.”

The kid stops with a squeak and stares up at him, looking confused.

“I’m getting food. Kai’tome. Stay here, ad’ika.”

He turns and walks towards the door. He pushes his bracer against it. There’s another whimper and he looks to see the kid has followed again. He lets out a sigh, then simply turns and pushes the door open, suddenly hit with a brutal gust of wind. He leans into it, then looks again. The kid feels the cold and shivers, beginning to step back and towards the warmth.

Good.

Off to resupply he goes.

He has a whole bag’s worth of food on his shoulder when he starts walking back towards the knit shop, and he wonders if they’ll have to feast tonight to make it all fit in storage.

He wonders if Fali’ia will notice the fresh blood of a hunter on his hands.

He wonders how long it will take the lazy sentries to find the body shoved in a garbage bin at the edge of the market.

He walks back into the shop, relieved at the warmth, before he begins to walk towards the measurement room. But he walks through the doorway and he pauses, the bag slipping off his shoulder.

“Ad’ika?” he says, staring at the empty room.

The spare yarn is still on the floor, looking wet and chewed. The sweater is still on the workbench besides Fali’ia’s tools, but neither of the beings are still in the room. His heart is threatening to beat itself out of his chest. “Ad’ika?” he calls louder, walking to the center of the room. “Kid? Kid!”

There’s a hallway to the side. He walks to it, trying not to show his inward panic, but he thinks of the hunter he just had to dispatch and of how an expecting woman would have no chance against another. “Kid!” he yells. “ Ad’ika, cyar’ika—“

No response. There’s a door at the end, he runs to it and slams it open with his forearm, but then he just finds himself standing out in the snow, hit by the cold. He looks around. The snow is coming down hard now. Everything is eerily silent.

Shitshitshitshit where is he? He turns and pushes at the door. It doesn’t budge. He pulls, and it doesn’t budge again. Damn it! He turns and sprints towards the edge of the building, looping around, and the market has gotten busier. He earns a few stares and ignores them as he pushes back into the front of the shop.

“There you are.”

He’s looking around wildly between the shelves of knitwear but the voice comes from ahead. He looks up to see Fali’ia stepping down from a staircase leading up, one hand gripping the railing while the other held the baby by her chest. The child is gripping something by his chest, and in his mouth is a small bottle of what looks like milk.

He has to fight to not wheeze.

“You took a lot longer than I thought you would,” she says, walking over. “He was just so sad after you left, he was starting to cry. I just took him up—my husband and I live above the shop. I took him up to look at some animal stuffies, I’ve got so many as gifts. He fell in love with this fish one. And he was still a little worked up, so I got him a warm bottle of milk.”

“Oh,” is all he can say. “Th… Thank you.”

She smiles at him, then turns and walks to the measurement room. He follows, stepping around the bag of rations. “I finished the sweater,” she says. “I shortened it, lined the hem. It should fit him nice and snug. And—here, for his hands.” She steps behind the workbench and holds up the sleeve of the sweater. There’s an extra flap of wool at the ends. “You can button this over to make mittens and keep his hands warm. The wool is thick and wind can’t get through. And here, I stitched on a hood, just to keep his head warm. I couldn’t do anything for his ears, though.”

She sets the baby down on the workbench and gently takes away the bottle. Dyn watches as she tugs off his brown robe and replaces it with the sweater. It fits snug, but doesn’t look constricting, and his head pops through with a thick, folded over part at the neck like the robe. She buttons the mittens and then pulls the hood up and over, slits cut through for his ears.

She looks at him and giggles. “Show him,” she says, and turns the kid around. He looks like the definition of the word cozy, and lets out a shrieking giggle as he reaches out towards Dyn. He walks forward and picks him up, feeling warmth as it radiates from the wool.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice straining.

She smiles and leans on the table. “You seem new at this,” she says. “Caring for a child.”

He looks at her. “A little,” he says. 

“It’s tough. I cared for my sister’s children, that’s how I learned. Now I keep getting advice from other people about what to do for mine.” She cups her cheek in her hand. “Children differ. What works for my niece will raise hell with my nephew. I’d give you some advice, but it might not work out with him.”

“I’d appreciate it, anyway,” he says, as the baby burrows into the crook of his elbow.

Fali’ia smiles. “There are some universal things,” she says. “You keep them as safe and warm as you possibly can. You teach them right from wrong. You teach them how to become their own people. But there’s some things you just can’t read about in a parenting guide. You have to learn it from them.”

Dyn stares down at the ad’ika. He reaches down and smooths down the sweater, giving him a soft caress.

“How much for it?” he asks, his voice coming out soft.

She looks at him. “I’ll give it to you for half,” she says. “Those alterations were no trouble, and he was a delight.”

When the kid starts squirming, he’s reaching out towards the table. “Oh,” she says, and she grabs the bottle and toy. “Here. He wants these.”

“They’re yours,” he says, as the kid grabs the toy and eagerly takes the bottle in his mouth. “For your child.”

“Do you have these for him?” she asks.

“... No.”

“I have too many. It won’t be missed.” She smiles. “Trust me, if you went upstairs, you’d see the avalanche of baby supplies in my sitting room. Take it. Actually, here—hold the bottle like this for him.”

She lifts the bottle at an angle. He brings his hand to hold it there. The baby stares up at him as he suckles the top.

When did my life turn into this?

He’s so enraptured by the action that he doesn’t notice her walk into the storefront. He only looks up when she places the forgotten carrier on the workbench with a thunk. She grabs a spare blanket nearby and uses it to replace his blankets. “This should help,” she says.

He stares at her. “Thank you,” he says. “Your generosity is… incredible.”

She justs looks at him with a smile. “I’d want someone to do it for my own baby and I, if I needed it,” she says. “If people didn’t do things out of kindness, life would be rather miserable.”

“Right,” he says, and he looks down at his ad’ika once again.

This time, when they step out into the cold, there is no whimpering or crying. There’s a small little shift inside the carrier, but there’s less room with the toy and bottle stuffed in. He begins walking, his cloak whipping in the brutal wind.

The entire way back, there is no crying. He’s relieved.

He walks to meet with the station operator, who upon seeing him, beckons him towards the office. Reluctantly, he follows.

“Sorry. Can’t talk out there.” The operator shuts the door, then taps on the computer, and a hologram of the Razor Crest pops up with some blinking red strobes in certain spots. “Tank is full, but you’ve got a few issues here and there. I’d rather you take care of them than fly, but everything should function fine. Got what you were looking for?”

Dyn looks at the projected list of issues. “And a little more,” he says.

When he walks back onto the Crest, he closes the ramp and cranks up the heat to a comfortable level. He pulls off his cloak, then the carrier, and sets it down in the compartment. “Back home, ad’ika,” he says, opening the lid. Big black eyes stare up at him, a soft coo escaping, and with the hood up his ears look even bigger than usual. “Yep. Home.”

He lifts him out and settles him down on his bedding. Then he takes the donated blanket and tucks it in around him. “There. Good?”

The baby squeaks, cooing.

“Good. Maybe you’ll sleep here, now.”

He turns and climbs into the cockpit. He fires up the engines, the Crest rumbling beneath him in a way that’s comfortingly familiar. Then he lifts off, careful in guiding them up and away from the station. He begins the flight into the atmosphere, readying to jump.

When they’re flying straight, he turns off the engines’ thrust and lets them drift. He turns and climbs down onto the lower deck, then walks to his cot and sits.

It’s been a day, and he’s not exhausted physically, but his thoughts are swimming. Care for him. Protect him. Teach him. It sounds like what he’s trying to do. If only he could do it better. He turns and lays down, staring up at the ceiling.

When two little hands press against his leg, he looks down to see the baby standing beside his knee, staring at him. “Ba?” he says, staring at Dyn. “B-B…”

He sits up. He stares back at the child. “What is it?” he asks softly.

“Boo…” The baby wanders closer, his hands following Dyn’s body like a guide to keep him standing. “Boo-bui...“

He reaches out and lifts the child, settling him down onto his chest.

“Buir!”

All the breath leaves him at once. He almost chokes before remembering to breathe. Buir was only ever mentioned once. He’d scribbled a picture of an adult and child, to illustrate buir and ad’ika. Parent and child.

“You think I’m…” He sucks in a breath. “Oh.”

Oh.

He reaches up, pulls off his helmet, and lets it tumble to the floor. He gathers the child in his arms and hugs him close to his chest, suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of emotion he’s never felt before.

“Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad,” he whispers.

Chapter Text

It takes him some time to get over it. The words cannot be taken back. This is the Way.

Dyn swallows beneath his helmet as he steers the Razor Crest. All he can hear is the baby’s soft cooing as he plays with the fish stuffie, and maybe he chose it because it reminds him of Sorgan. But it leaves Dyn alone with his thoughts and the realization of what he’s done. Perhaps he did think of the child as his Foundling before. But now it’s real. There is no handing him off now, no more chance of finding caretakers that are better suited.

Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad.

Those words were said to him once, by the Mandalorian that had found him. That had taken a terrified war orphan into his covert. Upon being presented to the clan, Dyn had been accepted immediately.

They’ll accept him, he thinks. They likely already have, because they know the reason Dyn betrayed the Guild. Children are everything to Mandalorians. It was why they’d rallied around their kinsman and his ad’ika rather than let him pay for his mistakes.

“We owe them,” he says aloud. The kid makes an inquiring coo. “Right. We have a debt. Entye.”

And as if they knew he was thinking of them, a message appears on the dash with a soft ping. Coordinates. He stares at the message, then opens it to expand.

— Paz Vizla

He can’t help a small smile. He saves the message into his list of locations and marks it as an important file. Yaim, he names it. Home.

There’s another ping. He opens it; it’s written in Mando’a.

You’re not allowed home without the little one. We’ll lock the door. Come soon, brother.

— Paz Vizla

“Heh.” He turns and looks at the kid, who peers back at him with big eyes. His head tilts to the side to make a curious gaze. “They want to meet you.”

“Boo?” the kid says. “Boo… Buir.”

“Ad’ika,” he murmurs, then turns around again and takes a deep breath. He pulls up a keyboard and begins typing a response in Mando’a.

Slight problem. They’re still tracking the kid. I don’t want to lead hunters to the covert.

— Dyn Jarren

He leans back and waits. He doesn’t notice the kid until he’s straining to climb into the chair, and he leans down to pick him up and set the kid in his lap. He taps in the coordinates and the planet appears as a hologram; it looks lush with green with a few oceans. The name is unfamiliar. He zooms in to the pinpointed coordinates and see that they’ve burrowed beneath a city. It’s bigger than Nevarro, more densely populated, but nothing overwhelming.

“I don’t think you’ll need the sweater anymore,” he says, running his thumb in circles on the baby’s back. The ears prick up as another ping comes through and he opens the message.

Unimportant. He is a Foundling. Stay a while, we are well hidden and will protect him. Let us know if you are coming.

— Paz Vizla

“What do you think, ad’ika ?” he says, looking down at the kid.

“Aaah,” the kid coos, sucking on the mitten attached to his sweater.

“Hm.” He taps a few buttons; the planet is a few days of travel away. The thought of drawing more trouble to his covert makes his stomach turn, but they want him to come. An ad’ika is seen as a gift and they want to meet his.

He has to admit, it’s a very alluring thought. Inside the covert, he doesn’t fear for his safety. He faces no judgment from strangers, only those he has known all his life. The covert is safety, is family, and the entire covert will rally to protect a single member. They would all rise to protect the kid. For once, just once, Dyn could let his guard down and let the kid… be a kid.

He could play with the other Foundlings, like he’d played on Sorgan.

Then he takes a deep breath and leans forward, typing again.

We’ll come. Expect arrival in three days.

When they’re approaching the surface of the planet, Dyn finds himself bouncing his leg in his anxiousness. He’s so used to being calm and collected, never even flinching when he’s threatened, that this newfound anxiety is uncomfortable and unfamiliar. He runs through a checklist in his head.

Weapons. He has everything reloaded and ready to carry with him.

The kid. He’s napping now, and he’s been changed back into his brown robe, post-washing. The planet is too warm for a sweater.

The kid’s things. The carrier is loaded. He’s got a blanket in there for comfort, the fish toy, and a fresh bottle of milk has been prepared; there will be more milk available with the covert. He’s got his other spare ship part toys in there as well.

His own things. Stuffed into a small bag is his own spare clothes and the sweater is shoved in as well. He’s packed like it’s a bounty that may take a few days, only because that’s what he knows.

That’s everything he intends to bring. Anything else, he could buy in the city or the covert will provide it. As he’s guided into landing by the ground tower, settling beside other ships, he feels his heart beating. Oh, stars, why am I feeling like this?

I care what they think about us. 

Dyn turns to stare at the child, still sleeping soundly in its makeshift pram, and he shuts off the engines before he stands. “This is it, kid,” he says, and he slowly and carefully picks him up. Cradled in one arm, the baby doesn’t stir as he walks to the ladder and climbs down.

He walks to the compartment and lifts the lid of the carrier, and trying his best to be gentle, lowers the child in. He settles him down at the bottom, and while there’s a soft coo and a shift, the baby’s eyes don’t open. Good. Better if he gets a good nap in before meeting the others.

Continuing to be quiet and careful, he brings the harness around to his back and straps it on. He turns and grabs his bag, slinging it over a shoulder, then his rifle over the other. He looks around, but there’s nothing else to bring with him. He runs through the list again in his head, then checks again and again and thinks of the list one more time.

I’m stalling.

With a scowl, annoyed about these new feelings, he turns and stomps off the ship, and one tap on his bracer’s controls lifts the ramp. The city is a short walk from the port and the sun shines down, reflecting off his beskar. It’s warm and there’s a gentle breeze. He rarely gets to see so much green in one place. To the side, there’s a cliff, and he thinks he can see the ocean.

He ends up merging into a crowd of people entering the city and he gets stares from strangers as well as people stepping away when they find themselves too close. He’s glad. He looks around; everything is bright and light-colored, with people wearing colorful clothing and the buildings stretching both high and low. It’s a complete change from Nevarro.

Good.

He doesn’t realize he’s moving with the crowd until he is standing in the center of the outdoor market, with vendors yelling their wares and prices. He stops beside a stall and reaches to his belt, pulling off his locator. He loads up the coordinates, tapping on the screen.

Then a hand grabs his upper arm and starts dragging him along. He immediately reaches down for his pistol, but as he grips it he looks up to see Paz Vizla’s blue armor and manages to relax. “Hey,” he hisses. “Paz! Let go.”

Paz does let go, to his surprise, but doesn’t stop walking. “Come on,” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the chatter. “You’ll never find it on your own.”

Dyn doesn’t argue, even as counter arguments jump into his head. He follows the path made by the massive Mandalorian, walking in his shadow. People stop to stare, and he knows it’s because two Mandalorians have never been seen together since the Great Purge.

“Why are you up here?” he says.

“To guide you,” Paz responds. “Those coordinates aren’t exact. We didn’t want to risk our message being intercepted and flushed out again. They were just meant to get you to the city.”

They reach a street that’s less populated. Paz leads them down the street, then up a set of stairs that leads to a higher street. They make so many twists and turns as they walk, Dyn is struggling to remember any of them. They go up and down.

“The scenic route,” Paz says. “Can’t be followed.”

Dyn looks over his shoulder but he doesn’t have the creepy feeling of being followed. He adjusts the straps of the carrier, then almost freezes when he feels movement from within. A soft whimper escapes from inside. Paz doesn’t seem to hear, and Dyn reaches back to tap against the bottom of the container. Quiet. I know you’re waking up in the dark. Just be quiet.

But it’s no solace to a baby and so the crying begins, like he’s being forced to watch a catastrophe in slow motion.

Paz stops and looks back at him. Then his helmet dips down, looking at all of Dyn, and stares. “Where’s the kid?” he says.

Dyn hesitates, then lifts a hand and points his thumb over his shoulder.

“You put him in a container?” Paz says.

“It keeps my hands free and him safe,” Dyn snaps back, “it’s the only way I can carry him without parading him around. He was having a nap, the noise must’ve woken him up.”

Paz puts his hands up in surrender. “I understand, Dyn. Let’s just get there and you can calm him down.”

They continue on. The baby has calmed slightly, as though hearing Dyn’s voice has put him at ease that he isn’t in danger, but the muffled little whimpers and hiccups continue as they wind through the city. Eventually, they come to what could be considered the ‘slums’ -- the streets here look worn and the buildings seem older, more touched by time and not kept updated. Paz passes what looks like an abandoned building, and squeezed between that and its neighbor is a set of stairs leading down. They walk down and push through a door.

The first thing he hears is the laughter of Foundlings.

It’s very different from their last hideout, but the feeling within is the same. There is solemn reverence here from the adults, and innocent playing from the children. They don’t get far before their path is blocked by two children; a girl and a boy, twins, Ari and Jaylen Tero. They aren’t Foundlings, but born into the covert just barely a decade ago. The last birth they’ve had.

“Dyn!” Ari says, almost jumping with excitement. “Are they here? Are they here?”

“Everyone says you’re bringing a new Foundling! That they’re a baby!” Jaylen adds.

Then the crying from the carrier gets a little louder, a little more distressed, and the kids lean forward. “Is that them?” Ari whispers.

“Not right now,” Dyn tells them in a gentle voice. “You can meet them later, okay?”

The twins’ shoulders slump in disappointment but nod their heads and step out of the way. Dyn can’t help a smile under his helmet. Then he slides off one strap as they walk and swings the carrier around. He lifts the lid, the crying getting louder, and with one hand, lifts the child out.

Paz sucks in a breath.

The kid’s face is scrunched as he cries, and when he looks up at Dyn, he whimpers and reaches out with grabby motions. His face heats but this kid runs his world so he brings him close and lets the kid burrow against his neck guard. He quiets down to soft cooing, but he’s still making grabby motions, so he reaches in and grabs the fish toy. He places it in his hands. It’s immediately squeezed against the baby’s chest.

They walk forward, make another turn, and they’re faced with a room full of the covert’s adults.

He can’t help but swallow, feeling every stare, and the kid turns to stare back at the Mandalorians. He makes a soft coo, and suddenly everyone steps back to reveal the Armorer.

She steps down from her new forge, and looks straight at him. “Dyn Jarren,” she says, her voice reverberating in the room. “Come forward with the ik’aad.”

He obeys, walking towards the forge. He stands before her, and when she holds out her hands, he adjusts the child so that he can give him over. The fish toy is dropped back into the carrier. The ad’ika makes a small and distressed coo, staring up at the Armorer.

“A very small thing to cause so much fuss,” she says. “Do you know why the Empire desires it so?”

“He has powers,” Dyn says. “Levitating objects. He saved me by levitating the Mudhorn so I could kill it. I think that is why they want him.”

“Hm,” she says, a reflective sound. She looks the child over. “And you have claimed him as your own?”

“I have,” he says. “Ibac’ner.”

“Have you performed the gai bal manda?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says.

“Has it a name?”

“No,” he admits, and there is a confused murmuring behind him. “I don’t know of a name. It does not speak yet. I have been calling it ad’ika, which it recognizes.”

The Armorer stares at him for a moment, then nods. “Perhaps a name shall come to you,” she says. “Through you or the child.”

He nods in return.

“You have claimed him as your Foundling and so he shall be. We will welcome him into the covert as one of our own. Gar taldin ni jaonyc; gar sa buir, ori'wadaas'la.”

He almost gasps in relief, and he doesn’t, but feels like he can finally breathe. “Thank you.”

“Foundlings are the future. We shall have a gathering tonight to celebrate this addition.”

He hasn’t had traditional Mandalorian food in so long that when he first takes a bite of a dish, he coughs. For a man used to bland food packets, the intense spice packed into the food is almost overwhelming.

He blinks back tears and swallows. It takes a few more bites before he feels more adjusted. Mandalorians prize spiciness, and he’s been eating spicy foods since he was taken in. Tiingilar used to be his favorite food as a child, but it may have been a mistake to start with a casserole known for its kick.

He sips his tihaar. It’s a drink made from fruit, and used to be his favorite as well when he was allowed to indulge in alcohol. Now, the flavor all just seems overwhelming.

Beside him at the table in his room, the baby coos and reaches towards his plate. Dyn sets down his drink to pick up some of the unspiced meat and feed it to the child. He’d had to make a special request to their cook to leave some of the fish and meats cooked without spice, and the cook had turned to stare at him so fast like he’d just taken off his helmet.

Spiceless food, when not necessary in the field, was an abomination to Mandalorians.

The kid chews and swallows. He’ll take his time feeding him, because he knows the children are just waiting to sweep him away, exactly like on Sorgan. Maybe he just wants to spend a little time with his kid.

“One day, I’ll give you something spicy,” he murmurs. “... Since you’re a Mandalorian now.”

The kid gurgles and reaches for more food.

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t care. As long as it’s tasty.”

Now that the anticipation is over, his anxiety has eased and he feels more comfortable. They’ve accepted the child and done it with very few questions, at least besides what is typical for a Foundling.

When they’ve just about finished eating, there’s a loud knocking at his door, the usual warning for one who may have their helmet removed. Dyn reaches over and grabs his helmet, sliding it on. “Come in,” he says.

The door slides open and the twins stand there, both grinning mischievously. Behind them are a few more Foundlings and children; immediately he sees Veela, J’ian and Hewen, identifiable by their unique helmets, differing clothes, and heights. “The baby?” Ari whispers, bouncing on her feet. “Please, Dyn, please?”

The children like him, Ari in particular, earning this familiarity. Though the others consider him a loner, he’ll always stop to give them the attention they crave. If he sees a pretty bauble or mesmerizing toy, he’ll spend a few credits and bring it back for them to share. That generosity earns you some reputation points with the little ones and Ari has her hands together in a pleading gesture.

“Gedet’ye!” they all plead at once.

“Fine!” he says, and the moment he does they all surge forward and crowd around the baby’s side of the table. The girls let out an adoring collective shriek and they all look enchanted.

“He’s so little!” J’ian gasps.

“Aww, his ears,” Hewen giggles.

“Can he talk?” Jaylen says.

“Not really,” Dyn says. “He’s called me buir and been able to repeat some things, but don’t expect much.”

“Buir? That’s so cute!” Ari says with a laugh.

He smiles beneath his helmet. The covert’s children lean towards explosive curiosity like this, willing to be loud and ask questions and plead for what they want. As they grow older, though, they will learn to be quiet and reserved. Speak when you must. Ask, plainly, for what you want. Keep to yourself. They tend to become such when they grow into their teen years, all in preparation for their turn on the surface.

Soon, they will grow up.

“Can he be with us at the gathering?” Jaylen asks.

A chorus of “please!” follows.

“Sure,” Dyn says.

Ari looks delighted and reaches for the cooing baby.

“With a rule.”

He gets a chorus of groaning. He leans back. “If I say to give him back, you give him back without the whining,” he says, even as they all huff like they’ve never whined in their lives. “Not a peep. If he starts fussing or crying or just seems upset, you bring him to me right away, okay? I’m trusting you with ner ad’ika .”

There it is, the passing of responsibility, that makes them suddenly much more agreeable. “Okay,” they say.

Then Ari snatches the kid out of his seat and they’ve all left the room like a blaster shot, giggling as they take off down the hallway.

“Hm,” he hums aloud, before he gets up and readies himself for the gathering.

When he follows the voice to the main chamber, it seems as though he’s the last to arrive. The children are gathered at the far end, sitting in a semicircle with the kid in the middle, absolutely lavished in attention. The adults are sitting closer to the entrance, spread around and watching the kids.

As he approaches, everyone turns to look at him. He swallows, suddenly wishing he could just go sit with the kids. He’d be more comfortable, able to be free of critical judgment. But that’s not what’s expected of him.

Instead, he spots Paz, the hulking Mandalorian patting the seat beside him. Dyn walks over and slides into it.

“Where,” begins Thara, sitting straight across from Dyn, “did you find it?”

They don’t know the story in all its details. “Arvala-7,” he says, and with their stares he finds himself goaded into retelling the entire tale. He’s no good at storytelling. He’s never even talked this much at once in his life. He’s clumsy, forgetting details and constantly doubling back to add them, pausing to collect his thoughts or going “no, wait, that happened later.” If he could see their faces, he’d probably see their impatience with him.

But he gets the story across. He talks about Sorgan, about Cara Dune and the AT-ST. He leaves out Omera and the fact that he nearly broke the code for her. He talks about Tattooine and the bounty hunter brat that tried to turn on him. He even winds up talking about Belovia and the sweater.

When he’s done, his throat feels dry as sand and he swallows, wishing he could have a drink of something without his helmet in the way. Instead he sets his hands on his knees and looks towards the kids; Ari is holding the child in her lap while they sit in a circle, one kid walking around and tapping heads as they go. When one head is tapped and a word said, they take off chasing each other around until the one chased manages to sit in the empty spot.

“That’s quite a tale,” someone says.

“It’s something,” he mumbles.

“Terrible that a child has to suffer so much,” Paz says, his voice surprisingly soft. Suddenly, their fight feels like it never happened outside of Dyn’s mind.

“Dyn. Jarren. You, taking in a Foundling?” It’s said with a laugh, but Griphin is more incredulous than mocking. “You never seemed the type, growing up. You like your space.”

He does. Maybe that’s why he feels so disconnected from his peers—he never quite bonded with them the way he was meant to as children. War orphans often struggled but soon adapted to life in the covert. Dyn… adapted, but not quite the same. He never had the explosive curiosity. He never had to learn to turn down his personality, because he was just… always this way.

“He’s grown on me,” he says.

“So, how many times have you nearly gotten the thing killed—” Ravani starts, and Dyn is about to snap back a retort because Ravani was always a little more of an asshole than Paz as kids, when Ari comes up to him with slumped shoulders and the baby held tight in her arms. “I think he’s crying for you,” she says.

The kid is reaching out for him as he mewls. Dyn takes him and just settles him in his lap, but proximity isn’t the issue as he continues to make small cries. “B… Buir,” he whimpers.

Well aware of the eyes on him, he stands. “Give us a minute,” he says, before he walks out of the room.

He returns to his own assigned room and grabs the carrier off a table. He walks to the bench and dumps out its contents, careful to not let anything roll away. “Tell me what you want,” he says, setting the kid down on the bench.

He watches as the kid reaches first for the fish toy. Hugging it, he then reaches out and taps his hand on the full milk bottle, looking at Dyn. “Aren’t you full? Alright.” He picks up the bottle, then scoops up the child.

“Aaah!” The sudden resistance has him jump to make sure the kid doesn’t fall straight to the floor. He’s straining towards the bench.

“What do you… oh. The blanket?” He lifts the knitted blanket, gifted from Fali’ia, and the kid grabs at it. “Spoiled.”

Then, his face flushes beneath his helmet. He really doesn’t want the covert to see him coddling the kid with a stuffie, bottle of milk and blanket. Stars, they’ll think I’m soft. “You’re ruining my reputation,” he says, though the kid seems more concerned about drinking the milk.

Dyn walks to the table, grabs his unfinished drink, and downs it all in one go.

He manages one step out of his room, then another, and he’s relieved for the helmet when he finally walks back into the main hall, because his entire body is hot with embarrassment. The child just continues to scrabble for the bottle, whimpering as Dyn holds it just outside of his mouth’s reach.

There’s quiet conversations taking place that go silent as they walk in, and Dyn walks straight to his seat without a word. He sits, adjusts the kid, and wraps him snug in the blanket before cradling him with one arm. Like Fali’ia showed him, he holds the bottle at an angle and the kid latches on with no problem.

Of course, the fish is gripped tight by little claws.

He feels their eyes on him but he doesn’t bring himself to look up. Paz, though, gives him a soft elbow to his arm. “You’re great with him,” he says, and there’s a rumbling of agreement from the others. “Impressive.”

Paz is a sucker for the kids, and Dyn knows he’ll soon be under the child’s spell too. He smiles to himself as he watches the baby drink the milk at an impressive rate. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m no natural.”

“But you learned,” Thara says. “For him.”

A warm feeling starts in his chest.

Soon, the milk is gone. He adjusts the kid in his lap. Then he finally looks up to see the entire covert watching them, from adults to children. Their gazes are steadily fixed on the child as its eyes fall shut, leaning on Dyn.

“You are his buir, and we will all protect him,” someone says, and he takes a deep breath.

The covert has placed a small crib in his room, but tonight he doesn’t try to make the child sleep in it. He strips his armor for bed, carefully placing the beskar on the table, then changes the baby into the sweater for warmth. It’s gotten chilly. 

He sits down on the bed, more comfortable than his cot on the Crest, and unties his bodysuit. He brings the kid up onto his chest, and the kid coos as he’s tied in. “Good?” he says.

“Buir,” the baby mumbles, barely intelligible. He lays his head down, beginning to suck on a claw, and Dyn begins to stroke the length of his ears.

“They like you,” he says. “They like us.” Through the walls, he can hear vague chatter, too muffled to understand. He hears the pounding from the Armorer’s forge. Beside all of it is silence.

The sounds of his childhood.

“You’ll be happy with them,” he says aloud. “As a Mandalorian. It’s hard. But you will have a family. They’ll come in the worst moments, when you need them.”

He continues stroking, even when he gets nothing in response but soft breathing. The kid’s eyes are falling shut. The free clawed hand digs itself into the skin by Dyn’s collarbone, relaxed, then digs again—pulsating, and still gentle enough that he doesn’t mind. He recounts the day in his head and tries once more to reassure himself that everything is fine.

They like the kid. They’ve accepted him. He is Mando’ade and one of them; if something happened to Dyn, they would take over, raising him in their ways.

“Ad’ika,” he murmurs, watching the child sleep, until he eventually drifts off too.

Chapter Text

He opens his eyes to stare at a grey ceiling, overcast with shadows, his vision blurry and spaced. He’s aware of a warm, light weight on his chest. There’s a soft noise just below his chin, little fretful mewls, and the weight on him squirms just a little.

Ad’ika, he thinks. His eyes fall shut again and he brings a hand to the lump beneath his suit, gently petting, his touch both gentle and firm. “Nuhoy,” he whispers. The ad’ika stills, the cries ceasing and instead becoming soft murmurs and coos that fade into silence.

He surrenders into sleep again.

When he wakes, time has passed and the movement outside tells him that the others are up. Heavy footfalls and running pass by, the adults going about their day and children already up and active.

He sits up and cracks his neck on one side, then the other. He swings his legs around to get up.

Then his hands fly to his chest, and he realizes that his suit is open but there’s no baby.

Panic threatens to overwhelm him. “Ad’ika!” he calls, but there is no response. Jumping out of bed, he looks at each corner, then drops to his knees to peer under the table. “Ad’ika? Cyar’ika? Shit, shit, where did you…”

The little tike is too damn small.

Sure that the kid isn’t hiding somewhere in the room, he turns and sprints to his door, shoving it open--only to immediately pull it back. He turns and races to his shelf, grabs his helmet, and shoves it on before storming out of the room.

The main hall is down the corridor, and he hears a roar of laughter from several Mandalorians. He sprints down, not giving a damn that he’s undressed, and slides into the doorway. “The kid’s gone,” he gasps. “He’s not there, is he--have you seen--”

Several of the adults are sitting around a table, and they all turn to stare at him. His eyes go straight to the little green, blue, and white mass being held up in the air. Wrapped up in his sweater, the child is giggling as he’s held by Paz Vizla, who slowly lowers him back down.

“He wandered in here,” he says.

The kid turns, hearing Dyn’s voice. “Buir!” he says, earning a few “aww” sounds from the Mandalorians. “Buir!”

Dyn stares at him, feeling the adrenaline slowly leave his body. Then, “Don’t drop him,” before he drags himself back to his room to dress.

He’s starting to think the covert is plotting to kidnap the kid from him, because every second someone is coming by and trying to sweep him away. After last night’s gathering, they’ve all but forgotten Dyn, and instead focus their attention on fawning over the child. Not that Dyn minds; he prefers to not have the attention. He just wishes he and the kid both were ignored.

He feels better with the kid in reach.

But of course, Mandalorians love children, and his ad’ika is no exception. He watches, leaning against the wall, as he’s passed around from person to person. Some are content to just dote on the child, but others seem determined to teach him a new word, now that buir seems a stable word in his extremely limited vocabulary.

“Ba’vodu?” Dyn looks up to see Paz Vizla holding the kid. He tosses the kid in the air—Dyn tenses like a rock—and catches him again, earning shrieking laughter from the child. “Can you say ba’vodu? Uncle? Ba’vodu?”

“Leave it alone, Vizla,” someone says, and the others laugh. He’s never heard the adults laugh this much in such a short amount of time.

A scurry of movement catches Dyn’s eye and he turns to see Ari climbing onto the chair beside him, her long hair braided over her shoulder. For a moment, she just sits beside him in silence. Then she turns, scoots down, and falls back, laying her head in his lap.

He looks down at her. She looks back up. Then she lets out a loud, dramatic sigh. “Tell me a story.”

“What story?” he says.

“I don’t know. A story from somewhere far away. What’s that place where you met that rebel lady? The green place?”

“Sorgan,” he says.

“Sorgan,” she repeats. “Were there kids there, too?”

“A whole bunch of kids,” he says.

“What were they like?” she asks.

“Nothing like you.”

“What’s that mean?”

“That village, and those people—they’re nothing like us. They’re nothing like Mando’ade. They didn’t know how to fight, or defend themselves, or just shoot a blaster. We had to teach them. Those kids don’t know how to fight like you. You aren’t… laandur, like they are.”

“I can fight,” she mumbles.

“You can,” he says.

“I bet I could take you.” He can hear the grin in her voice. “I bet I could—just wait, Dyn. I’ll be the best Mando’ade the covert has ever seen. I’ll go up there and bring more honor to the clan than anyone ever will.”

“Layari,” Dyn says.

Ari huffs and elbows him, light enough to not hurt herself on his armor. “It’s not layari! You’re just mad that I’ll be better than you are.”

“Hmph. If you’re going to be better than me, you should focus on your temper and skill.”

“I have skills,” she says firmly. “I can beat all the Foundlings. I’m better than Jaylen.”

“Skill isn’t just fighting--” Dyn begins, when a whimper cuts through the chatter. The kid is facing him, placed in someone’s arms and peering at Dyn over the Mandalorian’s shoulder. He reaches out towards him, his cries threatening to turn loud.

Ari sits up as Dyn stands, and the Mandalorian holds up the kid so Dyn can take him. The cries quiet down to soft, distressed coos, and he’s cradled against his chest. “Hey,” he murmurs. “It’s okay.”

The coos soften as he gently bounces the kid. His face burrows against his plating and he rubs small circles on his back. It’s okay. Everything is okay. He’s overwhelmed, Dyn thinks, stressed by being passed around. He just needs to calm down.

There’s a soft humming coming from the side. He looks over at Ari and recognizes the tune immediately. The Resol’nare. The Six Actions turned into a nursery rhyme for children to memorize. Ari looks up at him, then begins to sing it.

Ba’jur bal, beskar’gam,
Ara’nov, aliit,
Mando’a bal Mand’alor--
An vencuyan mhi.

The Six Actions. The six requirements of a Mandalorian.

The child turns, eyes curious, as he looks at Ari. He watches her, ears pricked.

Ari shuffles forward on the seat, and recites it again, now in Basic.

Education and armor,
Self-defense, our tribe,
Our language and our leader--
All help us survive.

The child’s eyes begin to close, eyelids become heavy. Ari continues to hum the tune, and after a moment, Dyn hums with her. He watches as it lulls the child to sleep, soon passed out in his arms. Then it makes his breath hitch in his throat as he thinks about how much trust this tiny being must put in him, and how often the child turns to him for comfort. Sleeping on top of him. Eating from his hand. Calming down at hearing his voice. He takes a deep breath.

Ari asks him something, but he doesn’t hear, too focused on the sleeping baby’s face.

“Ad’ika,” he says, holding up a card. It depicts a child walking beside their parent, an arrow pointed at the child. “Ad’ika. You.”

“Aah-ka!” the baby cries, reaching out to take the card.

“Yes, close enough.” Dyn grabs another card. It’s the same picture now, but with an arrow pointing at the parent. “Buir.”

“Buir!” 

“Right. You know that.” Dyn shuffles through the learning cards. “Okay… Faim.” The picture is a table and chairs with two Mandalorians sitting. An arrow points to the space. “Home. We’re faim now. This is home.”

“Fayyyy…” the baby stares at him, then pulls the fish toy up to gnaw on.

“We’ll work on that.” He sets the card aside. “Okay… Aliit.” He holds up another card, this time pointing to a group of Mandalorians, both adults and children alike. “Clan. Family. This is your aliit.”

“Al… Aliii?” The child says. “Aliit? Aliit?”

“Yes, aliit. Good.”

The door to their room slides open and Dyn looks up to see Paz standing there, holding a tray of food. He gives Dyn a nod, and he nods back. Then Paz steps inside and walks to the table, setting down the tray.

“Thought someone should bring you lunch,” he says. Then he sits down cross-legged beside them on the floor. “And I wanted to see the kid. You found the cards?”

Dyn nods. “Ari sang the Resol’nare to put him to sleep this morning,” he says. “It just… reminded me. The Six Actions. He has to know Mando’a.” He shuffles the cards again. “He’s starting to repeat things, and actually know their meaning. So I might as well start. He hears Basic all the time.”

Paz looks at the kid, then sets his hands on his knees. “Ba’vodu,” he says. “Ba’vodu?”

Dyn snorts. “He’s not going to call you that--”

“Baaa vah…” The kid stares up at Paz. “Ba’vodu?”

It’s barely mumbled but it’s as close as the kid could get. Dyn stares at him, then at Paz, who laughs in delight. “Good job, vod’ad!” he says, and Dyn lets out a sigh. The kid wanders towards Paz, setting his hands on the Mandalorian’s knee.

“Ba’vodu?” he repeats.

“That’s right,” Paz murmurs, his voice soft and gentle through his helmet’s modulator. He picks up the kid and settles him on his knee, one hand stabilizing him.

Dyn watches, gathering the cards into a pile. A question has been eating at him since first receiving the transmission to come home. “Why aren’t you afraid of hunters finding this place?” he says.

Paz looks at him. He’s quiet for a moment, stroking a finger along the kid’s ear. “There’s a bounty on me,” he says.

Dyn stares at him. “For helping me,” he says in a quiet voice. “Karga put a bounty on you after Nevarro?”

“Not many have actually tried.” There’s a smirk in his voice. “Only about three so far. I suppose my bounty isn’t high enough for more to try their luck taking in a Mando’ade. Since getting here, a few more have come to the city, but they can’t find the door. This oriya is a maze and we’ve found a nice little hole to curl up in. A tracking beacon doesn’t show the path to getting in.”

Dyn stares at the two. “They can’t find us,” he says. “They really…?”

“One managed to find the door. Came down the steps straight into our gathering. If you saw his expression when he realized he’d just walked into a whole group of Mandalorians, you’d have laughed. Thara just shot him in the doorway.”

He does hide a chuckle. “So… you’re telling me the kid could really be safe here.”

“There’s a good chance. We took that hunter’s tracker and sent someone up to wander around with it. It’ll only tell them they’re close, but it isn’t specific enough. That entrance doesn’t allow for any sort of assault on us that isn’t hunters coming down single file for slaughter. This ad’ika is one of us now. It is no longer only you who protects him.”

Dyn swallows. The thought is almost too good to be true. “We could really…” The emotion that wells up in his chest is unexpected. “Oh.”

Paz looks at him, then scoops up the kid and holds him out to Dyn. “I think buir needs a hug,” he says with a smile, and the kid tilts his head to the side in curiosity before cooing at Dyn. He holds his arms out.

Dyn reaches out and takes the kid into his arms. He takes a deep breath and holds him tight, hugging the baby to his chest. The kid squirms, trying to claw out of his hold, and Dyn lets him. He crawls up his arm, then onto his shoulder. He plans his hands on the helmet, just below the ‘T’ of his visor. A hand comes up to support the kid.

Paz chuckles, a distorted sound through the modulator. “He’s attached to you, Dyn’ika.”

“Don’t call me that,” Dyn snaps.

The kid makes a gurgling coo, then adjusts himself on Dyn’s shoulder. He reaches out one hand towards the ground. His eyes close and his expression scrunches in concentration.

“What’s he doing?” Paz asks.

Dyn doesn’t answer. His eyes are wide beneath his helmet as he watches. The fish toy, left forgotten on the ground, begins to shake. Then, slowly, it rises into the air. The two Mandalorians watch in silence as it hovers, then moves towards the child, straight into his hand. He then clutches it to his chest with one arm, making a soft coo before beginning to gnaw on the edge.

For a moment, they just sit in stunned silence.

“Jetii,” Paz whispers.

Dyn looks at him. “What?” he says. “Jedi? You think he’s…”

“That’s the Force, Dyn.” Paz’s voice is incredulous.

Dyn looks at the child, who is only concerned about snuggling his fish. “But he’s a baby,” he says. “The Jedi are gone. They only exist in our stories now.”

Paz shakes his head. “But the Force did not die with them,” he says. “You wouldn’t know. You did not care for stories of the Jetii.”

“I didn’t think I should care so much if the Jetii are gone.”

“Apparently, you should. There’s one standing on your shoulder.” Paz looks at him. “Maybe not so much a Jetii yet, but he wields the weapon that made the Jetii so fearsome. I’m not surprised the Empire wishes to possess him. If they could train him in their dark ways, he alone could give rise to the Empire again.”

Dyn’s stomach twists. He pulls the kid off his shoulder and into his arms instead. The child stares up questioningly at him, cooing.

“Even greater reason to protect him,” Paz says, his voice quiet. “You should tell the Armorer. She will inform the aliit exactly what our newcomer is. They will want to know exactly how crucial it is that he does not fall into the Empire’s hands.”

Dyn stares at the floor, his sense of newfound safety shattered like dropped glass. “Oh,” he whispers.

He holds onto his child like he’s the most precious thing in the galaxy.

Mandalorians have a very rocky history with the Jedi. There’s plenty of conflict to speak of. There’s no love lost.

Dyn finds himself buried in their archives, searching through anything related to the Jetii he can find. He finds Mando’ade war accounts, some field journal entries, and holograms showing Jedi in action--whatever can survive time. He watches, mesmerized, as the warrior does flips and swings their jetii’kad to slice through enemies with little effort. They deflect blaster shots like they’re… expected.

He rewinds. He presses play again. He’s alone, the child swept off by the Foundlings, and he sits in the chair in the dark room. He watches as some blaster shots are deflected, others ignored, like they know exactly which are going to hit them.

How? He thinks.

“They use the Force to anticipate an opponent’s moves in battle.”

Dyn looks over his shoulder as the Armorer steps into the room. She nods to him, and he nods back, and she walks to the table to slide into the seat across from him. She folds her hands together on the table.

Dyn looks down at the hologram. “It’s incredible.”

“Hm.” The Armorer looks at him. “Paz told me about your discovery of the little one’s abilities.”

“I was going to come to you myself,” he says. “I wanted to find out what I could first.”

“I understand.” She tilts her head, just slightly, at the hologram as it plays over and over. “The Jetii may be lost in history now, but it is my understanding that they were simply the utilization of what was known about the Force. They had learned to master it. It was their world. The Force gave them a deeper connection to the living world and yet continues on without them.”

Dyn stares at the hologram. “I just… have so many questions,” he says. “If it’s meant to manifest itself like this at his age. Or if he would be considered strong or weak right now. How would they train him, how he is supposed to learn to control it?”

“Fine questions. I’m afraid I have no answers for you. Despite the conflict we had with the Jedi, they were admirably structured and disciplined. However, so much information has been lost and what we know may have been mistranslated or warped over time. Only a living Jedi would be able to tell you.”

Dyn frowns. It’s not what he wants to hear, but it’s also the only answer he could expect. “I can raise him in the ways of the Resol’nare,” he says. “Education, armor, Mando’a, the covert, and fighting -- I can teach those things. But I don’t know how to teach him this. How do I show him control over something I don’t understand?”

“You don’t show him control,” she says, and Dyn deflates further. “You’re right. This is something you cannot understand in its entirety. Instead, you teach discipline. Self-control. Responsibility. You teach him these core tenants to use in his everyday life and they will translate on their own. If he understands these things, he will apply them to his use of the Force. What comes naturally will come naturally. You cannot teach him to wield his power, only how to be responsible with it.”

He stares at her. It feels like an impossible task. He wants all the answers, all the tricks, and all the control he can possibly have. He doesn’t want this great, gaping unknown right in front of his face, blinding half his vision. He has committed to raising a child who has a power he can only hope to one day understand.

Teach him responsibility. Teach him discipline.

He takes a long, deep breath, trying to take it all in. In the silence, he can distantly hear the children playing, loudly singing a song together.

Only a living Jedi could tell him what he wants to know. Is it possible to find one? To leave the kid here in safety and go searching the galaxy for a being who may be able to guide him?

“You will still accept him?” he asks, his voice gone soft. “If he is Jetii, when there is so much between them and the Mando’ade --”

“Such conflict is in the past,” the Armorer says. “This child has nothing to do with it. Further still, he has become Mando’ade. He has cin vhetin. The Jedi Order is gone and the Mandalorians remain. A Mandalorian he shall be, until the end of his time or until he chooses to reject it.”

It gives him some relief though his shoulders still feel heavy. “Thank you,” he says.

Soon, the Armorer leaves him, and Dyn finds himself sitting in the dark once again. He shuts off the hologram, slides the device back into its place, and stands. A few joints crack from sitting for so long. A few questions have been answered, but it just leads him further down a path of deeper inquiries.

He walks out of the room. Down the hall, he hears the children laughing and singing. He walks towards it, stopping by the doorway, and glances in.

They’ve all curled up on the floor together, packed in tight. The kid is laid out between J’ia and Hewen. They’re all giggling together before one breaks out into chanting. The rest join in.

Geroya tome, akaanir tome,
Aliit ori'shya tal'din!
Geroya tome, akaanir tome,
Aliit ori'shya tal'din!

Dyn watches and listens, the chant calling for unity with peers. He remembers chanting it himself, laying on the floor with the others, for all his antisocial tendencies. Even to him, there was something powerful about a sense of belonging. Of companionship. Of brotherhood.

He deserves it, he thinks, watching the kid and the happy expression on his face. I don’t care if I have to kill every hunter in the galaxy or track down a living Jedi. You’re going to be this happy forever, kid.